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Romeo and Juliet(羅蜜歐和朱麗葉)

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ROMEO AND JULIET


ROMEO AND JULIET


William Shakespeare 
1595 

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THE PROLOGUE 

Enter Chorus. 

Chor. Two households, both alike in dignity, In fair Verona, where we 
lay our scene, From ancient grudge break to new mutiny, Where civil 
blood makes civil hands unclean. From forth the fatal loins of these two 
foes A pair of star-cross'd lovers take their life; Whose misadventur'd 
piteous overthrows Doth with their death bury their parents' strife. The 
fearful passage of their death-mark'd love, And the continuance of their 
parents' rage, Which, but their children's end, naught could remove, Is now 
the two hours' traffic of our stage; The which if you with patient ears 
attend, What here shall miss, our toil shall strive to mend. [Exit.] 

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ACT I.


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SCENE I. Verona. A public place. 

Enter Sampson and Gregory (with swords and bucklers) of the house 
of Capulet. 

Samp. Gregory, on my word, we'll not carry coals. Greg. No, for then 
we should be colliers. Samp. I mean, an we be in choler, we'll draw. Greg. 
Ay, while you live, draw your neck out of collar. Samp. I strike quickly, 
being moved. Greg. But thou art not quickly moved to strike. Samp. A dog 
of the house of Montague moves me. Greg. To move is to stir, and to be 
valiant is to stand. Therefore, if thou art moved, thou runn'st away. Samp. 
A dog of that house shall move me to stand. I will take the wall of any 
man or maid of Montague's. Greg. That shows thee a weak slave; for the 
weakest goes to the wall. Samp. 'Tis true; and therefore women, being the 
weaker vessels, are ever thrust to the wall. Therefore I will push 
Montague's men from the wall and thrust his maids to the wall. Greg. The 
quarrel is between our masters and us their men. Samp. 'Tis all one. I will 
show myself a tyrant. When I have fought with the men, I will be cruel 
with the maids- I will cut off their heads. Greg. The heads of the maids? 
Samp. Ay, the heads of the maids, or their maidenheads. Take it in what 
sense thou wilt. Greg. They must take it in sense that feel it. Samp. Me 
they shall feel while I am able to stand; and 'tis known I am a pretty piece 
of flesh. Greg. 'Tis well thou art not fish; if thou hadst, thou hadst been 
poor-John. Draw thy tool! Here comes two of the house of Montagues. 

Enter two other Servingmen [Abram and Balthasar]. 

Samp. My naked weapon is out. Quarrel! I will back thee. Greg. How? 
turn thy back and run? Samp. Fear me not. Greg. No, marry. I fear thee! 
Samp. Let us take the law of our sides; let them begin. Greg. I will frown 
as I pass by, and let them take it as they list. Samp. Nay, as they dare. I 
will bite my thumb at them; which is disgrace to them, if they bear it. Abr. 
Do you bite your thumb at us, sir? Samp. I do bite my thumb, sir. Abr. Do 
you bite your thumb at us, sir? Samp. [aside to Gregory] Is the law of our 
side if I say ay? Greg. [aside to Sampson] No. Samp. No, sir, I do not bite 
my thumb at you, sir; but I bite my thumb, sir. Greg. Do you quarrel, sir? 
Abr. Quarrel, sir? No, sir. Samp. But if you do, sir, am for you. I serve as 

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good a man as you. Abr. No better. Samp. Well, sir.

 Enter Benvolio. 

Greg. [aside to Sampson] Say 'better.' Here comes one of my master's 
kinsmen. Samp. Yes, better, sir. Abr. You lie. Samp. Draw, if you be men. 
Gregory, remember thy swashing blow. They fight. Ben. Part, fools! 
[Beats down their swords.] Put up your swords. You know not what you 
do.

 Enter Tybalt. 

Tyb. What, art thou drawn among these heartless hinds? Turn thee 
Benvolio! look upon thy death. Ben. I do but keep the peace. Put up thy 
sword, Or manage it to part these men with me. Tyb. What, drawn, and 
talk of peace? I hate the word As I hate hell, all Montagues, and thee. 
Have at thee, coward! They fight. 

Enter an officer, and three or four Citizens with clubs or partisans. 
Officer. Clubs, bills, and partisans! Strike! beat them down! Citizens. 
Down with the Capulets! Down with the Montagues! 

Enter Old Capulet in his gown, and his Wife. 

Cap. What noise is this? Give me my long sword, ho! Wife. A crutch, 
a crutch! Why call you for a sword? Cap. My sword, I say! Old Montague 
is come And flourishes his blade in spite of me. 

Enter Old Montague and his Wife. 

Mon. Thou villain Capulet!- Hold me not, let me go. M. Wife. Thou 
shalt not stir one foot to seek a foe. 

Enter Prince Escalus, with his Train. 

Prince. Rebellious subjects, enemies to peace, Profaners of this 
neighbour-stained steel- Will they not hear? What, ho! you men, you 
beasts, That quench the fire of your pernicious rage With purple fountains 
issuing from your veins! On pain of torture, from those bloody hands 
Throw your mistempered weapons to the ground And hear the sentence of 
your moved prince. Three civil brawls, bred of an airy word By thee, old 
Capulet, and Montague, Have thrice disturb'd the quiet of our streets And 
made Verona's ancient citizens Cast by their grave beseeming ornaments 
To wield old partisans, in hands as old, Cank'red with peace, to part your 
cank'red hate. If ever you disturb our streets again, Your lives shall pay the 

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forfeit of the peace. For this time all the rest depart away. You, Capulet, 
shall go along with me; And, Montague, come you this afternoon, To 
know our farther pleasure in this case, To old Freetown, our common 
judgment place. Once more, on pain of death, all men depart. Exeunt [all 
but Montague, his Wife, and Benvolio]. Mon. Who set this ancient quarrel 
new abroach? Speak, nephew, were you by when it began? Ben. Here 
were the servants of your adversary And yours, close fighting ere I did 
approach. I drew to part them. In the instant came The fiery Tybalt, with 
his sword prepar'd; Which, as he breath'd defiance to my ears, He swung 
about his head and cut the winds, Who, nothing hurt withal, hiss'd him in 
scorn. While we were interchanging thrusts and blows, Came more and 
more, and fought on part and part, Till the Prince came, who parted either 
part. M. Wife. O, where is Romeo? Saw you him to-day? Right glad I am 
he was not at this fray. Ben. Madam, an hour before the worshipp'd sun 
Peer'd forth the golden window of the East, A troubled mind drave me to 
walk abroad; Where, underneath the grove of sycamore That westward 
rooteth from the city's side, So early walking did I see your son. Towards 
him I made; but he was ware of me And stole into the covert of the wood. 
I- measuring his affections by my own, Which then most sought where 
most might not be found, Being one too many by my weary self- Pursu'd 
my humour, not Pursuing his, And gladly shunn'd who gladly fled from 
me. Mon. Many a morning hath he there been seen, With tears augmenting 
the fresh morning's dew, Adding to clouds more clouds with his deep sighs; 
But all so soon as the all-cheering sun Should in the farthest East bean to 
draw The shady curtains from Aurora's bed, Away from light steals home 
my heavy son And private in his chamber pens himself, Shuts up his 
windows, locks fair daylight And makes himself an artificial night. Black 
and portentous must this humour prove Unless good counsel may the 
cause remove. Ben. My noble uncle, do you know the cause? Mon. I 
neither know it nor can learn of him Ben. Have you importun'd him by any 
means? Mon. Both by myself and many other friend; But he, his own 
affections' counsellor, Is to himself- I will not say how true- But to himself 
so secret and so close, So far from sounding and discovery, As is the bud 
bit with an envious worm Ere he can spread his sweet leaves to the air Or 

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dedicate his beauty to the sun. Could we but learn from whence his 

sorrows grow, We would as willingly give cure as know.

 Enter Romeo. 

Ben. See, where he comes. So please you step aside, I'll know his 
grievance, or be much denied. Mon. I would thou wert so happy by thy 
stay To hear true shrift. Come, madam, let's away, Exeunt [Montague and 
Wife]. Ben. Good morrow, cousin. Rom. Is the day so young? Ben. But 
new struck nine. Rom. Ay me! sad hours seem long. Was that my father 
that went hence so fast? Ben. It was. What sadness lengthens Romeo's 
hours? Rom. Not having that which having makes them short. Ben. In love? 
Rom. Out- Ben. Of love? Rom. Out of her favour where I am in love. Ben. 
Alas that love, so gentle in his view, Should be so tyrannous and rough in 
proof! Rom. Alas that love, whose view is muffled still, Should without 
eyes see pathways to his will! Where shall we dine? O me! What fray was 
here? Yet tell me not, for I have heard it all. Here's much to do with hate, 
but more with love. Why then, O brawling love! O loving hate! O 
anything, of nothing first create! O heavy lightness! serious vanity! 
Misshapen chaos of well-seeming forms! Feather of lead, bright smoke, 
cold fire, sick health! Still-waking sleep, that is not what it is This love 
feel I, that feel no love in this. Dost thou not laugh? Ben. No, coz, I rather 
weep. Rom. Good heart, at what? Ben. At thy good heart's oppression. 
Rom. Why, such is love's transgression. Griefs of mine own lie heavy in 
my breast, Which thou wilt propagate, to have it prest With more of thine. 
This love that thou hast shown Doth add more grief to too much of mine 
own. Love is a smoke rais'd with the fume of sighs; Being purg'd, a fire 
sparkling in lovers' eyes; Being vex'd, a sea nourish'd with lovers' tears. 
What is it else? A madness most discreet, A choking gall, and a preserving 
sweet. Farewell, my coz. Ben. Soft! I will go along. An if you leave me so, 
you do me wrong. Rom. Tut! I have lost myself; I am not here: This is not 
Romeo, he's some other where. Ben. Tell me in sadness, who is that you 
love? Rom. What, shall I groan and tell thee? Ben. Groan? Why, no; But 
sadly tell me who. Rom. Bid a sick man in sadness make his will. Ah, 
word ill urg'd to one that is so ill! In sadness, cousin, I do love a woman. 
Ben. I aim'd so near when I suppos'd you lov'd. Rom. A right good 

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markman! And she's fair I love. Ben. A right fair mark, fair coz, is soonest 
hit. Rom. Well, in that hit you miss. She'll not be hit With Cupid's arrow. 
She hath Dian's wit, And, in strong proof of chastity well arm'd, From 
Love's weak childish bow she lives unharm'd. She will not stay the siege 
of loving terms, Nor bide th' encounter of assailing eyes, Nor ope her lap 
to saint-seducing gold. O, she's rich in beauty; only poor That, when she 
dies, with beauty dies her store. Ben. Then she hath sworn that she will 
still live chaste? Rom. She hath, and in that sparing makes huge waste; For 
beauty, starv'd with her severity, Cuts beauty off from all posterity. She is 
too fair, too wise, wisely too fair, To merit bliss by making me despair. She 
hath forsworn to love, and in that vow Do I live dead that live to tell it 
now. Ben. Be rul'd by me: forget to think of her. Rom. O, teach me how I 
should forget to think! Ben. By giving liberty unto thine eyes. Examine 
other beauties. Rom. 'Tis the way To call hers (exquisite) in question more. 
These happy masks that kiss fair ladies' brows, Being black puts us in 
mind they hide the fair. He that is strucken blind cannot forget The 
precious treasure of his eyesight lost. Show me a mistress that is passing 
fair, What doth her beauty serve but as a note Where I may read who 
pass'd that passing fair? Farewell. Thou canst not teach me to forget. Ben. 
I'll pay that doctrine, or else die in debt. Exeunt. 

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SCENE II. A Street. 

Enter Capulet, County Paris, and [Servant] -the Clown. 

Cap. But Montague is bound as well as I, In penalty alike; and 'tis not 
hard, I think, For men so old as we to keep the peace. Par. Of honourable 
reckoning are you both, And pity 'tis you liv'd at odds so long. But now, 
my lord, what say you to my suit? Cap. But saying o'er what I have said 
before: My child is yet a stranger in the world, She hath not seen the 
change of fourteen years; Let two more summers wither in their pride Ere 
we may think her ripe to be a bride. Par. Younger than she are happy 
mothers made. Cap. And too soon marr'd are those so early made. The 
earth hath swallowed all my hopes but she; She is the hopeful lady of my 
earth. But woo her, gentle Paris, get her heart; My will to her consent is 
but a part. An she agree, within her scope of choice Lies my consent and 
fair according voice. This night I hold an old accustom'd feast, Whereto I 
have invited many a guest, Such as I love; and you among the store, One 
more, most welcome, makes my number more. At my poor house look to 
behold this night Earth-treading stars that make dark heaven light. Such 
comfort as do lusty young men feel When well apparell'd April on the heel 
Of limping Winter treads, even such delight Among fresh female buds 
shall you this night Inherit at my house. Hear all, all see, And like her most 
whose merit most shall be; Which, on more view of many, mine, being 
one, May stand in number, though in reck'ning none. Come, go with me. 
[To Servant, giving him a paper] Go, sirrah, trudge about Through fair 
Verona; find those persons out Whose names are written there, and to 
them say, My house and welcome on their pleasure stay- Exeunt [Capulet 
and Paris]. Serv. Find them out whose names are written here? It is written 
that the shoemaker should meddle with his yard and the tailor with his last, 
the fisher with his pencil and the painter with his nets; but I am sent to find 
those persons whose names are here writ, and can never find what names 
the writing person hath here writ. I must to the learned. In good time! 

Enter Benvolio and Romeo. 

Ben. Tut, man, one fire burns out another's burning; One pain is 
lessoned by another's anguish; Turn giddy, and be holp by backward 

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turning; One desperate grief cures with another's languish. Take thou some 
new infection to thy eye, And the rank poison of the old will die. Rom. 
Your plantain leaf is excellent for that. Ben. For what, I pray thee? Rom. 
For your broken shin. Ben. Why, Romeo, art thou mad? Rom. Not mad, 
but bound more than a madman is; Shut up in Prison, kept without my 
food, Whipp'd and tormented and-God-den, good fellow. Serv. God gi' 
go-den. I pray, sir, can you read? Rom. Ay, mine own fortune in my misery. 
Serv. Perhaps you have learned it without book. But I pray, can you read 
anything you see? Rom. Ay, If I know the letters and the language. Serv. 
Ye say honestly. Rest you merry! Rom. Stay, fellow; I can read. He reads. 

'Signior Martino and his wife and daughters; County Anselmo and his 
beauteous sisters; The lady widow of Vitruvio; Signior Placentio and His 
lovely nieces; Mercutio and his brother Valentine; Mine uncle Capulet, his 
wife, and daughters; My fair niece Rosaline and Livia; Signior Valentio 
and His cousin Tybalt; Lucio and the lively Helena.' 

[Gives back the paper.] A fair assembly. Whither should they come? 
Serv. Up. Rom. Whither? Serv. To supper, to our house. Rom. Whose 
house? Serv. My master's. Rom. Indeed I should have ask'd you that 
before. Serv. Now I'll tell you without asking. My master is the great rich 
Capulet; and if you be not of the house of Montagues, I pray come and 
crush a cup of wine. Rest you merry! Exit. Ben. At this same ancient feast 
of Capulet's Sups the fair Rosaline whom thou so lov'st; With all the 
admired beauties of Verona. Go thither, and with unattainted eye Compare 
her face with some that I shall show, And I will make thee think thy swan 
a crow. Rom. When the devout religion of mine eye Maintains such 
falsehood, then turn tears to fires; And these, who, often drown'd, could 
never die, Transparent heretics, be burnt for liars! One fairer than my love? 
The all-seeing sun Ne'er saw her match since first the world begun. Ben. 
Tut! you saw her fair, none else being by, Herself pois'd with herself in 
either eye; But in that crystal scales let there be weigh'd Your lady's love 
against some other maid That I will show you shining at this feast, And 
she shall scant show well that now seems best. Rom. I'll go along, no such 
sight to be shown, But to rejoice in splendour of my own. [Exeunt.] 

