The Complete Works of William Shakespeare by William Shakespeare (moboreader .TXT) 📕

It is too rash, too unadvis’d, too sudden; Too like the lightning, which doth cease to be Ere one can say ‘It lightens.’ Sweet, good night!

This bud of love, by summer’s ripening breath, May prove a beauteous flow’r when next we meet.

Good night, good night! As sweet repose and rest Come to thy heart as that within my breast!

Rom. O, wilt thou leave me so unsatisfied?

Jul. What satisfaction canst thou have tonight?

Rom. Th’ exchange of thy love’s faithful vow for mine.

Jul. I gave thee mine before thou didst request it; And yet I would it were to give again.

Rom. Would’st thou withdraw it? For what purpose, love?

Jul. But to be frank and give it thee again.

And yet I wish but for the thing I have.

My bounty is as boundless as the sea, My love as deep; the more I give to thee, The more I have, for both are infinite.

I hear some noise within. Dear love, adieu!

[Nurse] calls within.

Anon, good nurse! Sweet Montague, be true.

Stay but a little, I will come again. [Exit.]

Rom. O blessed, blessed night! I am afeard, Being in night, all this is but a dream, Too flattering-sweet to be substantial.

Enter Juliet above.

Jul. Three words, dear Romeo, and good night indeed.

If that thy bent of love be honourable, Thy purpose marriage, send me word tomorrow, By one that I’ll procure to come to thee, Where and what time thou wilt perform the rite; And all my fortunes at thy foot I’ll lay And follow thee my lord throughout the world.

Nurse. (within) Madam!

Jul. I come, anon.- But if thou meanest not well, I do beseech thee-Nurse. (within) Madam!

Jul. By-and-by I come.-

To cease thy suit and leave me to my grief.

Tomorrow will I send.

Rom. So thrive my soul—

Jul. A thousand times good night! Exit.

Rom. A thousand times the worse, to want thy light!

Love goes toward love as schoolboys from their books; But love from love, towards school with heavy looks.

Enter Juliet again, [above].

Jul. Hist! Romeo, hist! O for a falconer’s voice To lure this tassel-gentle back again!

Bondage is hoarse and may not speak aloud; Else would I tear the cave where Echo lies, And make her airy tongue more hoarse than mine With repetition of my Romeo’s name.

Romeo!

Rom. It is my soul that calls upon my name.

How silver-sweet sound lovers’ tongues by night, Like softest music to attending ears!

Jul. Romeo!

Rom. My dear?

Jul. At what o’clock tomorrow

Shall I send to thee?

Rom. By the hour of nine.

Jul. I will not fail. ‘Tis twenty years till then.

I have forgot why I did call thee back.

Rom. Let me stand here till thou remember it.

Jul. I shall forget, to have thee still stand there, Rememb’ring how I love thy company.

Rom. And I’ll still stay, to have thee still forget, Forgetting any other home but this.

Jul. ‘Tis almost morning. I would have thee gone-And yet no farther than a wanton’s bird, That lets it hop a little from her hand, Like a poor prisoner in his twisted gyves, And with a silk thread plucks it back again, So loving-jealous of his liberty.

Rom. I would I were thy bird.

Jul. Sweet, so would I.

Yet I should kill thee with much cherishing.

Good night, good night! Parting is such sweet sorrow, That I shall say good night till it be morrow.

[Exit.]

Rom. Sleep dwell upon thine eyes, peace in thy breast!

Would I were sleep and peace, so sweet to rest!

Hence will I to my ghostly father’s cell, His help to crave and my dear hap to tell.

Exit

Scene III.

Friar Laurence’s cell.

Enter Friar, [Laurence] alone, with a basket.

Friar. The grey-ey’d morn smiles on the frowning night, Check’ring the Eastern clouds with streaks of light; And flecked darkness like a drunkard reels From forth day’s path and Titan’s fiery wheels.

Non, ere the sun advance his burning eye The day to cheer and night’s dank dew to dry, I must up-fill this osier cage of ours With baleful weeds and precious-juiced flowers.

The earth that’s nature’s mother is her tomb.

What is her burying gave, that is her womb; And from her womb children of divers kind We sucking on her natural bosom find; Many for many virtues excellent,

None but for some, and yet all different.

O, mickle is the powerful grace that lies In plants, herbs, stones, and their true qualities; For naught so vile that on the earth doth live But to the earth some special good doth give; Nor aught so good but, strain’d from that fair use, Revolts from true birth, stumbling on abuse.

Virtue itself turns vice, being misapplied, And vice sometime’s by action dignified.

Within the infant rind of this small flower Poison hath residence, and medicine power; For this, being smelt, with that part cheers each part; Being tasted, slays all senses with the heart.

Two such opposed kings encamp them still In man as well as herbs-grace and rude will; And where the worser is predominant,

Full soon the canker death eats up that plant.

Enter Romeo.

Rom. Good morrow, father.

Friar. Benedicite!

What early tongue so sweet saluteth me?

Young son, it argues a distempered head So soon to bid good morrow to thy bed.

Care keeps his watch in every old man’s eye, And where care lodges sleep will never lie; But where unbruised youth with unstuff’d brain Doth couch his limbs, there golden sleep doth reign.

Therefore thy earliness doth me assure Thou art uprous’d with some distemp’rature; Or if not so, then here I hit it right-Our Romeo hath not been in bed tonight.

Rom. That last is true-the sweeter rest was mine.

