Shakespeare's Tragedy of Romeo and Juliet by William Shakespeare (best book series to read txt) π
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be honourable,
Thy purpose marriage, send me word to-morrow,
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!
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Juliet. I come, anon.βBut if thou mean'st not well,
I do beseech theeβ
Nurse. [Within] Madam!
Juliet. By and by, I come.β
To cease thy suit and leave me to my grief;
To-morrow will I send.
Romeo. So thrive my soulβ
Juliet. A thousand times good night! [Exit.
Romeo. A thousand times the worse, to want thy light.β
Love goes toward love as schoolboys from their books,
But love from love toward school with heavy looks. [Retiring slowly.
Re-enter Juliet, above
Juliet. Hist! Romeo, hist!βO, for a falconer's voice,
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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. It is my soul that calls upon my name;
How silver-sweet sound lovers' tongues by night,
Like softest music to attending ears!
Juliet. Romeo!
Romeo. My dear?
Juliet. At what o'clock to-morrow
Shall I send to thee?
Romeo. At the hour of nine.
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Juliet. I will not fail; 't is twenty years till then.
I have forgot why I did call thee back.
Romeo. Let me stand here till thou remember it.
Juliet. I shall forget, to have thee still stand there,
Remembering how I love thy company.
Romeo. And I'll still stay, to have thee still forget,
Forgetting any other home but this.
Juliet. 'T is almost morning; I would have thee gone,
And yet no farther than a wanton's bird,
Who lets it hop a little from her hand,
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Like a poor prisoner in his twisted gyves,
And with a silk thread plucks it back again,
So loving-jealous of his liberty.
Romeo. I would I were thy bird.
Juliet. 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 above.
Romeo. Sleep dwell upon thine eyes, peace in thy breast!
Would I were sleep and peace, so sweet to rest!
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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
EnterFriar Laurence, with a basket
Friar Laurence. The grey-eyed morn smiles on the frowning night,
Chequering the eastern clouds with streaks of light,
And flecked darkness like a drunkard reels
From forth day's path and Titan's fiery wheels.
Now, 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;
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What is her burying grave 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 herbs, plants, stones, and their true qualities!
For nought 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,
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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 weak 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,βgrace and rude will;
And where the worser is predominant,
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Full soon the canker death eats up that plant.
Enter Romeo
Romeo. Good morrow, father.
Friar Laurence. Benedicite!
What early tongue so sweet saluteth me?β
Young son, it argues a distemper'd 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
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Thou art up-rous'd with some distemperature;
Or if not so, then here I hit it right,
Our Romeo hath not been in bed to-night.
Romeo. That last is true; the sweeter rest was mine.
Friar Laurence. God pardon sin! wast thou with Rosaline?
Romeo. With Rosaline, my ghostly father? no;
I have forgot that name and that name's woe.
Friar Laurence. That's my good son; but where
hast thou been, then?
Romeo. I 'll tell thee, ere thou ask it me again.
I have been feasting with mine enemy,
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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 Laurence. Be plain, good son, and homely in thy drift;
Riddling confession finds but riddling shrift.
Romeo. 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;
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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 Laurence. 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
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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 my 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:
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Women may fall when there's no strength in men.
Romeo. Thou chidd'st me oft for loving Rosaline.
Friar Laurence. For doting, not for loving, pupil mine.
Romeo. And bad'st me bury love.
Friar Laurence. Not in a grave,
To lay one in, another out to have.
Romeo. 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 Laurence. O, she knew well
Thy love did read by rote and could not spell.
But come, young waverer, come, go with me,
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In one respect I'll thy assistant be;
For this alliance may so happy prove
To turn your households' rancour to pure love.
Romeo. O, let us hence! I stand on sudden haste.
Friar Laurence. Wisely and slow; they stumble that run fast. [Exeunt.
Scene IV.
A Street
Enter Benvolio and Mercutio
Mercutio. Where the devil should this Romeo be?
Came he not home to-night?
Benvolio. Not to his father's; I spoke with his man.
Mercutio. Why, that same pale hard-hearted wench, that Rosaline,
Torments him so that he will sure run mad.
Benvolio. Tybalt, the kinsman of old Capulet,
Hath sent a letter to his father's house.
Mercutio. A challenge, on my life.
Benvolio. Romeo will answer it.
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Mercutio. Any man that can write may answer
a letter.
Benvolio. Nay, he will answer the letter's master,
how he dares, being dared.
Mercutio. Alas, poor Romeo! he is already dead;
stabbed with a white wench's black eye; shot thorough
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?
Benvolio. Why, what is Tybalt?
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Mercutio. More than prince of cats, I can tell you.
O, he is the courageous captain of compliments! He
fights as you sing prick-song, 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 reverso! the hay!
Benvolio. The what?
Mercutio. The pox of such antic, lisping, affecting
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fantasticoes, these new tuners of accents! 'By Jesu,
a very good blade! a very tall man!'βWhy, is not
this a lamentable thing, grandsire, that we should be
thus afflicted with these strange flies, these fashion-mongers,
these pardonnez-mois, who stand so much
on the new form that they cannot sit at ease on the
old bench? O, their bons, their bons!
Enter Romeo
Benvolio. Here comes Romeo, here comes Romeo.
Mercutio. Without his roe, like a dried herring. O
flesh, flesh, how art thou fishified! Now is he for the
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numbers that Petrarch flowed in; Laura to his lady
was but a kitchen-wench; marry, she had a better
love to be-rhyme her; Dido a dowdy; Cleopatra
a gypsy; Helen and Hero hildings and harlots;
Thisbe a grey eye or so, but not to the purpose.βSignior
Romeo, bon jour! there's a French salutation
to your French slop. You gave us the counterfeit
fairly last night.
Romeo. Good morrow
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