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SCENE III. Capulet's house. 

Enter Capulet's Wife, and Nurse. 

Wife. Nurse, where's my daughter? Call her forth to me. Nurse. Now, 
by my maidenhead at twelve year old, I bade her come. What, lamb! what 
ladybird! God forbid! Where's this girl? What, Juliet!

 Enter Juliet. 

Jul. How now? Who calls? Nurse. Your mother. Jul. Madam, I am 
here. What is your will? Wife. This is the matter- Nurse, give leave awhile, 
We must talk in secret. Nurse, come back again; I have rememb'red me, 
thou's hear our counsel. Thou knowest my daughter's of a pretty age. 
Nurse. Faith, I can tell her age unto an hour. Wife. She's not fourteen. 
Nurse. I'll lay fourteen of my teeth- And yet, to my teen be it spoken, I 
have but four- She is not fourteen. How long is it now To Lammastide? 
Wife. A fortnight and odd days. Nurse. Even or odd, of all days in the year, 
Come Lammas Eve at night shall she be fourteen. Susan and she (God rest 
all Christian souls!) Were of an age. Well, Susan is with God; She was too 
good for me. But, as I said, On Lammas Eve at night shall she be fourteen; 
That shall she, marry; I remember it well. 'Tis since the earthquake now 
eleven years; And she was wean'd (I never shall forget it), Of all the days 
of the year, upon that day; For I had then laid wormwood to my dug, 
Sitting in the sun under the dovehouse wall. My lord and you were then at 
Mantua. Nay, I do bear a brain. But, as I said, When it did taste the 
wormwood on the nipple Of my dug and felt it bitter, pretty fool, To see it 
tetchy and fall out with the dug! Shake, quoth the dovehouse! 'Twas no 
need, I trow, To bid me trudge. And since that time it is eleven years, For 
then she could stand high-lone; nay, by th' rood, She could have run and 
waddled all about; For even the day before, she broke her brow; And then 
my husband (God be with his soul! 'A was a merry man) took up the child. 
'Yea,' quoth he, 'dost thou fall upon thy face? Thou wilt fall backward 
when thou hast more wit; Wilt thou not, Jule?' and, by my holidam, The 
pretty wretch left crying, and said 'Ay.' To see now how a jest shall come 
about! I warrant, an I should live a thousand yeas, I never should forget it. 
'Wilt thou not, Jule?' quoth he, And, pretty fool, it stinted, and said 'Ay.' 

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Wife. Enough of this. I pray thee hold thy peace. Nurse. Yes, madam. Yet I 
cannot choose but laugh To think it should leave crying and say 'Ay.' And 
yet, I warrant, it bad upon it brow A bump as big as a young cock'rel's 
stone; A perilous knock; and it cried bitterly. 'Yea,' quoth my husband, 
'fall'st upon thy face? Thou wilt fall backward when thou comest to age; 
Wilt thou not, Jule?' It stinted, and said 'Ay.' Jul. And stint thou too, I pray 
thee, nurse, say I. Nurse. Peace, I have done. God mark thee to his grace! 
Thou wast the prettiest babe that e'er I nurs'd. An I might live to see thee 
married once, I have my wish. Wife. Marry, that 'marry' is the very theme I 
came to talk of. Tell me, daughter Juliet, How stands your disposition to 
be married? Jul. It is an honour that I dream not of. Nurse. An honour? 
Were not I thine only nurse, I would say thou hadst suck'd wisdom from 
thy teat. Wife. Well, think of marriage now. Younger than you, Here in 
Verona, ladies of esteem, Are made already mothers. By my count, I was 
your mother much upon these years That you are now a maid. Thus then in 
brief: The valiant Paris seeks you for his love. Nurse. A man, young lady! 
lady, such a man As all the world- why he's a man of wax. Wife. Verona's 
summer hath not such a flower. Nurse. Nay, he's a flower, in faith- a very 
flower. Wife. What say you? Can you love the gentleman? This night you 
shall behold him at our feast. Read o'er the volume of young Paris' face, 
And find delight writ there with beauty's pen; Examine every married 
lineament, And see how one another lends content; And what obscur'd in 
this fair volume lies Find written in the margent of his eyes, This precious 
book of love, this unbound lover, To beautify him only lacks a cover. The 
fish lives in the sea, and 'tis much pride For fair without the fair within to 
hide. That book in many's eyes doth share the glory, That in gold clasps 
locks in the golden story; So shall you share all that he doth possess, By 
having him making yourself no less. Nurse. No less? Nay, bigger! Women 
grow by men Wife. Speak briefly, can you like of Paris' love? Jul. I'll look 
to like, if looking liking move; But no more deep will I endart mine eye 
Than your consent gives strength to make it fly.

 Enter Servingman. 

Serv. Madam, the guests are come, supper serv'd up, you call'd, my 
young lady ask'd for, the nurse curs'd in the pantry, and everything in 

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extremity. I must hence to wait. I beseech you follow straight. Wife. We 
follow thee. Exit [Servingman]. Juliet, the County stays. Nurse. Go, girl, 
seek happy nights to happy days. Exeunt. 

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SCENE IV. A street. 

Enter Romeo, Mercutio, Benvolio, with five or six other Maskers; 
Torchbearers. 

Rom. What, shall this speech be spoke for our excuse? Or shall we on 
without apology? Ben. The date is out of such prolixity. We'll have no 
Cupid hoodwink'd with a scarf, Bearing a Tartar's painted bow of lath, 
Scaring the ladies like a crowkeeper; Nor no without-book prologue, 
faintly spoke After the prompter, for our entrance; But, let them measure 
us by what they will, We'll measure them a measure, and be gone. Rom. 
Give me a torch. I am not for this ambling. Being but heavy, I will bear the 
light. Mer. Nay, gentle Romeo, we must have you dance. Rom. Not I, 
believe me. You have dancing shoes With nimble soles; I have a soul of 
lead So stakes me to the ground I cannot move. Mer. You are a lover. 
Borrow Cupid's wings And soar with them above a common bound. Rom. 
I am too sore enpierced with his shaft To soar with his light feathers; and 
so bound I cannot bound a pitch above dull woe. Under love's heavy 
burthen do I sink. Mer. And, to sink in it, should you burthen love- Too 
great oppression for a tender thing. Rom. Is love a tender thing? It is too 
rough, Too rude, too boist'rous, and it pricks like thorn. Mer. If love be 
rough with you, be rough with love. Prick love for pricking, and you beat 
love down. Give me a case to put my visage in. A visor for a visor! What 
care I What curious eye doth quote deformities? Here are the beetle brows 
shall blush for me. Ben. Come, knock and enter; and no sooner in But 
every man betake him to his legs. Rom. A torch for me! Let wantons light 
of heart Tickle the senseless rushes with their heels; For I am proverb'd 
with a grandsire phrase, I'll be a candle-holder and look on; The game was 
ne'er so fair, and I am done. Mer. Tut! dun's the mouse, the constable's 
own word! If thou art Dun, we'll draw thee from the mire Of this sir-
reverence love, wherein thou stick'st Up to the ears. Come, we burn 
daylight, ho! Rom. Nay, that's not so. Mer. I mean, sir, in delay We waste 
our lights in vain, like lamps by day. Take our good meaning, for our 
judgment sits Five times in that ere once in our five wits. Rom. And we 
mean well, in going to this masque; But 'tis no wit to go. Mer. Why, may 

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one ask? Rom. I dreamt a dream to-night. Mer. And so did I. Rom. Well, 
what was yours? Mer. That dreamers often lie. Rom. In bed asleep, while 
they do dream things true. Mer. O, then I see Queen Mab hath been with 
you. She is the fairies' midwife, and she comes In shape no bigger than an 
agate stone On the forefinger of an alderman, Drawn with a team of little 
atomies Athwart men's noses as they lie asleep; Her wagon spokes made 
of long spinners' legs, The cover, of the wings of grasshoppers; Her traces, 
of the smallest spider's web; Her collars, of the moonshine's wat'ry beams; 
Her whip, of cricket's bone; the lash, of film; Her wagoner, a small grey-
coated gnat, Not half so big as a round little worm Prick'd from the lazy 
finger of a maid; Her chariot is an empty hazelnut, Made by the joiner 
squirrel or old grub, Time out o' mind the fairies' coachmakers. And in this 
state she 'gallops night by night Through lovers' brains, and then they 
dream of love; O'er courtiers' knees, that dream on cursies straight; O'er 
lawyers' fingers, who straight dream on fees; O'er ladies' lips, who straight 
on kisses dream, Which oft the angry Mab with blisters plagues, Because 
their breaths with sweetmeats tainted are. Sometime she gallops o'er a 
courtier's nose, And then dreams he of smelling out a suit; And sometime 
comes she with a tithe-pig's tail Tickling a parson's nose as 'a lies asleep, 
Then dreams he of another benefice. Sometimes she driveth o'er a soldier's 
neck, And then dreams he of cutting foreign throats, Of breaches, 
ambuscadoes, Spanish blades, Of healths five fadom deep; and then anon 
Drums in his ear, at which he starts and wakes, And being thus frighted, 
swears a prayer or two And sleeps again. This is that very Mab That plats 
the manes of horses in the night And bakes the elflocks in foul sluttish, 
hairs, Which once untangled much misfortune bodes This is the hag, when 
maids lie on their backs, That presses them and learns them first to bear, 
Making them women of good carriage. This is she- Rom. Peace, peace, 
Mercutio, peace! Thou talk'st of nothing. Mer. True, I talk of dreams; 
Which are the children of an idle brain, Begot of nothing but vain fantasy; 
Which is as thin of substance as the air, And more inconstant than the 
wind, who wooes Even now the frozen bosom of the North And, being 
anger'd, puffs away from thence, Turning his face to the dew-dropping 
South. Ben. This wind you talk of blows us from ourselves. Supper is done, 

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and we shall come too late. Rom. I fear, too early; for my mind misgives 
Some consequence, yet hanging in the stars, Shall bitterly begin his fearful 
date With this night's revels and expire the term Of a despised life, clos'd 
in my breast, By some vile forfeit of untimely death. But he that hath the 
steerage of my course Direct my sail! On, lusty gentlemen! Ben. Strike, 
drum. They march about the stage. [Exeunt.] 

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SCENE V. Capulet's house. 

Servingmen come forth with napkins. 

1. Serv. Where's Potpan, that he helps not to take away? He shift a 
trencher! he scrape a trencher! 2. Serv. When good manners shall lie all in 
one or two men's hands, and they unwash'd too, 'tis a foul thing. 1. Serv. 
Away with the join-stools, remove the court-cubbert, look to the plate. 
Good thou, save me a piece of marchpane and, as thou loves me, let the 
porter let in Susan Grindstone and Nell. Anthony, and Potpan! 2. Serv. Ay, 
boy, ready. 1. Serv. You are look'd for and call'd for, ask'd for and sought 
for, in the great chamber. 3. Serv. We cannot be here and there too. 
Cheerly, boys! Be brisk awhile, and the longer liver take all. Exeunt. 
Enter the Maskers, Enter, [with Servants,] Capulet, his Wife, Juliet, 
Tybalt, and all the Guests and Gentlewomen to the Maskers.

 Cap. Welcome, gentlemen! Ladies that have their toes Unplagu'd 
with corns will have a bout with you. Ah ha, my mistresses! which of you 
all Will now deny to dance? She that makes dainty, She I'll swear hath 
corns. Am I come near ye now? Welcome, gentlemen! I have seen the day 
That I have worn a visor and could tell A whispering tale in a fair lady's 
ear, Such as would please. 'Tis gone, 'tis gone, 'tis gone! You are welcome, 
gentlemen! Come, musicians, play. A hall, a hall! give room! and foot it, 
girls. Music plays, and they dance. More light, you knaves! and turn the 
tables up, And quench the fire, the room is grown too hot. Ah, sirrah, this 
unlook'd-for sport comes well. Nay, sit, nay, sit, good cousin Capulet, For 
you and I are past our dancing days. How long is't now since last yourself 
and I Were in a mask? 2. Cap. By'r Lady, thirty years. Cap. What, man? 
'Tis not so much, 'tis not so much! 'Tis since the nuptial of Lucentio, Come 
Pentecost as quickly as it will, Some five-and-twenty years, and then we 
mask'd. 2. Cap. 'Tis more, 'tis more! His son is elder, sir; His son is thirty. 
Cap. Will you tell me that? His son was but a ward two years ago. Rom. 
[to a Servingman] What lady's that, which doth enrich the hand Of yonder 
knight? Serv. I know not, sir. Rom. O, she doth teach the torches to burn 
bright! It seems she hangs upon the cheek of night Like a rich jewel in an 
Ethiop's ear- Beauty too rich for use, for earth too dear! So shows a snowy 

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dove trooping with crows As yonder lady o'er her fellows shows. The 
measure done, I'll watch her place of stand And, touching hers, make 
blessed my rude hand. Did my heart love till now? Forswear it, sight! For I 
ne'er saw true beauty till this night. Tyb. This, by his voice, should be a 
Montague. Fetch me my rapier, boy. What, dares the slave Come hither, 
cover'd with an antic face, To fleer and scorn at our solemnity? Now, by 
the stock and honour of my kin, To strike him dead I hold it not a sin. Cap. 
Why, how now, kinsman? Wherefore storm you so? Tyb. Uncle, this is a 
Montague, our foe; A villain, that is hither come in spite To scorn at our 
solemnity this night. Cap. Young Romeo is it? Tyb. 'Tis he, that villain 
Romeo. Cap. Content thee, gentle coz, let him alone. 'A bears him like a 
portly gentleman, And, to say truth, Verona brags of him To be a virtuous 
and well-govern'd youth. I would not for the wealth of all this town Here 
in my house do him disparagement. Therefore be patient, take no note of 
him. It is my will; the which if thou respect, Show a fair presence and put 
off these frowns, An ill-beseeming semblance for a feast. Tyb. It fits when 
such a villain is a guest. I'll not endure him. Cap. He shall be endur'd. 
What, goodman boy? I say he shall. Go to! Am I the master here, or you? 
Go to! You'll not endure him? God shall mend my soul! You'll make a 
mutiny among my guests! You will set cock-a-hoop! you'll be the man! 
Tyb. Why, uncle, 'tis a shame. Cap. Go to, go to! You are a saucy boy. Is't 
so, indeed? This trick may chance to scathe you. I know what. You must 
contrary me! Marry, 'tis time.- Well said, my hearts!- You are a princox- go! 
Be quiet, or- More light, more light!- For shame! I'll make you quiet; 
what!- Cheerly, my hearts! Tyb. Patience perforce with wilful choler 
meeting Makes my flesh tremble in their different greeting. I will 
withdraw; but this intrusion shall, Now seeming sweet, convert to bitt'rest 
gall. Exit. Rom. If I profane with my unworthiest hand This holy shrine, 
the gentle fine is this: My lips, two blushing pilgrims, ready stand To 
smooth that rough touch with a tender kiss. Jul. Good pilgrim, you do 
wrong your hand too much, Which mannerly devotion shows in this; For 
saints have hands that pilgrims' hands do touch, And palm to palm is holy 
palmers' kiss. Rom. Have not saints lips, and holy palmers too? Jul. Ay, 
pilgrim, lips that they must use in pray'r. Rom. O, then, dear saint, let lips 

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do what hands do! They pray; grant thou, lest faith turn to despair. Jul. 
Saints do not move, though grant for prayers' sake. Rom. Then move not 
while my prayer's effect I take. Thus from my lips, by thine my sin is 
purg'd. [Kisses her.] Jul. Then have my lips the sin that they have took. 
Rom. Sin from my lips? O trespass sweetly urg'd! Give me my sin again. 
[Kisses her.] Jul. You kiss by th' book. Nurse. Madam, your mother craves 
a word with you. Rom. What is her mother? Nurse. Marry, bachelor, Her 
mother is the lady of the house. And a good lady, and a wise and virtuous. 
I nurs'd her daughter that you talk'd withal. I tell you, he that can lay hold 
of her Shall have the chinks. Rom. Is she a Capulet? O dear account! my 
life is my foe's debt. Ben. Away, be gone; the sport is at the best. Rom. Ay, 
so I fear; the more is my unrest. Cap. Nay, gentlemen, prepare not to be 
gone; We have a trifling foolish banquet towards. Is it e'en so? Why then, I 
thank you all. I thank you, honest gentlemen. Good night. More torches 
here! [Exeunt Maskers.] Come on then, let's to bed. Ah, sirrah, by my fay, 
it waxes late; I'll to my rest. Exeunt [all but Juliet and Nurse]. Jul. Come 
hither, nurse. What is yond gentleman? Nurse. The son and heir of old 
Tiberio. Jul. What's he that now is going out of door? Nurse. Marry, that, I 
think, be young Petruchio. Jul. What's he that follows there, that would not 
dance? Nurse. I know not. Jul. Go ask his name.- If he be married, My 
grave is like to be my wedding bed. Nurse. His name is Romeo, and a 
Montague, The only son of your great enemy. Jul. My only love, sprung 
from my only hate! Too early seen unknown, and known too late! 
Prodigious birth of love it is to me That I must love a loathed enemy. 
Nurse. What's this? what's this? Jul. A rhyme I learnt even now Of one I 
danc'd withal. One calls within, 'Juliet.' Nurse. Anon, anon! Come, let's 
away; the strangers all are gone. Exeunt. 