Friar. God pardon sin! Wast thou with Rosaline?

Rom. With Rosaline, my ghostly father? No.

I have forgot that name, and that name’s woe.

Friar. That’s my good son! But where hast thou been then?

Rom. I’ll tell thee ere thou ask it me again.

I have been feasting with mine enemy, Where on a sudden one hath wounded me That’s by me wounded. Both our remedies Within thy help and holy physic lies.

I bear no hatred, blessed man, for, lo, My intercession likewise steads my foe.

Friar. Be plain, good son, and homely in thy drift Riddling confession finds but riddling shrift.

Rom. Then plainly know my heart’s dear love is set On the fair daughter of rich Capulet; As mine on hers, so hers is set on mine, And all combin’d, save what thou must combine By holy marriage. When, and where, and how We met, we woo’d, and made exchange of vow, I’ll tell thee as we pass; but this I pray, That thou consent to marry us to-day.

Friar. Holy Saint Francis! What a change is here!

Is Rosaline, that thou didst love so dear, So soon forsaken? Young men’s love then lies Not truly in their hearts, but in their eyes.

Jesu Maria! What a deal of brine

Hath wash’d thy sallow cheeks for Rosaline!

How much salt water thrown away in waste, To season love, that of it doth not taste!

The sun not yet thy sighs from heaven clears, Thy old groans ring yet in mine ancient ears.

Lo, here upon thy cheek the stain doth sit Of an old tear that is not wash’d off yet.

If e’er thou wast thyself, and these woes thine, Thou and these woes were all for Rosaline.

And art thou chang’d? Pronounce this sentence then: Women may fall when there’s no strength in men.

Rom. Thou chid’st me oft for loving Rosaline.

Friar. For doting, not for loving, pupil mine.

Rom. And bad’st me bury love.

Friar. Not in a grave

To lay one in, another out to have.

Rom. I pray thee chide not. She whom I love now Doth grace for grace and love for love allow.

The other did not so.

Friar. O, she knew well

Thy love did read by rote, that could not spell.

But come, young waverer, come go with me.

In one respect I’ll thy assistant be; For this alliance may so happy prove

To turn your households’ rancour to pure love.

Rom. O, let us hence! I stand on sudden haste.

Friar. Wisely, and slow. They stumble that run fast.

Exeunt.

Scene IV.

A street.

Enter Benvolio and Mercutio.

Mer. Where the devil should this Romeo be?

Came he not home tonight?

Ben. Not to his father’s. I spoke with his man.

Mer. Why, that same pale hard-hearted wench, that Rosaline, Torments him so that he will sure run mad.

Ben. Tybalt, the kinsman to old Capulet, Hath sent a letter to his father’s house.

Mer. A challenge, on my life.

Ben. Romeo will answer it.

Mer. Any man that can write may answer a letter.

Ben. Nay, he will answer the letter’s master, how he dares, being dared.

Mer. Alas, poor Romeo, he is already dead! stabb’d with a white wench’s black eye; shot through the ear with a love song; the very pin of his heart cleft with the blind bow-boy’s butt-shaft; and is he a man to encounter Tybalt?

Ben. Why, what is Tybalt?

Mer. More than Prince of Cats, I can tell you. O, he’s the courageous captain of compliments. He fights as you sing pricksong-keeps time, distance, and proportion; rests me his minim rest, one, two, and the third in your bosom! the very butcher of a silk button, a duellist, a duellist! a gentleman of the very first house, of the first and second cause. Ah, the immortal passado! the punto reverse! the hay.

Ben. The what?

Mer. The pox of such antic, lisping, affecting fantasticoes-these new tuners of accent! ‘By Jesu, a very good blade! a very tall man! a very good whore!’ Why, is not this a lamentable thing, grandsir, that we should be thus afflicted with these strange flies, these fashion-mongers, these pardona-mi’s, who stand so much on the new form that they cannot sit at ease on the old bench? O, their bones, their bones!

Enter Romeo.

Ben. Here comes Romeo! here comes Romeo!

Mer. Without his roe, like a dried herring. O flesh, flesh, how art thou fishified! Now is he for the numbers that Petrarch flowed in. Laura, to his lady, was but a kitchen wench (marry, she had a better love to berhyme her), Dido a dowdy, Cleopatra a gypsy, Helen and Hero hildings and harlots, This be a gray eye or so, but not to the purpose. Signior Romeo, bon jour! There’s a French salutation to your French slop. You gave us the counterfeit fairly last night.

Rom. Good morrow to you both. What counterfeit did I give you?

Mer. The slip, sir, the slip. Can you not conceive?

Rom. Pardon, good Mercutio. My business was great, and in such a case as mine a man may strain courtesy.

Mer. That’s as much as to say, such a case as yours constrains a man to bow in the hams.

Rom. Meaning, to cursy.

Mer. Thou hast most kindly hit it.

Rom. A most courteous exposition.

Mer. Nay, I am the very pink of courtesy.

Rom. Pink for flower.

Mer. Right.

Rom. Why, then is my pump well-flower’d.

Mer. Well said! Follow me this jest now till thou hast worn out thy pump, that, when the single sole of it is worn, the jest may remain, after the wearing, solely singular.

Rom. O single-sold jest, solely singular for the singleness!

Mer. Come between us, good Benvolio! My wits faint.

Rom. Swits and spurs, swits and spurs! or I’ll cry a match.

Mer. Nay, if our