<> 

PROLOGUE 

Enter Chorus. 

Chor. Now old desire doth in his deathbed lie, And young affection 
gapes to be his heir; That fair for which love groan'd for and would die, 
With tender Juliet match'd, is now not fair. Now Romeo is belov'd, and 
loves again, Alike bewitched by the charm of looks; But to his foe 
suppos'd he must complain, And she steal love's sweet bait from fearful 
hooks. Being held a foe, he may not have access To breathe such vows as 
lovers use to swear, And she as much in love, her means much less To 
meet her new beloved anywhere; But passion lends them power, time 
means, to meet, Temp'ring extremities with extreme sweet. Exit. 

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 ACT II.


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SCENE I. A lane by the wall of Capulet's orchard. 

Enter Romeo alone. 

Rom. Can I go forward when my heart is here? Turn back, dull earth, 
and find thy centre out. [Climbs the wall and leaps down within it.] 

Enter Benvolio with Mercutio. 

Ben. Romeo! my cousin Romeo! Romeo! Mer. He is wise, And, on 
my life, hath stol'n him home to bed. Ben. He ran this way, and leapt this 
orchard wall. Call, good Mercutio. Mer. Nay, I'll conjure too. Romeo! 
humours! madman! passion! lover! Appear thou in the likeness of a sigh; 
Speak but one rhyme, and I am satisfied! Cry but 'Ay me!' pronounce but 
'love' and 'dove'; Speak to my gossip Venus one fair word, One nickname 
for her purblind son and heir, Young Adam Cupid, he that shot so trim 
When King Cophetua lov'd the beggar maid! He heareth not, he stirreth 
not, be moveth not; The ape is dead, and I must conjure him. I conjure 
thee by Rosaline's bright eyes. By her high forehead and her scarlet lip, By 
her fine foot, straight leg, and quivering thigh, And the demesnes that 
there adjacent lie, That in thy likeness thou appear to us! Ben. An if he 
hear thee, thou wilt anger him. Mer. This cannot anger him. 'Twould anger 
him To raise a spirit in his mistress' circle Of some strange nature, letting 
it there stand Till she had laid it and conjur'd it down. That were some 
spite; my invocation Is fair and honest: in his mistress' name, I conjure 
only but to raise up him. Ben. Come, he hath hid himself among these 
trees To be consorted with the humorous night. Blind is his love and best 
befits the dark. Mer. If love be blind, love cannot hit the mark. Now will 
he sit under a medlar tree And wish his mistress were that kind of fruit As 
maids call medlars when they laugh alone. O, Romeo, that she were, O 
that she were An open et cetera, thou a pop'rin pear! Romeo, good night. 
I'll to my truckle-bed; This field-bed is too cold for me to sleep. Come, 
shall we go? Ben. Go then, for 'tis in vain 'To seek him here that means not 
to be found. Exeunt. 

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SCENE II. Capulet's orchard. 

Enter Romeo. 

Rom. He jests at scars that never felt a wound. 

Enter Juliet above at a window. 

But soft! What light through yonder window breaks? It is the East, 
and Juliet is the sun! Arise, fair sun, and kill the envious moon, Who is 
already sick and pale with grief That thou her maid art far more fair than 
she. Be not her maid, since she is envious. Her vestal livery is but sick and 
green, And none but fools do wear it. Cast it off. It is my lady; O, it is my 
love! O that she knew she were! She speaks, yet she says nothing. What of 
that? Her eye discourses; I will answer it. I am too bold; 'tis not to me she 
speaks. Two of the fairest stars in all the heaven, Having some business, 
do entreat her eyes To twinkle in their spheres till they return. What if her 
eyes were there, they in her head? The brightness of her cheek would 
shame those stars As daylight doth a lamp; her eyes in heaven Would 
through the airy region stream so bright That birds would sing and think it 
were not night. See how she leans her cheek upon her hand! O that I were 
a glove upon that hand, That I might touch that cheek! Jul. Ay me! Rom. 
She speaks. O, speak again, bright angel! for thou art As glorious to this 
night, being o'er my head, As is a winged messenger of heaven Unto the 
white-upturned wond'ring eyes Of mortals that fall back to gaze on him 
When he bestrides the lazy-pacing clouds And sails upon the bosom of the 
air. Jul. O Romeo, Romeo! wherefore art thou Romeo? Deny thy father 
and refuse thy name! Or, if thou wilt not, be but sworn my love, And I'll 
no longer be a Capulet. Rom. [aside] Shall I hear more, or shall I speak at 
this? Jul. 'Tis but thy name that is my enemy. Thou art thyself, though not 
a Montague. What's Montague? it is nor hand, nor foot, Nor arm, nor face, 
nor any other part Belonging to a man. O, be some other name! What's in 
a name? That which we call a rose By any other name would smell as 
sweet. So Romeo would, were he not Romeo call'd, Retain that dear 
perfection which he owes Without that title. Romeo, doff thy name; And 
for that name, which is no part of thee, Take all myself. Rom. I take thee at 
thy word. Call me but love, and I'll be new baptiz'd; Henceforth I never 

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will be Romeo. Jul. What man art thou that, thus bescreen'd in night, So 
stumblest on my counsel? Rom. By a name I know not how to tell thee 
who I am. My name, dear saint, is hateful to myself, Because it is an 
enemy to thee. Had I it written, I would tear the word. Jul. My ears have 
yet not drunk a hundred words Of that tongue's utterance, yet I know the 
sound. Art thou not Romeo, and a Montague? Rom. Neither, fair saint, if 
either thee dislike. Jul. How cam'st thou hither, tell me, and wherefore? 
The orchard walls are high and hard to climb, And the place death, 
considering who thou art, If any of my kinsmen find thee here. Rom. With 
love's light wings did I o'erperch these walls; For stony limits cannot hold 
love out, And what love can do, that dares love attempt. Therefore thy 
kinsmen are no let to me. Jul. If they do see thee, they will murther thee. 
Rom. Alack, there lies more peril in thine eye Than twenty of their swords! 
Look thou but sweet, And I am proof against their enmity. Jul. I would not 
for the world they saw thee here. Rom. I have night's cloak to hide me 
from their sight; And but thou love me, let them find me here. My life 
were better ended by their hate Than death prorogued, wanting of thy love. 
Jul. By whose direction found'st thou out this place? Rom. By love, that 
first did prompt me to enquire. He lent me counsel, and I lent him eyes. I 
am no pilot; yet, wert thou as far As that vast shore wash'd with the 
farthest sea, I would adventure for such merchandise. Jul. Thou knowest 
the mask of night is on my face; Else would a maiden blush bepaint my 
cheek For that which thou hast heard me speak to-night. Fain would I 
dwell on form- fain, fain deny What I have spoke; but farewell 
compliment! Dost thou love me, I know thou wilt say 'Ay'; And I will take 
thy word. Yet, if thou swear'st, Thou mayst prove false. At lovers' perjuries, 
They say Jove laughs. O gentle Romeo, If thou dost love, pronounce it 
faithfully. Or if thou thinkest I am too quickly won, I'll frown, and be 
perverse, and say thee nay, So thou wilt woo; but else, not for the world. 
In truth, fair Montague, I am too fond, And therefore thou mayst think my 
haviour light; But trust me, gentleman, I'll prove more true Than those that 
have more cunning to be strange. I should have been more strange, I must 
confess, But that thou overheard'st, ere I was ware, My true-love passion. 
Therefore pardon me, And not impute this yielding to light love, Which 

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the dark night hath so discovered. Rom. Lady, by yonder blessed moon I 
swear, That tips with silver all these fruit-tree tops- Jul. O, swear not by 
the moon, th' inconstant moon, That monthly changes in her circled orb, 
Lest that thy love prove likewise variable. Rom. What shall I swear by? 
Jul. Do not swear at all; Or if thou wilt, swear by thy gracious self, Which 
is the god of my idolatry, And I'll believe thee. Rom. If my heart's dear 
love- Jul. Well, do not swear. Although I joy in thee, I have no joy of this 
contract to-night. 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 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! 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, 

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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 to-morrow 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 

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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 to-night. 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 

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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. 

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ROMEO AND JULIET


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 pardonami'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. 

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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 wits run the wild-goose chase, I am done; for thou hast more of 
the wild goose in one of thy wits than, I am sure, I have in my whole five. 
Was I with you there for the goose? Rom. Thou wast never with me for 
anything when thou wast not there for the goose. Mer. I will bite thee by 
the ear for that jest. Rom. Nay, good goose, bite not! Mer. Thy wit is a 
very bitter sweeting; it is a most sharp sauce. Rom. And is it not, then, 
well serv'd in to a sweet goose? Mer. O, here's a wit of cheveril, that 
stretches from an inch narrow to an ell broad! Rom. I stretch it out for that 
word 'broad,' which, added to the goose, proves thee far and wide a broad 
goose. Mer. Why, is not this better now than groaning for love? Now art 
thou sociable, now art thou Romeo; now art thou what thou art, by art as 
well as by nature. For this drivelling love is like a great natural that runs 
lolling up and down to hide his bauble in a hole. Ben. Stop there, stop 
there! Mer. Thou desirest me to stop in my tale against the hair. Ben. Thou 
wouldst else have made thy tale large. Mer. O, thou art deceiv'd! I would 
have made it short; for I was come to the whole depth of my tale, and 
meant indeed to occupy the argument no longer. Rom. Here's goodly gear! 

Enter Nurse and her Man [Peter]. 

Mer. A sail, a sail! Ben. Two, two! a shirt and a smock. Nurse. Peter! 
Peter. Anon. Nurse. My fan, Peter. Mer. Good Peter, to hide her face; for 
her fan's the fairer face of the two. Nurse. God ye good morrow, 
gentlemen. Mer. God ye good-den, fair gentlewoman. Nurse. Is it good-
den? Mer. 'Tis no less, I tell ye; for the bawdy hand of the dial is now upon 

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the prick of noon. Nurse. Out upon you! What a man are you! Rom. One, 
gentlewoman, that God hath made for himself to mar. Nurse. By my troth, 
it is well said. 'For himself to mar,' quoth 'a? Gentlemen, can any of you 
tell me where I may find the young Romeo? Rom. I can tell you; but 
young Romeo will be older when you have found him than he was when 
you sought him. I am the youngest of that name, for fault of a worse. 
Nurse. You say well. Mer. Yea, is the worst well? Very well took, i' faith! 
wisely, wisely. Nurse. If you be he, sir, I desire some confidence with you. 
Ben. She will endite him to some supper. Mer. A bawd, a bawd, a bawd! 
So ho! Rom. What hast thou found? Mer. No hare, sir; unless a hare, sir, in 
a lenten pie, that is something stale and hoar ere it be spent He walks by 
them and sings. 

An old hare hoar, And an old hare hoar, Is very good meat in Lent; 
But a hare that is hoar Is too much for a score When it hoars ere it be 
spent. 

Romeo, will you come to your father's? We'll to dinner thither. Rom. 
I will follow you. Mer. Farewell, ancient lady. Farewell, [sings] lady, lady, 
lady. Exeunt Mercutio, Benvolio. Nurse. Marry, farewell! I Pray you, Sir, 
what saucy merchant was this that was so full of his ropery? Rom. A 
gentleman, nurse, that loves to hear himself talk and will speak more in a 
minute than he will stand to in a month. Nurse. An 'a speak anything 
against me, I'll take him down, an 'a were lustier than he is, and twenty 
such jacks; and if I cannot, I'll find those that shall. Scurvy knave! I am 
none of his flirt-gills; I am none of his skains-mates. And thou must stand 
by too, and suffer every knave to use me at his pleasure! Peter. I saw no 
man use you at his pleasure. If I had, my weapon should quickly have 
been out, I warrant you. I dare draw as soon as another man, if I see 
occasion in a good quarrel, and the law on my side. Nurse. Now, afore 
God, I am so vexed that every part about me quivers. Scurvy knave! Pray 
you, sir, a word; and, as I told you, my young lady bid me enquire you out. 
What she bid me say, I will keep to myself; but first let me tell ye, if ye 
should lead her into a fool's paradise, as they say, it were a very gross kind 
of behaviour, as they say; for the gentlewoman is young; and therefore, if 
you should deal double with her, truly it were an ill thing to be off'red to 

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any gentlewoman, and very weak dealing. Rom. Nurse, commend me to 
thy lady and mistress. I protest unto thee- Nurse. Good heart, and I faith I 
will tell her as much. Lord, Lord! she will be a joyful woman. Rom. What 
wilt thou tell her, nurse? Thou dost not mark me. Nurse. I will tell her, sir, 
that you do protest, which, as I take it, is a gentlemanlike offer. Rom. Bid 
her devise Some means to come to shrift this afternoon; And there she 
shall at Friar Laurence' cell Be shriv'd and married. Here is for thy pains. 
Nurse. No, truly, sir; not a penny. Rom. Go to! I say you shall. Nurse. This 
afternoon, sir? Well, she shall be there. Rom. And stay, good nurse, behind 
the abbey wall. Within this hour my man shall be with thee And bring thee 
cords made like a tackled stair, Which to the high topgallant of my joy 
Must be my convoy in the secret night. Farewell. Be trusty, and I'll quit 
thy pains. Farewell. Commend me to thy mistress. Nurse. Now God in 
heaven bless thee! Hark you, sir. Rom. What say'st thou, my dear nurse? 
Nurse. Is your man secret? Did you ne'er hear say, Two may keep counsel, 
putting one away? Rom. I warrant thee my man's as true as steel. Nurse. 
Well, sir, my mistress is the sweetest lady. Lord, Lord! when 'twas a little 
prating thing- O, there is a nobleman in town, one Paris, that would fain 
lay knife aboard; but she, good soul, had as lieve see a toad, a very toad, as 
see him. I anger her sometimes, and tell her that Paris is the properer man; 
but I'll warrant you, when I say so, she looks as pale as any clout in the 
versal world. Doth not rosemary and Romeo begin both with a letter? Rom. 
Ay, nurse; what of that? Both with an R. Nurse. Ah, mocker! that's the 
dog's name. R is for the- No; I know it begins with some other letter; and 
she hath the prettiest sententious of it, of you and rosemary, that it would 
do you good to hear it. Rom. Commend me to thy lady. Nurse. Ay, a 
thousand times. [Exit Romeo.] Peter! Peter. Anon. Nurse. Peter, take my 
fan, and go before, and apace. Exeunt. 

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SCENE V. Capulet's orchard. 

Enter Juliet. 

Jul. The clock struck nine when I did send the nurse; In half an hour 
she 'promis'd to return. Perchance she cannot meet him. That's not so. O, 
she is lame! Love's heralds should be thoughts, Which ten times faster 
glide than the sun's beams Driving back shadows over low'ring hills. 
Therefore do nimble-pinion'd doves draw Love, And therefore hath the 
wind-swift Cupid wings. Now is the sun upon the highmost hill Of this 
day's journey, and from nine till twelve Is three long hours; yet she is not 
come. Had she affections and warm youthful blood, She would be as swift 
in motion as a ball; My words would bandy her to my sweet love, And his 
to me, But old folks, many feign as they were dead- Unwieldy, slow, 
heavy and pale as lead. 

Enter Nurse [and Peter]. 

O God, she comes! O honey nurse, what news? Hast thou met with 
him? Send thy man away. Nurse. Peter, stay at the gate. [Exit Peter.] Jul. 
Now, good sweet nurse- O Lord, why look'st thou sad? Though news be 
sad, yet tell them merrily; If good, thou shamest the music of sweet news 
By playing it to me with so sour a face. Nurse. I am aweary, give me leave 
awhile. Fie, how my bones ache! What a jaunce have I had! Jul. I would 
thou hadst my bones, and I thy news. Nay, come, I pray thee speak. Good, 
good nurse, speak. Nurse. Jesu, what haste! Can you not stay awhile? Do 
you not see that I am out of breath? Jul. How art thou out of breath when 
thou hast breath To say to me that thou art out of breath? The excuse that 
thou dost make in this delay Is longer than the tale thou dost excuse. Is thy 
news good or bad? Answer to that. Say either, and I'll stay the 
circumstance. Let me be satisfied, is't good or bad? Nurse. Well, you have 
made a simple choice; you know not how to choose a man. Romeo? No, 
not he. Though his face be better than any man's, yet his leg excels all 
men's; and for a hand and a foot, and a body, though they be not to be 
talk'd on, yet they are past compare. He is not the flower of courtesy, but, 
I'll warrant him, as gentle as a lamb. Go thy ways, wench; serve God. 
What, have you din'd at home? Jul. No, no. But all this did I know before. 

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What says he of our marriage? What of that? Nurse. Lord, how my head 
aches! What a head have I! It beats as it would fall in twenty pieces. My 
back o' t' other side,- ah, my back, my back! Beshrew your heart for 
sending me about To catch my death with jauncing up and down! Jul. I' 
faith, I am sorry that thou art not well. Sweet, sweet, Sweet nurse, tell me, 
what says my love? Nurse. Your love says, like an honest gentleman, and a 
courteous, and a kind, and a handsome; and, I warrant, a virtuous- Where 
is your mother? Jul. Where is my mother? Why, she is within. Where 
should she be? How oddly thou repliest! 'Your love says, like an honest 
gentleman, "Where is your mother?"' Nurse. O God's Lady dear! Are you 
so hot? Marry come up, I trow. Is this the poultice for my aching bones? 
Henceforward do your messages yourself. Jul. Here's such a coil! Come, 
what says Romeo? Nurse. Have you got leave to go to shrift to-day? Jul. I 
have. Nurse. Then hie you hence to Friar Laurence' cell; There stays a 
husband to make you a wife. Now comes the wanton blood up in your 
cheeks: They'll be in scarlet straight at any news. Hie you to church; I 
must another way, To fetch a ladder, by the which your love Must climb a 
bird's nest soon when it is dark. I am the drudge, and toil in your delight; 
But you shall bear the burthen soon at night. Go; I'll to dinner; hie you to 
the cell. Jul. Hie to high fortune! Honest nurse, farewell. Exeunt. 

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SCENE VI. Friar Laurence's cell. 

Enter Friar [Laurence] and Romeo. 

Friar. So smile the heavens upon this holy act That after-hours with 
sorrow chide us not! Rom. Amen, amen! But come what sorrow can, It 
cannot countervail the exchange of joy That one short minute gives me in 
her sight. Do thou but close our hands with holy words, Then love-
devouring death do what he dare- It is enough I may but call her mine. 
Friar. These violent delights have violent ends And in their triumph die, 
like fire and powder, Which, as they kiss, consume. The sweetest honey Is 
loathsome in his own deliciousness And in the taste confounds the appetite. 
Therefore love moderately: long love doth so; Too swift arrives as tardy as 
too slow.

 Enter Juliet.

 Here comes the lady. O, so light a foot Will ne'er wear out the 
everlasting flint. A lover may bestride the gossamer That idles in the 
wanton summer air, And yet not fall; so light is vanity. Jul. Good even to 
my ghostly confessor. Friar. Romeo shall thank thee, daughter, for us both. 
Jul. As much to him, else is his thanks too much. Rom. Ah, Juliet, if the 
measure of thy joy Be heap'd like mine, and that thy skill be more To 
blazon it, then sweeten with thy breath This neighbour air, and let rich 
music's tongue Unfold the imagin'd happiness that both Receive in either 
by this dear encounter. Jul. Conceit, more rich in matter than in words, 
Brags of his substance, not of ornament. They are but beggars that can 
count their worth; But my true love is grown to such excess cannot sum up 
sum of half my wealth. Friar. Come, come with me, and we will make 
short work; For, by your leaves, you shall not stay alone Till Holy Church 
incorporate two in one. [Exeunt.] 

<> 

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ACT III.


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SCENE I. A public place. 

Enter Mercutio, Benvolio, and Men. 

Ben. I pray thee, good Mercutio, let's retire. The day is hot, the 
Capulets abroad. And if we meet, we shall not scape a brawl, For now, 
these hot days, is the mad blood stirring. Mer. Thou art like one of these 
fellows that, when he enters the confines of a tavern, claps me his sword 
upon the table and says 'God send me no need of thee!' and by the 
operation of the second cup draws him on the drawer, when indeed there is 
no need. Ben. Am I like such a fellow? Mer. Come, come, thou art as hot a 
jack in thy mood as any in Italy; and as soon moved to be moody, and as 
soon moody to be moved. Ben. And what to? Mer. Nay, an there were two 
such, we should have none shortly, for one would kill the other. Thou! 
why, thou wilt quarrel with a man that hath a hair more or a hair less in his 
beard than thou hast. Thou wilt quarrel with a man for cracking nuts, 
having no other reason but because thou hast hazel eyes. What eye but 
such an eye would spy out such a quarrel? Thy head is as full of quarrels 
as an egg is full of meat; and yet thy head hath been beaten as addle as an 
egg for quarrelling. Thou hast quarrell'd with a man for coughing in the 
street, because he hath wakened thy dog that hath lain asleep in the sun. 
Didst thou not fall out with a tailor for wearing his new doublet before 
Easter, with another for tying his new shoes with an old riband? And yet 
thou wilt tutor me from quarrelling! Ben. An I were so apt to quarrel as 
thou art, any man should buy the fee simple of my life for an hour and a 
quarter. Mer. The fee simple? O simple! 

Enter Tybalt and others. 

Ben. By my head, here come the Capulets. Mer. By my heel, I care 
not. Tyb. Follow me close, for I will speak to them. Gentlemen, good den. 
A word with one of you. Mer. And but one word with one of us? Couple it 
with something; make it a word and a blow. Tyb. You shall find me apt 
enough to that, sir, an you will give me occasion. Mer. Could you not take 
some occasion without giving Tyb. Mercutio, thou consortest with Romeo. 
Mer. Consort? What, dost thou make us minstrels? An thou make 
minstrels of us, look to hear nothing but discords. Here's my fiddlestick; 

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here's that shall make you dance. Zounds, consort! Ben. We talk here in 
the public haunt of men. Either withdraw unto some private place And 
reason coldly of your grievances, Or else depart. Here all eyes gaze on us. 
Mer. Men's eyes were made to look, and let them gaze. I will not budge 
for no man's pleasure,

 Enter Romeo. 

Tyb. Well, peace be with you, sir. Here comes my man. Mer. But I'll 
be hang'd, sir, if he wear your livery. Marry, go before to field, he'll be 
your follower! Your worship in that sense may call him man. Tyb. Romeo, 
the love I bear thee can afford No better term than this: thou art a villain. 
Rom. Tybalt, the reason that I have to love thee Doth much excuse the 
appertaining rage To such a greeting. Villain am I none. Therefore farewell. 
I see thou knowest me not. Tyb. Boy, this shall not excuse the injuries That 
thou hast done me; therefore turn and draw. Rom. I do protest I never 
injur'd thee, But love thee better than thou canst devise Till thou shalt 
know the reason of my love; And so good Capulet, which name I tender 
As dearly as mine own, be satisfied. Mer. O calm, dishonourable, vile 
submission! Alla stoccata carries it away. [Draws.] Tybalt, you ratcatcher, 
will you walk? Tyb. What wouldst thou have with me? Mer. Good King of 
Cats, nothing but one of your nine lives. That I mean to make bold withal, 
and, as you shall use me hereafter, 

dry-beat the rest of the eight. Will you pluck your sword out of his 
pitcher by the ears? Make haste, lest mine be about your ears ere it be out. 
Tyb. I am for you. [Draws.] Rom. Gentle Mercutio, put thy rapier up. Mer. 
Come, sir, your passado! [They fight.] Rom. Draw, Benvolio; beat down 
their weapons. Gentlemen, for shame! forbear this outrage! Tybalt, 
Mercutio, the Prince expressly hath Forbid this bandying in Verona streets. 
Hold, Tybalt! Good Mercutio! Tybalt under Romeo's arm thrusts Mercutio 
in, and flies [with his Followers]. Mer. I am hurt. A plague o' both your 
houses! I am sped. Is he gone and hath nothing? Ben. What, art thou hurt? 
Mer. Ay, ay, a scratch, a scratch. Marry, 'tis enough. Where is my page? Go, 
villain, fetch a surgeon. [Exit Page.] Rom. Courage, man. The hurt cannot 
be much. Mer. No, 'tis not so deep as a well, nor so wide as a church door; 
but 'tis enough, 'twill serve. Ask for me to-morrow, and you shall find me a 

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grave man. I am peppered, I warrant, for this world. A plague o' both your 
houses! Zounds, a dog, a rat, a mouse, a cat, to scratch a man to death! a 
braggart, a rogue, a villain, that fights by the book of arithmetic! Why the 
devil came you between us? I was hurt under your arm. Rom. I thought all 
for the best. Mer. Help me into some house, Benvolio, Or I shall faint. A 
plague o' both your houses! They have made worms' meat of me. I have it, 
And soundly too. Your houses! [Exit. [supported by Benvolio]. Rom. This 
gentleman, the Prince's near ally, My very friend, hath got this mortal hurt 
In my behalf- my reputation stain'd With Tybalt's slander-Tybalt, that an 
hour Hath been my kinsman. O sweet Juliet, Thy beauty hath made me 
effeminate And in my temper soft'ned valour's steel

 Enter Benvolio. 

Ben. O Romeo, Romeo, brave Mercutio's dead! That gallant spirit 
hath aspir'd the clouds, Which too untimely here did scorn the earth. Rom. 
This day's black fate on moe days doth depend; This but begins the woe 
others must end.

 Enter Tybalt. 

Ben. Here comes the furious Tybalt back again. Rom. Alive in 
triumph, and Mercutio slain? Away to heaven respective lenity, And fireey'd fury be my conduct now! Now, Tybalt, take the 'villain' back again 
That late thou gavest me; for Mercutio's soul Is but a little way above our 
heads, Staying for thine to keep him company. Either thou or I, or both, 
must go with him. Tyb. Thou, wretched boy, that didst consort him here, 
Shalt with him hence. Rom. This shall determine that. They fight. Tybalt 
falls. Ben. Romeo, away, be gone! The citizens are up, and Tybalt slain. 
Stand not amaz'd. The Prince will doom thee death If thou art taken. 
Hence, be gone, away! Rom. O, I am fortune's fool! Ben. Why dost thou 
stay? Exit Romeo. Enter Citizens. 

Citizen. Which way ran he that kill'd Mercutio? Tybalt, that 
murtherer, which way ran he? Ben. There lies that Tybalt. Citizen. Up, sir, 
go with me. I charge thee in the Prince's name obey. 

Enter Prince [attended], Old Montague, Capulet, their Wives, and 
[others]. 

Prince. Where are the vile beginners of this fray? Ben. O noble Prince. 

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I can discover all The unlucky manage of this fatal brawl. There lies the 
man, slain by young Romeo, That slew thy kinsman, brave Mercutio. Cap. 
Wife. Tybalt, my cousin! O my brother's child! O Prince! O husband! O, 
the blood is spill'd Of my dear kinsman! Prince, as thou art true, For blood 
of ours shed blood of Montague. O cousin, cousin! Prince. Benvolio, who 
began this bloody fray? Ben. Tybalt, here slain, whom Romeo's hand did 
stay. Romeo, that spoke him fair, bid him bethink How nice the quarrel 
was, and urg'd withal Your high displeasure. All this- uttered With gentle 
breath, calm look, knees humbly bow'd- Could not take truce with the 
unruly spleen Of Tybalt deaf to peace, but that he tilts With piercing steel 
at bold Mercutio's breast; Who, all as hot, turns deadly point to point, And, 
with a martial scorn, with one hand beats Cold death aside and with the 
other sends It back to Tybalt, whose dexterity Retorts it. Romeo he cries 
aloud, 'Hold, friends! friends, part!' and swifter than his tongue, His agile 
arm beats down their fatal points, And 'twixt them rushes; underneath 
whose arm An envious thrust from Tybalt hit the life Of stout Mercutio, 
and then Tybalt fled; But by-and-by comes back to Romeo, Who had but 
newly entertain'd revenge, And to't they go like lightning; for, ere I Could 
draw to part them, was stout Tybalt slain; And, as he fell, did Romeo turn 
and fly. This is the truth, or let Benvolio die. Cap. Wife. He is a kinsman to 
the Montague; Affection makes him false, he speaks not true. Some 
twenty of them fought in this black strife, And all those twenty could but 
kill one life. I beg for justice, which thou, Prince, must give. Romeo slew 
Tybalt; Romeo must not live. Prince. Romeo slew him; he slew Mercutio. 
Who now the price of his dear blood doth owe? Mon. Not Romeo, Prince; 
he was Mercutio's friend; His fault concludes but what the law should end, 
The life of Tybalt. Prince. And for that offence Immediately we do exile 
him hence. I have an interest in your hate's proceeding, My blood for your 
rude brawls doth lie a-bleeding; But I'll amerce you with so strong a fine 
That you shall all repent the loss of mine. I will be deaf to pleading and 
excuses; Nor tears nor prayers shall purchase out abuses. Therefore use 
none. Let Romeo hence in haste, Else, when he is found, that hour is his 
last. Bear hence this body, and attend our will. Mercy but murders, 
pardoning those that kill. Exeunt. 

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SCENE II. Capulet's orchard. 

Enter Juliet alone. 

Jul. Gallop apace, you fiery-footed steeds, Towards Phoebus' lodging! 
Such a wagoner As Phaeton would whip you to the West And bring in 
cloudy night immediately. Spread thy close curtain, love-performing night, 
That runaway eyes may wink, and Romeo Leap to these arms untalk'd of 
and unseen. Lovers can see to do their amorous rites By their own beauties; 
or, if love be blind, It best agrees with night. Come, civil night, Thou 
sober-suited matron, all in black, And learn me how to lose a winning 
match, Play'd for a pair of stainless maidenhoods. Hood my unmann'd 
blood, bating in my cheeks, With thy black mantle till strange love, grown 
bold, Think true love acted simple modesty. Come, night; come, Romeo; 
come, thou day in night; For thou wilt lie upon the wings of night Whiter 
than new snow upon a raven's back. Come, gentle night; come, loving, 
black-brow'd night; Give me my Romeo; and, when he shall die, Take him 
and cut him out in little stars, And he will make the face of heaven so fine 
That all the world will be in love with night And pay no worship to the 
garish sun. O, I have bought the mansion of a love, But not possess'd it; 
and though I am sold, Not yet enjoy'd. So tedious is this day As is the 
night before some festival To an impatient child that hath new robes And 
may not wear them. O, here comes my nurse, 

Enter Nurse, with cords. 

And she brings news; and every tongue that speaks But Romeo's 
name speaks heavenly eloquence. Now, nurse, what news? What hast thou 
there? the cords That Romeo bid thee fetch? Nurse. Ay, ay, the cords. 
[Throws them down.] Jul. Ay me! what news? Why dost thou wring thy 
hands Nurse. Ah, weraday! he's dead, he's dead, he's dead! We are undone, 
lady, we are undone! Alack the day! he's gone, he's kill'd, he's dead! Jul. 
Can heaven be so envious? Nurse. Romeo can, Though heaven cannot. O 
Romeo, Romeo! Who ever would have thought it? Romeo! Jul. What devil 
art thou that dost torment me thus? This torture should be roar'd in dismal 
hell. Hath Romeo slain himself? Say thou but 'I,' And that bare vowel 'I' 
shall poison more Than the death-darting eye of cockatrice. I am not I, if 

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there be such an 'I'; Or those eyes shut that make thee answer 'I.' If be be 
slain, say 'I'; or if not, 'no.' Brief sounds determine of my weal or woe. 
Nurse. I saw the wound, I saw it with mine eyes, (God save the mark!) 
here on his manly breast. A piteous corse, a bloody piteous corse; Pale, 
pale as ashes, all bedaub'd in blood, All in gore-blood. I swounded at the 
sight. Jul. O, break, my heart! poor bankrout, break at once! To prison, 
eyes; ne'er look on liberty! Vile earth, to earth resign; end motion here, 
And thou and Romeo press one heavy bier! Nurse. O Tybalt, Tybalt, the 
best friend I had! O courteous Tybalt! honest gentleman That ever I should 
live to see thee dead! Jul. What storm is this that blows so contrary? Is 
Romeo slaught'red, and is Tybalt dead? My dear-lov'd cousin, and my 
dearer lord? Then, dreadful trumpet, sound the general doom! For who is 
living, if those two are gone? Nurse. Tybalt is gone, and Romeo banished; 
Romeo that kill'd him, he is banished. Jul. O God! Did Romeo's hand shed 
Tybalt's blood? Nurse. It did, it did! alas the day, it did! Jul. O serpent 
heart, hid with a flow'ring face! Did ever dragon keep so fair a cave? 
Beautiful tyrant! fiend angelical! Dove-feather'd raven! wolvish-ravening 
lamb! Despised substance of divinest show! Just opposite to what thou 
justly seem'st-A damned saint, an honourable villain! O nature, what hadst 
thou to do in hell When thou didst bower the spirit of a fiend In mortal 
paradise of such sweet flesh? Was ever book containing such vile matter 
So fairly bound? O, that deceit should dwell In such a gorgeous palace! 
Nurse. There's no trust, No faith, no honesty in men; all perjur'd, All 
forsworn, all naught, all dissemblers. Ah, where's my man? Give me some 
aqua vitae. These griefs, these woes, these sorrows make me old. Shame 
come to Romeo! Jul. Blister'd be thy tongue For such a wish! He was not 
born to shame. Upon his brow shame is asham'd to sit; For 'tis a throne 
where honour may be crown'd Sole monarch of the universal earth. O, 
what a beast was I to chide at him! Nurse. Will you speak well of him that 
kill'd your cousin? Jul. Shall I speak ill of him that is my husband? Ah, 
poor my lord, what tongue shall smooth thy name When I, thy three-hours 
wife, have mangled it? But wherefore, villain, didst thou kill my cousin? 
That villain cousin would have kill'd my husband. Back, foolish tears, 
back to your native spring! Your tributary drops belong to woe, Which you, 

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mistaking, offer up to joy. My husband lives, that Tybalt would have slain; 
And Tybalt's dead, that would have slain my husband. All this is comfort; 
wherefore weep I then? Some word there was, worser than Tybalt's death, 
That murd'red me. I would forget it fain; But O, it presses to my memory 
Like damned guilty deeds to sinners' minds! 'Tybalt is dead, and Romeo-
banished.' That 'banished,' that one word 'banished,' Hath slain ten 
thousand Tybalts. Tybalt's death Was woe enough, if it had ended there; Or, 
if sour woe delights in fellowship And needly will be rank'd with other 
griefs, Why followed not, when she said 'Tybalt's dead,' Thy father, or thy 
mother, nay, or both, Which modern lamentation might have mov'd? But 
with a rearward following Tybalt's death, 'Romeo is banished'- to speak 
that word Is father, mother, Tybalt, Romeo, Juliet, All slain, all dead. 
'Romeo is banished'- There is no end, no limit, measure, bound, In that 
word's death; no words can that woe sound. Where is my father and my 
mother, nurse? Nurse. Weeping and wailing over Tybalt's corse. Will you 
go to them? I will bring you thither. Jul. Wash they his wounds with tears? 
Mine shall be spent, When theirs are dry, for Romeo's banishment. Take 
up those cords. Poor ropes, you are beguil'd, Both you and I, for Romeo is 
exil'd. He made you for a highway to my bed; But I, a maid, die maiden-
widowed. Come, cords; come, nurse. I'll to my wedding bed; And death, 
not Romeo, take my maidenhead! Nurse. Hie to your chamber. I'll find 
Romeo To comfort you. I wot well where he is. Hark ye, your Romeo will 
be here at night. I'll to him; he is hid at Laurence' cell. Jul. O, find him! 
give this ring to my true knight And bid him come to take his last farewell. 
Exeunt. 

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SCENE III. Friar Laurence's cell. 

Enter Friar [Laurence]. 

Friar. Romeo, come forth; come forth, thou fearful man. Affliction is 
enanmour'd of thy parts, And thou art wedded to calamity.

 Enter Romeo. 

Rom. Father, what news? What is the Prince's doom What sorrow 
craves acquaintance at my hand That I yet know not? Friar. Too familiar Is 
my dear son with such sour company. I bring thee tidings of the Prince's 
doom. Rom. What less than doomsday is the Prince's doom? Friar. A 
gentler judgment vanish'd from his lips- Not body's death, but body's 
banishment. Rom. Ha, banishment? Be merciful, say 'death'; For exile hath 
more terror in his look, Much more than death. Do not say 'banishment.' 
Friar. Hence from Verona art thou banished. Be patient, for the world is 
broad and wide. Rom. There is no world without Verona walls, But 
purgatory, torture, hell itself. Hence banished is banish'd from the world, 
And world's exile is death. Then 'banishment' Is death misterm'd. Calling 
death 'banishment,' Thou cut'st my head off with a golden axe And smilest 
upon the stroke that murders me. Friar. O deadly sin! O rude 
unthankfulness! Thy fault our law calls death; but the kind Prince, Taking 
thy part, hath rush'd aside the law, And turn'd that black word death to 
banishment. This is dear mercy, and thou seest it not. Rom. 'Tis torture, 
and not mercy. Heaven is here, Where Juliet lives; and every cat and dog 
And little mouse, every unworthy thing, Live here in heaven and may look 
on her; But Romeo may not. More validity, More honourable state, more 
courtship lives In carrion flies than Romeo. They may seize On the white 
wonder of dear Juliet's hand And steal immortal blessing from her lips, 
Who, even in pure and vestal modesty, Still blush, as thinking their own 
kisses sin; But Romeo may not- he is banished. This may flies do, when I 
from this must fly; They are free men, but I am banished. And sayest thou 
yet that exile is not death? Hadst thou no poison mix'd, no sharp-ground 
knife, No sudden mean of death, though ne'er so mean, But 'banished' to 
kill me- 'banished'? O friar, the damned use that word in hell; Howling 
attends it! How hast thou the heart, Being a divine, a ghostly confessor, A 

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sin-absolver, and my friend profess'd, To mangle me with that word 
'banished'? Friar. Thou fond mad man, hear me a little speak. Rom. O, 
thou wilt speak again of banishment. Friar. I'll give thee armour to keep 
off that word; Adversity's sweet milk, philosophy, To comfort thee, though 
thou art banished. Rom. Yet 'banished'? Hang up philosophy! Unless 
philosophy can make a Juliet, Displant a town, reverse a prince's doom, It 
helps not, it prevails not. Talk no more. Friar. O, then I see that madmen 
have no ears. Rom. How should they, when that wise men have no eyes? 
Friar. Let me dispute with thee of thy estate. Rom. Thou canst not speak of 
that thou dost not feel. Wert thou as young as I, Juliet thy love, An hour 
but married, Tybalt murdered, Doting like me, and like me banished, Then 
mightst thou speak, then mightst thou tear thy hair, And fall upon the 
ground, as I do now, Taking the measure of an unmade grave. Knock 
[within]. Friar. Arise; one knocks. Good Romeo, hide thyself. Rom. Not I; 
unless the breath of heartsick groans, Mist-like infold me from the search 
of eyes. Knock. Friar. Hark, how they knock! Who's there? Romeo, arise; 
Thou wilt be taken.- Stay awhile!- Stand up; Knock. Run to my study.
By-and-by!- God's will, What simpleness is this.- I come, I come! Knock. 
Who knocks so hard? Whence come you? What's your will Nurse. [within] 
Let me come in, and you shall know my errand. I come from Lady Juliet. 
Friar. Welcome then.

 Enter Nurse. 

Nurse. O holy friar, O, tell me, holy friar Where is my lady's lord, 
where's Romeo? Friar. There on the ground, with his own tears made 
drunk. Nurse. O, he is even in my mistress' case, Just in her case! Friar. O 
woeful sympathy! Piteous predicament! Nurse. Even so lies she, 
Blubb'ring and weeping, weeping and blubbering. Stand up, stand up! 
Stand, an you be a man. For Juliet's sake, for her sake, rise and stand! Why 
should you fall into so deep an O? Rom. (rises) Nurse- Nurse. Ah sir! ah 
sir! Well, death's the end of all. Rom. Spakest thou of Juliet? How is it 
with her? Doth not she think me an old murtherer, Now I have stain'd the 
childhood of our joy With blood remov'd but little from her own? Where is 
she? and how doth she! and what says My conceal'd lady to our cancell'd 
love? Nurse. O, she says nothing, sir, but weeps and weeps; And now falls 

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on her bed, and then starts up, And Tybalt calls; and then on Romeo cries, 
And then down falls again. Rom. As if that name, Shot from the deadly 
level of a gun, Did murther her; as that name's cursed hand Murder'd her 
kinsman. O, tell me, friar, tell me, In what vile part of this anatomy Doth 
my name lodge? Tell me, that I may sack The hateful mansion. [Draws his 
dagger.] Friar. Hold thy desperate hand. Art thou a man? Thy form cries 
out thou art; Thy tears are womanish, thy wild acts denote The 
unreasonable fury of a beast. Unseemly woman in a seeming man! Or ill-
beseeming beast in seeming both! Thou hast amaz'd me. By my holy order, 
I thought thy disposition better temper'd. Hast thou slain Tybalt? Wilt thou 
slay thyself? And slay thy lady that in thy life lives, By doing damned hate 
upon thyself? Why railest thou on thy birth, the heaven, and earth? Since 
birth and heaven and earth, all three do meet In thee at once; which thou at 
once wouldst lose. Fie, fie, thou shamest thy shape, thy love, thy wit, 
Which, like a usurer, abound'st in all, And usest none in that true use 
indeed Which should bedeck thy shape, thy love, thy wit. Thy noble shape 
is but a form of wax Digressing from the valour of a man; Thy dear love 
sworn but hollow perjury, Killing that love which thou hast vow'd to 
cherish; Thy wit, that ornament to shape and love, Misshapen in the 
conduct of them both, Like powder in a skilless soldier's flask, is get afire 
by thine own ignorance, And thou dismemb'red with thine own defence. 
What, rouse thee, man! Thy Juliet is alive, For whose dear sake thou wast 
but lately dead. There art thou happy. Tybalt would kill thee, But thou 
slewest Tybalt. There art thou happy too. The law, that threat'ned death, 
becomes thy friend And turns it to exile. There art thou happy. A pack of 
blessings light upon thy back; Happiness courts thee in her best array; But, 
like a misbhav'd and sullen wench, Thou pout'st upon thy fortune and thy 
love. Take heed, take heed, for such die miserable. Go get thee to thy love, 
as was decreed, Ascend her chamber, hence and comfort her. But look 
thou stay not till the watch be set, For then thou canst not pass to Mantua, 
Where thou shalt live till we can find a time To blaze your marriage, 
reconcile your friends, Beg pardon of the Prince, and call thee back With 
twenty hundred thousand times more joy Than thou went'st forth in 
lamentation. Go before, nurse. Commend me to thy lady, And bid her 

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hasten all the house to bed, Which heavy sorrow makes them apt unto. 
Romeo is coming. Nurse. O Lord, I could have stay'd here all the night To 
hear good counsel. O, what learning is! My lord, I'll tell my lady you will 
come. Rom. Do so, and bid my sweet prepare to chide. Nurse. Here is a 
ring she bid me give you, sir. Hie you, make haste, for it grows very late. 
Exit. Rom. How well my comfort is reviv'd by this! Friar. Go hence; good 
night; and here stands all your state: Either be gone before the watch be set, 
Or by the break of day disguis'd from hence. Sojourn in Mantua. I'll find 
out your man, And he shall signify from time to time Every good hap to 
you that chances here. Give me thy hand. 'Tis late. Farewell; good night. 
Rom. But that a joy past joy calls out on me, It were a grief so brief to part 
with thee. Farewell. Exeunt. 

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SCENE IV. Capulet's house 

Enter Old Capulet, his Wife, and Paris. 

Cap. Things have fall'n out, sir, so unluckily That we have had no 
time to move our daughter. Look you, she lov'd her kinsman Tybalt dearly, 
And so did I. Well, we were born to die. 'Tis very late; she'll not come 
down to-night. I promise you, but for your company, I would have been 
abed an hour ago. Par. These times of woe afford no tune to woo. Madam, 
good night. Commend me to your daughter. Lady. I will, and know her 
mind early to-morrow; To-night she's mew'd up to her heaviness. Cap. Sir 
Paris, I will make a desperate tender Of my child's love. I think she will be 
rul'd In all respects by me; nay more, I doubt it not. Wife, go you to her 
ere you go to bed; Acquaint her here of my son Paris' love And bid her 
(mark you me?) on Wednesday next- But, soft! what day is this? Par. 
Monday, my lord. Cap. Monday! ha, ha! Well, Wednesday is too soon. 
Thursday let it be- a Thursday, tell her She shall be married to this noble 
earl. Will you be ready? Do you like this haste? We'll keep no great ado- a 
friend or two; For hark you, Tybalt being slain so late, It may be thought 
we held him carelessly, Being our kinsman, if we revel much. Therefore 
we'll have some half a dozen friends, And there an end. But what say you 
to Thursday? Par. My lord, I would that Thursday were to-morrow. Cap. 
Well, get you gone. A Thursday be it then. Go you to Juliet ere you go to 
bed; Prepare her, wife, against this wedding day. Farewell, My lord.- Light 
to my chamber, ho! Afore me, It is so very very late That we may call it 
early by-and-by. Good night. Exeunt 

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SCENE V. Capulet's orchard. 

Enter Romeo and Juliet aloft, at the Window. 

Jul. Wilt thou be gone? It is not yet near day. It was the nightingale, 
and not the lark, That pierc'd the fearful hollow of thine ear. Nightly she 
sings on yond pomegranate tree. Believe me, love, it was the nightingale. 
Rom. It was the lark, the herald of the morn; No nightingale. Look, love, 
what envious streaks Do lace the severing clouds in yonder East. Night's 
candles are burnt out, and jocund day Stands tiptoe on the misty mountain 
tops. I must be gone and live, or stay and die. Jul. Yond light is not 
daylight; I know it, I. It is some meteor that the sun exhales To be to thee 
this night a torchbearer And light thee on the way to Mantua. Therefore 
stay yet; thou need'st not to be gone. Rom. Let me be ta'en, let me be put 
to death. I am content, so thou wilt have it so. I'll say yon grey is not the 
morning's eye, 'Tis but the pale reflex of Cynthia's brow; Nor that is not 
the lark whose notes do beat The vaulty heaven so high above our heads. I 
have more care to stay than will to go. Come, death, and welcome! Juliet 
wills it so. How is't, my soul? Let's talk; it is not day. Jul. It is, it is! Hie 
hence, be gone, away! It is the lark that sings so out of tune, Straining 
harsh discords and unpleasing sharps. Some say the lark makes sweet 
division; This doth not so, for she divideth us. Some say the lark and 
loathed toad chang'd eyes; O, now I would they had chang'd voices too, 
Since arm from arm that voice doth us affray, Hunting thee hence with 
hunt's-up to the day! O, now be gone! More light and light it grows. Rom. 
More light and light- more dark and dark our woes! Enter Nurse. 

Nurse. Madam! Jul. Nurse? Nurse. Your lady mother is coming to 
your chamber. The day is broke; be wary, look about. Jul. Then, window, 
let day in, and let life out. [Exit.] Rom. Farewell, farewell! One kiss, and 
I'll descend. He goeth down. Jul. Art thou gone so, my lord, my love, my 
friend? I must hear from thee every day in the hour, For in a minute there 
are many days. O, by this count I shall be much in years Ere I again 
behold my Romeo! Rom. Farewell! I will omit no opportunity That may 
convey my greetings, love, to thee. Jul. O, think'st thou we shall ever meet 
again? Rom. I doubt it not; and all these woes shall serve For sweet 

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discourses in our time to come. Jul. O God, I have an ill-divining soul! 
Methinks I see thee, now thou art below, As one dead in the bottom of a 
tomb. Either my eyesight fails, or thou look'st pale. Rom. And trust me, 
love, in my eye so do you. Dry sorrow drinks our blood. Adieu, adieu! 
Exit. Jul. O Fortune, Fortune! all men call thee fickle. If thou art fickle, 
what dost thou with him That is renown'd for faith? Be fickle, Fortune, For 
then I hope thou wilt not keep him long But send him back. Lady. [within] 
Ho, daughter! are you up? Jul. Who is't that calls? It is my lady mother. Is 
she not down so late, or up so early? What unaccustom'd cause procures 
her hither? 

Enter Mother. Lady. Why, how now, Juliet? Jul. Madam, I am not 
well. Lady. Evermore weeping for your cousin's death? What, wilt thou 
wash him from his grave with tears? An if thou couldst, thou couldst not 
make him live. Therefore have done. Some grief shows much of love; But 
much of grief shows still some want of wit. Jul. Yet let me weep for such a 
feeling loss. Lady. So shall you feel the loss, but not the friend Which you 
weep for. Jul. Feeling so the loss, I cannot choose but ever weep the friend. 
Lady. Well, girl, thou weep'st not so much for his death As that the villain 
lives which slaughter'd him. Jul. What villain, madam? Lady. That same 
villain Romeo. Jul. [aside] Villain and he be many miles asunder.- God 
pardon him! I do, with all my heart; And yet no man like he doth grieve 
my heart. Lady. That is because the traitor murderer lives. Jul. Ay, madam, 
from the reach of these my hands. Would none but I might venge my 
cousin's death! Lady. We will have vengeance for it, fear thou not. Then 
weep no more. I'll send to one in Mantua, Where that same banish'd 
runagate doth live, Shall give him such an unaccustom'd dram That he 
shall soon keep Tybalt company; And then I hope thou wilt be satisfied. 
Jul. Indeed I never shall be satisfied With Romeo till I behold him- dead-
Is my poor heart so for a kinsman vex'd. Madam, if you could find out but 
a man To bear a poison, I would temper it; That Romeo should, upon 
receipt thereof, Soon sleep in quiet. O, how my heart abhors To hear him 
nam'd and cannot come to him, To wreak the love I bore my cousin Tybalt 
Upon his body that hath slaughter'd him! Lady. Find thou the means, and 
I'll find such a man. But now I'll tell thee joyful tidings, girl. Jul. And joy 

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comes well in such a needy time. What are they, I beseech your ladyship? 
Lady. Well, well, thou hast a careful father, child; One who, to put thee 
from thy heaviness, Hath sorted out a sudden day of joy That thou expects 
not nor I look'd not for. Jul. Madam, in happy time! What day is that? 
Lady. Marry, my child, early next Thursday morn The gallant, young, and 
noble gentleman, The County Paris, at Saint Peter's Church, Shall happily 
make thee there a joyful bride. Jul. Now by Saint Peter's Church, and Peter 
too, He shall not make me there a joyful bride! I wonder at this haste, that 
I must wed Ere he that should be husband comes to woo. I pray you tell 
my lord and father, madam, I will not marry yet; and when I do, I swear It 
shall be Romeo, whom you know I hate, Rather than Paris. These are news 
indeed! Lady. Here comes your father. Tell him so yourself, And see how 
be will take it at your hands. 

Enter Capulet and Nurse. 

Cap. When the sun sets the air doth drizzle dew, But for the sunset of 
my brother's son It rains downright. How now? a conduit, girl? What, still 
in tears? Evermore show'ring? In one little body Thou counterfeit'st a bark, 
a sea, a wind: For still thy eyes, which I may call the sea, Do ebb and flow 
with tears; the bark thy body is Sailing in this salt flood; the winds, thy 
sighs, Who, raging with thy tears and they with them, Without a sudden 
calm will overset Thy tempest-tossed body. How now, wife? Have you 
delivered to her our decree? Lady. Ay, sir; but she will none, she gives you 
thanks. I would the fool were married to her grave! Cap. Soft! take me 
with you, take me with you, wife. How? Will she none? Doth she not give 
us thanks? Is she not proud? Doth she not count her blest, Unworthy as 
she is, that we have wrought So worthy a gentleman to be her bridegroom? 
Jul. Not proud you have, but thankful that you have. Proud can I never be 
of what I hate, But thankful even for hate that is meant love. Cap. How, 
how, how, how, choplogic? What is this? 'Proud'- and 'I thank you'- and 'I 
thank you not'- And yet 'not proud'? Mistress minion you, Thank me no 
thankings, nor proud me no prouds, But fettle your fine joints 'gainst 
Thursday next To go with Paris to Saint Peter's Church, Or I will drag thee 
on a hurdle thither. Out, you green-sickness carrion I out, you baggage! 
You tallow-face! Lady. Fie, fie! what, are you mad? Jul. Good father, I 

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beseech you on my knees, Hear me with patience but to speak a word. Cap. 
Hang thee, young baggage! disobedient wretch! I tell thee what- get thee 
to church a Thursday Or never after look me in the face. Speak not, reply 
not, do not answer me! My fingers itch. Wife, we scarce thought us blest 
That God had lent us but this only child; But now I see this one is one too 
much, And that we have a curse in having her. Out on her, hilding! Nurse. 
God in heaven bless her! You are to blame, my lord, to rate her so. Cap. 
And why, my Lady Wisdom? Hold your tongue, Good Prudence. Smatter 
with your gossips, go! Nurse. I speak no treason. Cap. O, God-i-god-en! 
Nurse. May not one speak? Cap. Peace, you mumbling fool! Utter your 
gravity o'er a gossip's bowl, For here we need it not. Lady. You are too hot. 
Cap. God's bread I it makes me mad. Day, night, late, early, At home, 
abroad, alone, in company, Waking or sleeping, still my care hath been To 
have her match'd; and having now provided A gentleman of princely 
parentage, Of fair demesnes, youthful, and nobly train'd, Stuff'd, as they 
say, with honourable parts, Proportion'd as one's thought would wish a 
man-And then to have a wretched puling fool, A whining mammet, in her 
fortune's tender, To answer 'I'll not wed, I cannot love; I am too young, I 
pray you pardon me'! But, an you will not wed, I'll pardon you. Graze 
where you will, you shall not house with me. Look to't, think on't; I do not 
use to jest. Thursday is near; lay hand on heart, advise: An you be mine, 
I'll give you to my friend; An you be not, hang, beg, starve, die in the 
streets, For, by my soul, I'll ne'er acknowledge thee, Nor what is mine 
shall never do thee good. Trust to't. Bethink you. I'll not be forsworn. Exit. 
Jul. Is there no pity sitting in the clouds That sees into the bottom of my 
grief? O sweet my mother, cast me not away! Delay this marriage for a 
month, a week; Or if you do not, make the bridal bed In that dim 
monument where Tybalt lies. Lady. Talk not to me, for I'll not speak a 
word. Do as thou wilt, for I have done with thee. Exit. Jul. O God!- O 
nurse, how shall this be prevented? My husband is on earth, my faith in 
heaven. How shall that faith return again to earth Unless that husband send 
it me from heaven By leaving earth? Comfort me, counsel me. Alack, 
alack, that heaven should practise stratagems Upon so soft a subject as 
myself! What say'st thou? Hast thou not a word of joy? Some comfort, 

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nurse. Nurse. Faith, here it is. Romeo is banish'd; and all the world to 
nothing That he dares ne'er come back to challenge you; Or if he do, it 
needs must be by stealth. Then, since the case so stands as now it doth, I 
think it best you married with the County. O, he's a lovely gentleman! 
Romeo's a dishclout to him. An eagle, madam, Hath not so green, so quick, 
so fair an eye As Paris hath. Beshrew my very heart, I think you are happy 
in this second match, For it excels your first; or if it did not, Your first is 
dead- or 'twere as good he were As living here and you no use of him. Jul. 
Speak'st thou this from thy heart? Nurse. And from my soul too; else 
beshrew them both. Jul. Amen! Nurse. What? Jul. Well, thou hast 
comforted me marvellous much. Go in; and tell my lady I am gone, 
Having displeas'd my father, to Laurence' cell, To make confession and to 
be absolv'd. Nurse. Marry, I will; and this is wisely done. Exit. Jul. 
Ancient damnation! O most wicked fiend! Is it more sin to wish me thus 
forsworn, Or to dispraise my lord with that same tongue Which she hath 
prais'd him with above compare So many thousand times? Go, counsellor! 
Thou and my bosom henceforth shall be twain. I'll to the friar to know his 
remedy. If all else fail, myself have power to die. Exit. 

<> 

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ACT IV.


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SCENE I. Friar Laurence's cell. 

Enter Friar, [Laurence] and County Paris. 

Friar. On Thursday, sir? The time is very short. Par. My father 
Capulet will have it so, And I am nothing slow to slack his haste. Friar. 
You say you do not know the lady's mind. Uneven is the course; I like it 
not. Par. Immoderately she weeps for Tybalt's death, And therefore have I 
little talk'd of love; For Venus smiles not in a house of tears. Now, sir, her 
father counts it dangerous That she do give her sorrow so much sway, And 
in his wisdom hastes our marriage To stop the inundation of her tears, 
Which, too much minded by herself alone, May be put from her by society. 
Now do you know the reason of this haste. Friar. [aside] I would I knew 
not why it should be slow'd.-Look, sir, here comes the lady toward my 
cell.

 Enter Juliet. 

Par. Happily met, my lady and my wife! Jul. That may be, sir, when I 
may be a wife. Par. That may be must be, love, on Thursday next. Jul. 
What must be shall be. Friar. That's a certain text. Par. Come you to make 
confession to this father? Jul. To answer that, I should confess to you. Par. 
Do not deny to him that you love me. Jul. I will confess to you that I love 
him. Par. So will ye, I am sure, that you love me. Jul. If I do so, it will be 
of more price, Being spoke behind your back, than to your face. Par. Poor 
soul, thy face is much abus'd with tears. Jul. The tears have got small 
victory by that, For it was bad enough before their spite. Par. Thou 
wrong'st it more than tears with that report. Jul. That is no slander, sir, 
which is a truth; And what I spake, I spake it to my face. Par. Thy face is 
mine, and thou hast sland'red it. Jul. It may be so, for it is not mine own. 
Are you at leisure, holy father, now, Or shall I come to you at evening 
mass Friar. My leisure serves me, pensive daughter, now. My lord, we 
must entreat the time alone. Par. God shield I should disturb devotion! 
Juliet, on Thursday early will I rouse ye. Till then, adieu, and keep this 
holy kiss. Exit. Jul. O, shut the door! and when thou hast done so, Come 
weep with me- past hope, past cure, past help! Friar. Ah, Juliet, I already 
know thy grief; It strains me past the compass of my wits. I hear thou must, 

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and nothing may prorogue it, On Thursday next be married to this County. 
Jul. Tell me not, friar, that thou hear'st of this, Unless thou tell me how I 
may prevent it. If in thy wisdom thou canst give no help, Do thou but call 
my resolution wise And with this knife I'll help it presently. God join'd my 
heart and Romeo's, thou our hands; And ere this hand, by thee to Romeo's 
seal'd, Shall be the label to another deed, Or my true heart with 
treacherous revolt Turn to another, this shall slay them both. Therefore, out 
of thy long-experienc'd time, Give me some present counsel; or, behold, 
'Twixt my extremes and me this bloody knife Shall play the empire, 
arbitrating that Which the commission of thy years and art Could to no 
issue of true honour bring. Be not so long to speak. I long to die If what 
thou speak'st speak not of remedy. Friar. Hold, daughter. I do spy a kind of 
hope, Which craves as desperate an execution As that is desperate which 
we would prevent. If, rather than to marry County Paris Thou hast the 
strength of will to slay thyself, Then is it likely thou wilt undertake A thing 
like death to chide away this shame, That cop'st with death himself to 
scape from it; And, if thou dar'st, I'll give thee remedy. Jul. O, bid me leap, 
rather than marry Paris, From off the battlements of yonder tower, Or walk 
in thievish ways, or bid me lurk Where serpents are; chain me with roaring 
bears, Or shut me nightly in a charnel house, O'ercover'd quite with dead 
men's rattling bones, With reeky shanks and yellow chapless skulls; Or bid 
me go into a new-made grave And hide me with a dead man in his shroud-
Things that, to hear them told, have made me tremble- And I will do it 
without fear or doubt, To live an unstain'd wife to my sweet love. Friar. 
Hold, then. Go home, be merry, give consent To marry Paris. Wednesday 
is to-morrow. To-morrow night look that thou lie alone; Let not the nurse 
lie with thee in thy chamber. Take thou this vial, being then in bed, And 
this distilled liquor drink thou off; When presently through all thy veins 
shall run A cold and drowsy humour; for no pulse Shall keep his native 
progress, but surcease; No warmth, no breath, shall testify thou livest; The 
roses in thy lips and cheeks shall fade To paly ashes, thy eyes' windows 
fall Like death when he shuts up the day of life; Each part, depriv'd of 
supple government, Shall, stiff and stark and cold, appear like death; And 
in this borrowed likeness of shrunk death Thou shalt continue two-and

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forty hours, And then awake as from a pleasant sleep. Now, when the 
bridegroom in the morning comes To rouse thee from thy bed, there art 
thou dead. Then, as the manner of our country is, In thy best robes 
uncovered on the bier Thou shalt be borne to that same ancient vault 
Where all the kindred of the Capulets lie. In the mean time, against thou 
shalt awake, Shall Romeo by my letters know our drift; And hither shall he 
come; and he and I Will watch thy waking, and that very night Shall 
Romeo bear thee hence to Mantua. And this shall free thee from this 
present shame, If no inconstant toy nor womanish fear Abate thy valour in 
the acting it. Jul. Give me, give me! O, tell not me of fear! Friar. Hold! Get 
you gone, be strong and prosperous In this resolve. I'll send a friar with 
speed To Mantua, with my letters to thy lord. Jul. Love give me strength! 
and strength shall help afford. Farewell, dear father. Exeunt. 

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SCENE II. Capulet's house. 

Enter Father Capulet, Mother, Nurse, and Servingmen, two or three. 

Cap. So many guests invite as here are writ. [Exit a Servingman.] 
Sirrah, go hire me twenty cunning cooks. Serv. You shall have none ill, sir; 
for I'll try if they can lick their fingers. Cap. How canst thou try them so? 
Serv. Marry, sir, 'tis an ill cook that cannot lick his own fingers. Therefore 
he that cannot lick his fingers goes not with me. Cap. Go, begone. Exit 
Servingman. We shall be much unfurnish'd for this time. What, is my 
daughter gone to Friar Laurence? Nurse. Ay, forsooth. Cap. Well, be may 
chance to do some good on her. A peevish self-will'd harlotry it is.

 Enter Juliet. 

Nurse. See where she comes from shrift with merry look. Cap. How 
now, my headstrong? Where have you been gadding? Jul. Where I have 
learnt me to repent the sin Of disobedient opposition To you and your 
behests, and am enjoin'd By holy Laurence to fall prostrate here To beg 
your pardon. Pardon, I beseech you! Henceforward I am ever rul'd by you. 
Cap. Send for the County. Go tell him of this. I'll have this knot knit up tomorrow morning. Jul. I met the youthful lord at Laurence' cell And gave 
him what becomed love I might, Not stepping o'er the bounds of modesty. 
Cap. Why, I am glad on't. This is well. Stand up. This is as't should be. Let 
me see the County. Ay, marry, go, I say, and fetch him hither. Now, afore 
God, this reverend holy friar, All our whole city is much bound to him. Jul. 
Nurse, will you go with me into my closet To help me sort such needful 
ornaments As you think fit to furnish me to-morrow? Mother. No, not till 
Thursday. There is time enough. Cap. Go, nurse, go with her. We'll to 
church to-morrow. Exeunt Juliet and Nurse. Mother. We shall be short in 
our provision. 'Tis now near night. Cap. Tush, I will stir about, And all 
things shall be well, I warrant thee, wife. Go thou to Juliet, help to deck up 
her. I'll not to bed to-night; let me alone. I'll play the housewife for this 
once. What, ho! They are all forth; well, I will walk myself To County 
Paris, to prepare him up Against to-morrow. My heart is wondrous light, 
Since this same wayward girl is so reclaim'd. Exeunt. 

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SCENE III. Juliet's chamber. 

Enter Juliet and Nurse. 

Jul. Ay, those attires are best; but, gentle nurse, I pray thee leave me 
to myself to-night; For I have need of many orisons To move the heavens 
to smile upon my state, Which, well thou knowest, is cross and full of sin.

 Enter Mother. 

Mother. What, are you busy, ho? Need you my help? Jul. No, madam; 
we have cull'd such necessaries As are behooffull for our state to-morrow. 
So please you, let me now be left alone, And let the nurse this night sit up 
with you; For I am sure you have your hands full all In this so sudden 
business. Mother. Good night. Get thee to bed, and rest; for thou hast need. 
Exeunt [Mother and Nurse.] Jul. Farewell! God knows when we shall 
meet again. I have a faint cold fear thrills through my veins That almost 
freezes up the heat of life. I'll call them back again to comfort me. Nurse!
What should she do here? My dismal scene I needs must act alone. Come, 
vial. What if this mixture do not work at all? Shall I be married then tomorrow morning? No, No! This shall forbid it. Lie thou there. Lays down 
a dagger. What if it be a poison which the friar Subtilly hath minist'red to 
have me dead, Lest in this marriage he should be dishonour'd Because he 
married me before to Romeo? I fear it is; and yet methinks it should not, 
For he hath still been tried a holy man. I will not entertain so bad a thought. 
How if, when I am laid into the tomb, I wake before the time that Romeo 
Come to redeem me? There's a fearful point! Shall I not then be stifled in 
the vault, To whose foul mouth no healthsome air breathes in, And there 
die strangled ere my Romeo comes? Or, if I live, is it not very like The 
horrible conceit of death and night, Together with the terror of the place-
As in a vault, an ancient receptacle Where for this many hundred years the 
bones Of all my buried ancestors are pack'd; Where bloody Tybalt, yet but 
green in earth, Lies fest'ring in his shroud; where, as they say, At some 
hours in the night spirits resort- Alack, alack, is it not like that I, So early 
waking- what with loathsome smells, And shrieks like mandrakes torn out 
of the earth, That living mortals, hearing them, run mad- O, if I wake, 
shall I not be distraught, Environed with all these hideous fears, And 

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madly play with my forefathers' joints, And pluck the mangled Tybalt 
from his shroud., And, in this rage, with some great kinsman's bone As 
with a club dash out my desp'rate brains? O, look! methinks I see my 
cousin's ghost Seeking out Romeo, that did spit his body Upon a rapier's 
point. Stay, Tybalt, stay! Romeo, I come! this do I drink to thee. 

She [drinks and] falls upon her bed within the curtains. 

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SCENE IV. Capulet's house. 

Enter Lady of the House and Nurse. 

Lady. Hold, take these keys and fetch more spices, nurse. Nurse. 
They call for dates and quinces in the pastry. 

Enter Old Capulet. 

Cap. Come, stir, stir, stir! The second cock hath crow'd, The curfew 
bell hath rung, 'tis three o'clock. Look to the bak'd meats, good Angelica; 
Spare not for cost. Nurse. Go, you cot-quean, go, Get you to bed! Faith, 
you'll be sick to-morrow For this night's watching. Cap. No, not a whit. 
What, I have watch'd ere now All night for lesser cause, and ne'er been 
sick. Lady. Ay, you have been a mouse-hunt in your time; But I will watch 
you from such watching now. Exeunt Lady and Nurse. Cap. A jealous 
hood, a jealous hood! 

Enter three or four [Fellows, with spits and logs and baskets. 

What is there? Now, fellow, Fellow. Things for the cook, sir; but I 
know not what. Cap. Make haste, make haste. [Exit Fellow.] Sirrah, fetch 
drier logs. Call Peter; he will show thee where they are. Fellow. I have a 
head, sir, that will find out logs And never trouble Peter for the matter. Cap. 
Mass, and well said; a merry whoreson, ha! Thou shalt be loggerhead. 
[Exit Fellow.] Good faith, 'tis day. The County will be here with music 
straight, For so he said he would. Play music. I hear him near. Nurse! Wife! 
What, ho! What, nurse, I say! 

Enter Nurse. Go waken Juliet; go and trim her up. I'll go and chat 
with Paris. Hie, make haste, Make haste! The bridegroom he is come 
already: Make haste, I say. [Exeunt.] 

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SCENE V. Juliet's chamber. 

[Enter Nurse.] 

Nurse. Mistress! what, mistress! Juliet! Fast, I warrant her, she. Why, 
lamb! why, lady! Fie, you slug-abed! Why, love, I say! madam! sweetheart! 
Why, bride! What, not a word? You take your pennyworths now! Sleep for 
a week; for the next night, I warrant, The County Paris hath set up his rest 
That you shall rest but little. God forgive me! Marry, and amen. How 
sound is she asleep! I needs must wake her. Madam, madam, madam! Ay, 
let the County take you in your bed! He'll fright you up, i' faith. Will it not 
be? [Draws aside the curtains.] What, dress'd, and in your clothes, and 
down again? I must needs wake you. Lady! lady! lady! Alas, alas! Help, 
help! My lady's dead! O weraday that ever I was born! Some aqua-vitae, 
ho! My lord! my lady!

 Enter Mother. 

Mother. What noise is here? Nurse. O lamentable day! Mother. What 
is the matter? Nurse. Look, look! O heavy day! Mother. O me, O me! My 
child, my only life! Revive, look up, or I will die with thee! Help, help! 
Call help.

 Enter Father. 

Father. For shame, bring Juliet forth; her lord is come. Nurse. She's 
dead, deceas'd; she's dead! Alack the day! Mother. Alack the day, she's 
dead, she's dead, she's dead! Cap. Ha! let me see her. Out alas! she's cold, 
Her blood is settled, and her joints are stiff; Life and these lips have long 
been separated. Death lies on her like an untimely frost Upon the sweetest 
flower of all the field. Nurse. O lamentable day! Mother. O woful time! 
Cap. Death, that hath ta'en her hence to make me wail, Ties up my tongue 
and will not let me speak. 

Enter Friar [Laurence] and the County [Paris], with Musicians. 

Friar. Come, is the bride ready to go to church? Cap. Ready to go, but 
never to return. O son, the night before thy wedding day Hath Death lain 
with thy wife. See, there she lies, Flower as she was, deflowered by him. 
Death is my son-in-law, Death is my heir; My daughter he hath wedded. I 
will die And leave him all. Life, living, all is Death's. Par. Have I thought 

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long to see this morning's face, And doth it give me such a sight as this? 
Mother. Accurs'd, unhappy, wretched, hateful day! Most miserable hour 
that e'er time saw In lasting labour of his pilgrimage! But one, poor one, 
one poor and loving child, But one thing to rejoice and solace in, And 
cruel Death hath catch'd it from my sight! Nurse. O woe? O woful, woful, 
woful day! Most lamentable day, most woful day That ever ever I did yet 
behold! O day! O day! O day! O hateful day! Never was seen so black a 
day as this. O woful day! O woful day! Par. Beguil'd, divorced, wronged, 
spited, slain! Most detestable Death, by thee beguil'd, By cruel cruel thee 
quite overthrown! O love! O life! not life, but love in death Cap. Despis'd, 
distressed, hated, martyr'd, kill'd! Uncomfortable time, why cam'st thou 
now To murther, murther our solemnity? O child! O child! my soul, and 
not my child! Dead art thou, dead! alack, my child is dead, And with my 
child my joys are buried! Friar. Peace, ho, for shame! Confusion's cure 
lives not In these confusions. Heaven and yourself Had part in this fair 
maid! now heaven hath all, And all the better is it for the maid. Your part 
in her you could not keep from death, But heaven keeps his part in eternal 
life. The most you sought was her promotion, For 'twas your heaven she 
should be advanc'd; And weep ye now, seeing she is advanc'd Above the 
clouds, as high as heaven itself? O, in this love, you love your child so ill 
That you run mad, seeing that she is well. She's not well married that lives 
married long, But she's best married that dies married young. Dry up your 
tears and stick your rosemary On this fair corse, and, as the custom is, In 
all her best array bear her to church; For though fond nature bids us all 
lament, Yet nature's tears are reason's merriment. Cap. All things that we 
ordained festival Turn from their office to black funeral- Our instruments 
to melancholy bells, Our wedding cheer to a sad burial feast; Our solemn 
hymns to sullen dirges change; Our bridal flowers serve for a buried corse; 
And all things change them to the contrary. Friar. Sir, go you in; and, 
madam, go with him; And go, Sir Paris. Every one prepare To follow this 
fair corse unto her grave. The heavens do low'r upon you for some ill; 
Move them no more by crossing their high will. Exeunt. Manent 
Musicians [and Nurse]. 1. Mus. Faith, we may put up our pipes and be 
gone. Nurse. Honest good fellows, ah, put up, put up! For well you know 

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this is a pitiful case. [Exit.] 1. Mus. Ay, by my troth, the case may be 

amended.

 Enter Peter. 

Pet. Musicians, O, musicians, 'Heart's ease,' 'Heart's ease'! O, an you 
will have me live, play 'Heart's ease.' 1. Mus. Why 'Heart's ease'', Pet. O, 
musicians, because my heart itself plays 'My heart is full of woe.' O, play 
me some merry dump to comfort me. 1. Mus. Not a dump we! 'Tis no time 
to play now. Pet. You will not then? 1. Mus. No. Pet. I will then give it you 
soundly. 1. Mus. What will you give us? Pet. No money, on my faith, but 
the gleek. I will give you the minstrel. 1. Mus. Then will I give you the 
serving-creature. Pet. Then will I lay the serving-creature's dagger on your 
pate. I will carry no crotchets. I'll re you, I'll fa you. Do you note me? 1. 
Mus. An you re us and fa us, you note us. 2. Mus. Pray you put up your 
dagger, and put out your wit. Pet. Then have at you with my wit! I will 
dry-beat you with an iron wit, and put up my iron dagger. Answer me like 
men. 'When griping grief the heart doth wound, And doleful dumps the 
mind oppress, Then music with her silver sound'

Why 'silver sound'? Why 'music with her silver sound'? What say you, 
Simon Catling? 1. Mus. Marry, sir, because silver hath a sweet sound. Pet. 
Pretty! What say You, Hugh Rebeck? 2. Mus. I say 'silver sound' because 
musicians sound for silver. Pet. Pretty too! What say you, James 
Soundpost? 3. Mus. Faith, I know not what to say. Pet. O, I cry you mercy! 
you are the singer. I will say for you. It is 'music with her silver sound' 
because musicians have no gold for sounding. 

'Then music with her silver sound With speedy help doth lend 
redress.' [Exit. 

1. Mus. What a pestilent knave is this same? 2. Mus. Hang him, Jack! 
Come, we'll in here, tarry for the mourners, and stay dinner. Exeunt. 
<> 

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ACT V.


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SCENE I. Mantua. A street. 

Enter Romeo. 

Rom. If I may trust the flattering truth of sleep My dreams presage 
some joyful news at hand. My bosom's lord sits lightly in his throne, And 
all this day an unaccustom'd spirit Lifts me above the ground with cheerful 
thoughts. I dreamt my lady came and found me dead (Strange dream that 
gives a dead man leave to think!) And breath'd such life with kisses in my 
lips That I reviv'd and was an emperor. Ah me! how sweet is love itself 
possess'd, When but love's shadows are so rich in joy! 

Enter Romeo's Man Balthasar, booted. 

News from Verona! How now, Balthasar? Dost thou not bring me 
letters from the friar? How doth my lady? Is my father well? How fares 
my Juliet? That I ask again, For nothing can be ill if she be well. Man. 
Then she is well, and nothing can be ill. Her body sleeps in Capel's 
monument, And her immortal part with angels lives. I saw her laid low in 
her kindred's vault And presently took post to tell it you. O, pardon me for 
bringing these ill news, Since you did leave it for my office, sir. Rom. Is it 
e'en so? Then I defy you, stars! Thou knowest my lodging. Get me ink and 
paper And hire posthorses. I will hence to-night. Man. I do beseech you, 
sir, have patience. Your looks are pale and wild and do import Some 
misadventure. Rom. Tush, thou art deceiv'd. Leave me and do the thing I 
bid thee do. Hast thou no letters to me from the friar? Man. No, my good 
lord. Rom. No matter. Get thee gone And hire those horses. I'll be with 
thee straight. Exit [Balthasar]. Well, Juliet, I will lie with thee to-night. 
Let's see for means. O mischief, thou art swift To enter in the thoughts of 
desperate men! I do remember an apothecary, And hereabouts 'a dwells, 
which late I noted In tatt'red weeds, with overwhelming brows, Culling of 
simples. Meagre were his looks, Sharp misery had worn him to the bones; 
And in his needy shop a tortoise hung, An alligator stuff'd, and other skins 
Of ill-shaped fishes; and about his shelves A beggarly account of empty 
boxes, Green earthen pots, bladders, and musty seeds, Remnants of 
packthread, and old cakes of roses Were thinly scattered, to make up a 
show. Noting this penury, to myself I said, 'An if a man did need a poison 

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now Whose sale is present death in Mantua, Here lives a caitiff wretch 
would sell it him.' O, this same thought did but forerun my need, And this 
same needy man must sell it me. As I remember, this should be the house. 
Being holiday, the beggar's shop is shut. What, ho! apothecary!

 Enter Apothecary. 

Apoth. Who calls so loud? Rom. Come hither, man. I see that thou art 
poor. Hold, there is forty ducats. Let me have A dram of poison, such 
soon-speeding gear As will disperse itself through all the veins That the 
life-weary taker mall fall dead, And that the trunk may be discharg'd of 
breath As violently as hasty powder fir'd Doth hurry from the fatal 
cannon's womb. Apoth. Such mortal drugs I have; but Mantua's law Is 
death to any he that utters them. Rom. Art thou so bare and full of 
wretchedness And fearest to die? Famine is in thy cheeks, Need and 
oppression starveth in thine eyes, Contempt and beggary hangs upon thy 
back: The world is not thy friend, nor the world's law; The world affords 
no law to make thee rich; Then be not poor, but break it and take this. 
Apoth. My poverty but not my will consents. Rom. I pay thy poverty and 
not thy will. Apoth. Put this in any liquid thing you will And drink it off, 
and if you had the strength Of twenty men, it would dispatch you straight. 
Rom. There is thy gold- worse poison to men's souls, Doing more murther 
in this loathsome world, Than these poor compounds that thou mayst not 
sell. I sell thee poison; thou hast sold me none. Farewell. Buy food and get 
thyself in flesh. Come, cordial and not poison, go with me To Juliet's grave; 
for there must I use thee. Exeunt. 

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SCENE II. Verona. Friar Laurence's cell. 

Enter Friar John to Friar Laurence. 

John. Holy Franciscan friar, brother, ho! 

Enter Friar Laurence. 

Laur. This same should be the voice of Friar John. Welcome from 
Mantua. What says Romeo? Or, if his mind be writ, give me his letter. 
John. Going to find a barefoot brother out, One of our order, to associate 
me Here in this city visiting the sick, And finding him, the searchers of the 
town, Suspecting that we both were in a house Where the infectious 
pestilence did reign, Seal'd up the doors, and would not let us forth, So 
that my speed to Mantua there was stay'd. Laur. Who bare my letter, then, 
to Romeo? John. I could not send it- here it is again-Nor get a messenger 
to bring it thee, So fearful were they of infection. Laur. Unhappy fortune! 
By my brotherhood, The letter was not nice, but full of charge, Of dear 
import; and the neglecting it May do much danger. Friar John, go hence, 
Get me an iron crow and bring it straight Unto my cell. John. Brother, I'll 
go and bring it thee. Exit. Laur. Now, must I to the monument alone. 
Within this three hours will fair Juliet wake. She will beshrew me much 
that Romeo Hath had no notice of these accidents; But I will write again to 
Mantua, And keep her at my cell till Romeo come- Poor living corse, 
clos'd in a dead man's tomb! Exit. 

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SCENE III. Verona. A churchyard; in it the 
monument of the Capulets. 

Enter Paris and his Page with flowers and [a torch]. 

Par. Give me thy torch, boy. Hence, and stand aloof. Yet put it out, for 
I would not be seen. Under yond yew tree lay thee all along, Holding thine 
ear close to the hollow ground. So shall no foot upon the churchyard tread 
(Being loose, unfirm, with digging up of graves) But thou shalt hear it. 
Whistle then to me, As signal that thou hear'st something approach. Give 
me those flowers. Do as I bid thee, go. Page. [aside] I am almost afraid to 
stand alone Here in the churchyard; yet I will adventure. [Retires.] Par. 
Sweet flower, with flowers thy bridal bed I strew (O woe! thy canopy is 
dust and stones) Which with sweet water nightly I will dew; Or, wanting 
that, with tears distill'd by moans. The obsequies that I for thee will keep 
Nightly shall be to strew, thy grave and weep. Whistle Boy. The boy gives 
warning something doth approach. What cursed foot wanders this way tonight To cross my obsequies and true love's rite? What, with a torch? 
Muffle me, night, awhile. [Retires.] 

Enter Romeo, and Balthasar with a torch, a mattock, and a crow of 
iron. 

Rom. Give me that mattock and the wrenching iron. Hold, take this 
letter. Early in the morning See thou deliver it to my lord and father. Give 
me the light. Upon thy life I charge thee, Whate'er thou hearest or seest, 
stand all aloof And do not interrupt me in my course. Why I descend into 
this bed of death Is partly to behold my lady's face, But chiefly to take 
thence from her dead finger A precious ring- a ring that I must use In dear 
employment. Therefore hence, be gone. But if thou, jealous, dost return to 
pry In what I farther shall intend to do, By heaven, I will tear thee joint by 
joint And strew this hungry churchyard with thy limbs. The time and my 
intents are savage-wild, More fierce and more inexorable far Than empty 
tigers or the roaring sea. Bal. I will be gone, sir, and not trouble you. Rom. 
So shalt thou show me friendship. Take thou that. Live, and be prosperous; 
and farewell, good fellow. Bal. [aside] For all this same, I'll hide me 

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hereabout. His looks I fear, and his intents I doubt. [Retires.] Rom. Thou 
detestable maw, thou womb of death, Gorg'd with the dearest morsel of the 
earth, Thus I enforce thy rotten jaws to open, And in despite I'll cram thee 
with more food. Romeo opens the tomb. Par. This is that banish'd haughty 
Montague That murd'red my love's cousin- with which grief It is supposed 
the fair creature died- And here is come to do some villanous shame To the 
dead bodies. I will apprehend him. Stop thy unhallowed toil, vile 
Montague! Can vengeance be pursu'd further than death? Condemned 
villain, I do apprehend thee. Obey, and go with me; for thou must die. 
Rom. I must indeed; and therefore came I hither. Good gentle youth, tempt 
not a desp'rate man. Fly hence and leave me. Think upon these gone; Let 
them affright thee. I beseech thee, youth, But not another sin upon my 
head By urging me to fury. O, be gone! By heaven, I love thee better than 
myself, For I come hither arm'd against myself. Stay not, be gone. Live, 
and hereafter say A madman's mercy bid thee run away. Par. I do defy thy, 
conjuration And apprehend thee for a felon here. Rom. Wilt thou provoke 
me? Then have at thee, boy! They fight. Page. O Lord, they fight! I will go 
call the watch. [Exit. Paris falls.] Par. O, I am slain! If thou be merciful, 
Open the tomb, lay me with Juliet. [Dies.] Rom. In faith, I will. Let me 
peruse this face. Mercutio's kinsman, noble County Paris! What said my 
man when my betossed soul Did not attend him as we rode? I think He 
told me Paris should have married Juliet. Said he not so? or did I dream it 
so? Or am I mad, hearing him talk of Juliet To think it was so? O, give me 
thy hand, One writ with me in sour misfortune's book! I'll bury thee in a 
triumphant grave. A grave? O, no, a lanthorn, slaught'red youth, For here 
lies Juliet, and her beauty makes This vault a feasting presence full of light. 
Death, lie thou there, by a dead man interr'd. [Lays him in the tomb.] How 
oft when men are at the point of death Have they been merry! which their 
keepers call A lightning before death. O, how may I Call this a lightning? 
O my love! my wife! Death, that hath suck'd the honey of thy breath, Hath 
had no power yet upon thy beauty. Thou art not conquer'd. Beauty's ensign 
yet Is crimson in thy lips and in thy cheeks, And death's pale flag is not 
advanced there. Tybalt, liest thou there in thy bloody sheet? O, what more 
favour can I do to thee Than with that hand that cut thy youth in twain To 

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sunder his that was thine enemy? Forgive me, cousin.' Ah, dear Juliet, 
Why art thou yet so fair? Shall I believe That unsubstantial Death is 
amorous, And that the lean abhorred monster keeps Thee here in dark to 
be his paramour? For fear of that I still will stay with thee And never from 
this palace of dim night Depart again. Here, here will I remain With 
worms that are thy chambermaids. O, here Will I set up my everlasting 
rest And shake the yoke of inauspicious stars From this world-wearied 
flesh. Eyes, look your last! Arms, take your last embrace! and, lips, O you 
The doors of breath, seal with a righteous kiss A dateless bargain to 
engrossing death! Come, bitter conduct; come, unsavoury guide! Thou 
desperate pilot, now at once run on The dashing rocks thy seasick weary 
bark! Here's to my love! [Drinks.] O true apothecary! Thy drugs are quick. 
Thus with a kiss I die. Falls. 

Enter Friar [Laurence], with lanthorn, crow, and spade. 

Friar. Saint Francis be my speed! how oft to-night Have my old feet 
stumbled at graves! Who's there? Bal. Here's one, a friend, and one that 
knows you well. Friar. Bliss be upon you! Tell me, good my friend, What 
torch is yond that vainly lends his light To grubs and eyeless skulls? As I 
discern, It burneth in the Capels' monument. Bal. It doth so, holy sir; and 
there's my master, One that you love. Friar. Who is it? Bal. Romeo. Friar. 
How long hath he been there? Bal. Full half an hour. Friar. Go with me to 
the vault. Bal. I dare not, sir. My master knows not but I am gone hence, 
And fearfully did menace me with death If I did stay to look on his intents. 
Friar. Stay then; I'll go alone. Fear comes upon me. O, much I fear some ill 
unthrifty thing. Bal. As I did sleep under this yew tree here, I dreamt my 
master and another fought, And that my master slew him. Friar. Romeo! 
Alack, alack, what blood is this which stains The stony entrance of this 
sepulchre? What mean these masterless and gory swords To lie discolour'd 
by this place of peace? [Enters the tomb.] Romeo! O, pale! Who else? 
What, Paris too? And steep'd in blood? Ah, what an unkind hour Is guilty 
of this lamentable chance! The lady stirs. Juliet rises. Jul. O comfortable 
friar! where is my lord? I do remember well where I should be, And there I 
am. Where is my Romeo? Friar. I hear some noise. Lady, come from that 
nest Of death, contagion, and unnatural sleep. A greater power than we can 

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contradict Hath thwarted our intents. Come, come away. Thy husband in 
thy bosom there lies dead; And Paris too. Come, I'll dispose of thee 
Among a sisterhood of holy nuns. Stay not to question, for the watch is 
coming. Come, go, good Juliet. I dare no longer stay. Jul. Go, get thee 
hence, for I will not away. Exit [Friar]. What's here? A cup, clos'd in my 
true love's hand? Poison, I see, hath been his timeless end. O churl! drunk 
all, and left no friendly drop To help me after? I will kiss thy lips. Haply 
some poison yet doth hang on them To make me die with a restorative. 
[Kisses him.] Thy lips are warm! Chief Watch. [within] Lead, boy. Which 
way? Yea, noise? Then I'll be brief. O happy dagger! [Snatches Romeo's 
dagger.] This is thy sheath; there rest, and let me die. She stabs herself and 
falls [on Romeo's body]. 

Enter [Paris's] Boy and Watch. 

Boy. This is the place. There, where the torch doth burn. Chief Watch. 
'the ground is bloody. Search about the churchyard. Go, some of you; 
whoe'er you find attach. [Exeunt some of the Watch.] Pitiful sight! here 
lies the County slain; And Juliet bleeding, warm, and newly dead, Who 
here hath lain this two days buried. Go, tell the Prince; run to the Capulets; 
Raise up the Montagues; some others search. [Exeunt others of the Watch.] 
We see the ground whereon these woes do lie, But the true ground of all 
these piteous woes We cannot without circumstance descry. 

Enter [some of the Watch,] with Romeo's Man [Balthasar]. 

2. Watch. Here's Romeo's man. We found him in the churchyard. 
Chief Watch. Hold him in safety till the Prince come hither. 
Enter Friar [Laurence] and another Watchman. 

3. Watch. Here is a friar that trembles, sighs, and weeps. We took this 
mattock and this spade from him As he was coming from this churchyard 
side. Chief Watch. A great suspicion! Stay the friar too. 
Enter the Prince [and Attendants]. 

Prince. What misadventure is so early up, That calls our person from 
our morning rest? 

Enter Capulet and his Wife [with others]. 

Cap. What should it be, that they so shriek abroad? Wife. The people 

in the street cry 'Romeo,' Some 'Juliet,' and some 'Paris'; and all run, With 

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open outcry, toward our monument. Prince. What fear is this which startles 
in our ears? Chief Watch. Sovereign, here lies the County Paris slain; And 
Romeo dead; and Juliet, dead before, Warm and new kill'd. Prince. Search, 
seek, and know how this foul murder comes. Chief Watch. Here is a friar, 
and slaughter'd Romeo's man, With instruments upon them fit to open 
These dead men's tombs. Cap. O heavens! O wife, look how our daughter 
bleeds! This dagger hath mista'en, for, lo, his house Is empty on the back 
of Montague, And it missheathed in my daughter's bosom! Wife. O me! 
this sight of death is as a bell That warns my old age to a sepulchre. 

Enter Montague [and others]. 

Prince. Come, Montague; for thou art early up To see thy son and 
heir more early down. Mon. Alas, my liege, my wife is dead to-night! 
Grief of my son's exile hath stopp'd her breath. What further woe 
conspires against mine age? Prince. Look, and thou shalt see. Mon. O thou 
untaught! what manners is in this, To press before thy father to a grave? 
Prince. Seal up the mouth of outrage for a while, Till we can clear these 
ambiguities And know their spring, their head, their true descent; And then 
will I be general of your woes And lead you even to death. Meantime 
forbear, And let mischance be slave to patience. Bring forth the parties of 
suspicion. Friar. I am the greatest, able to do least, Yet most suspected, as 
the time and place Doth make against me, of this direful murther; And 
here I stand, both to impeach and purge Myself condemned and myself 
excus'd. Prince. Then say it once what thou dost know in this. Friar. I will 
be brief, for my short date of breath Is not so long as is a tedious tale. 
Romeo, there dead, was husband to that Juliet; And she, there dead, that 
Romeo's faithful wife. I married them; and their stol'n marriage day Was 
Tybalt's doomsday, whose untimely death Banish'd the new-made 
bridegroom from this city; For whom, and not for Tybalt, Juliet pin'd. You, 
to remove that siege of grief from her, Betroth'd and would have married 
her perforce To County Paris. Then comes she to me And with wild looks 
bid me devise some mean To rid her from this second marriage, Or in my 
cell there would she kill herself. Then gave I her (so tutored by my art) A 
sleeping potion; which so took effect As I intended, for it wrought on her 
The form of death. Meantime I writ to Romeo That he should hither come 

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as this dire night To help to take her from her borrowed grave, Being the 
time the potion's force should cease. But he which bore my letter, Friar 
John, Was stay'd by accident, and yesternight Return'd my letter back. 
Then all alone At the prefixed hour of her waking Came I to take her from 
her kindred's vault; Meaning to keep her closely at my cell Till I 
conveniently could send to Romeo. But when I came, some minute ere the 
time Of her awaking, here untimely lay The noble Paris and true Romeo 
dead. She wakes; and I entreated her come forth And bear this work of 
heaven with patience; But then a noise did scare me from the tomb, And 
she, too desperate, would not go with me, But, as it seems, did violence on 
herself. All this I know, and to the marriage Her nurse is privy; and if 
aught in this Miscarried by my fault, let my old life Be sacrific'd, some 
hour before his time, Unto the rigour of severest law. Prince. We still have 
known thee for a holy man. Where's Romeo's man? What can he say in 
this? Bal. I brought my master news of Juliet's death; And then in post he 
came from Mantua To this same place, to this same monument. This letter 
he early bid me give his father, And threat'ned me with death, going in the 
vault, If I departed not and left him there. Prince. Give me the letter. I will 
look on it. Where is the County's page that rais'd the watch? Sirrah, what 
made your master in this place? Boy. He came with flowers to strew his 
lady's grave; And bid me stand aloof, and so I did. Anon comes one with 
light to ope the tomb; And by-and-by my master drew on him; And then I 
ran away to call the watch. Prince. This letter doth make good the friar's 
words, Their course of love, the tidings of her death; And here he writes 
that he did buy a poison Of a poor pothecary, and therewithal Came to this 
vault to die, and lie with Juliet. Where be these enemies? Capulet, 
Montage, See what a scourge is laid upon your hate, That heaven finds 
means to kill your joys with love! And I, for winking at you, discords too, 
Have lost a brace of kinsmen. All are punish'd. Cap. O brother Montague, 
give me thy hand. This is my daughter's jointure, for no more Can I 
demand. Mon. But I can give thee more; For I will raise her Statue in pure 
gold, That whiles Verona by that name is known, There shall no figure at 
such rate be set As that of true and faithful Juliet. Cap. As rich shall 
Romeo's by his lady's lie- Poor sacrifices of our enmity! Prince. A 

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glooming peace this morning with it brings. The sun for sorrow will not 
show his head. Go hence, to have more talk of these sad things; Some 
shall be pardon'd, and some punished; For never was a story of more woe 
Than this of Juliet and her Romeo. Exeunt omnes. 

THE END 

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