Romeo and Juliet (1954) Movie Script
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 misadventured
piteous overthrows Do
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,
nought 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.
I strike quickly,
being moved.
But thou art
not quickly moved
to strike.
A dog of the
house of Montague
moves me.
To move is
to stir;
and to be valiant is
to stand: therefore,
if thou art moved,
thou runn'st away.
A dog of that house
shall move me to
stand: I will take
the wall of any
man or maid
of Montague's.
That shows
thee a weak slave;
for the weakest
goes to the wall.
Tis true; and
therefore women,
being the weaker
vessels, are ever
thrust to the wall:
Here comes two
of the house of
the Montagues.
Quarrel, quarrel,
I will
back thee.
How! turn
thy back and run?
I will bite
my thumb at them;
which is a disgrace to
them, if they bear it.
Do you bite your
thumb at us, sir?
I do bite my
thumb, sir.
Do you bite your
thumb at us, sir?
Come, come,
come, come.
Come! RUN!
Abraham.
Open there.
Open, Open.
Open!
What, art thou
drawn among these
heartless hinds?
Turn thee, Benvolio,
look upon thy death.
A servant of the
Capulets has killed
Abraham. Abraham
has benn killed
at the hands
of a Capulet!
What's this?
Abraham!
Abraham! Abraham!
Where's my man?
Where's my man!
What noise
is this?
Abraham is dead.
Give me my sword!
Give me my
long sword, ho!
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,
Three civil brawls,
bred of an airy word,
By thee, old Capulet,
and Montague,
Have thrice disturb'd
the quiet of our streets,
On pain of torture,
from those bloody hands
Throw your mistemper'd
weapons to the ground,
And hear the sentence
of your moved prince.
If ever you disturb
our streets again,
Your lives shall pay the
forfeit of the peace.
Good-morrow,
cousin.
Is the
day so young?
But new
struck nine.
Ay me!
sad hours seem long.
What sadness
lengthens Romeo's hours?
Not having
that, which, having,
makes them short.
In love?
Out--
Of love?
Out
of her favour,
where I am in love.
Alas, that
love, so gentle in his
view, Should be so
tyrannous and rough
in proof!
Alas, that love,
whose view is
muffled still, Should,
without eyes, see
pathways to his will!
Why, then, O
brawling love!
O loving hate!
O any thing, of
nothing first create!
O heavy lightness!
serious vanity!
Dost thou not laugh?
No, coz, I
rather weep.
Good
heart, at what?
At thy good
heart's oppression.
Why, such is
love's transgression.
This love that
thou hast shown
Doth add more grief to
too much of mine own.
Farewell, my coz.
Soft!
I will go along;
An if you leave me
so, you do me wrong.
Tut, I
have lost myself;
I am not here;
This is not Romeo,
he's some other where.
Tell me in sadness,
who is that you love.
Bid a sick man
in sadness make his will:
Ah, word ill urged
to one that is so ill!
Juliet!
How now!
who calls?
Your mother.
Come now, quick, quick!
Madam,
I am here.
What is your will?
This is the matter:
--nurse, give leave awhile,
We must talk in secret:
--nurse, come back again;
I have remember'd
me, thou's hear
our counsel.
Thou know'st my
daughter's of
a pretty age.
Faith, I
can tell her age
unto an hour.
How long is it now
To Lammas-tide?
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,
For then she could
stand alone;
nay, by the 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 holidame,
The pretty wretch left
crying and said 'Ay.'
I warrant, an I should
live a thousand years,
I never should forget
it: 'Wilt thou not,
Jule?' quoth he;
And, pretty fool, it
stinted and said 'Ay.'
And stint thou too,
I pray thee, nurse,
say I.
Peace,
I have done.
God mark thee
to his grace!
An I might live to
see thee married once,
I have my wish.
Marry, that 'marry'
is the very
theme I came to talk of.
Tell me, daughter
Juliet, How
stands your disposition
to be married?
To marry?
It is an honour
that I dream not of.
An honour!
were not I thine
only nurse,
I would say thou
hadst suck'd wisdom
from thy teat.
Well, think of
marriage now;
younger than you,
Here in Verona,
ladies of esteem, Are
made already mothers.
Thus then in brief:
The valiant Paris seeks
you for his love.
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.
Younger than
she are happy
mothers made.
And too soon
marr'd are those
so early made.
The earth hath
swallow'd all my
hopes but she, But
woo her, gentle
Paris, get her
heart, 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.
But my will to her
consent is but a part.
Madam, Juliet.
Come quickly.
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;
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.
At this same
ancient feast of
Capulet's Sups the
fair Rosaline whom
thou so lovest,
I aim'd so near,
when I supposed
you loved.
A right fair
mark, fair coz,
is soonest hit.
Good evening
my lord.
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
the encounter of
assailing eyes,
O, she is rich in
beauty, only poor,
That when she dies
with beauty
dies her store.
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.
Tut, man, one
fire burns out
another's burning,
One pain is lessen'd
by another's
anguish;
Turn giddy,
and be holp by
backward 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.
Be ruled by me, forget
to think of her.
O, teach me how
I should forget
to think.
Examine
other beauties.
Farewell: thou
canst not teach me
to forget.
One fairer
than my love!
the all-seeing sun
Ne'er saw her match
since first the
world begun.
Juliet, the
county stays.
Go, girl, seek
happy nights to
happy days.
Welcome, gentlemen!
ladies that have
their toes Unplagued
with corns will have
a bout with you.
Ah ha, my mistresses!
which of you all
Will now deny to dance?
Romeo is here.
Romeo?
Yes sir.
Uncle, this is a
Montague, our foe,
A villain that
is hither come in
spite, To scorn at our
solemnity this night
My fair ladies.
my noble lords, now
the musicians of
center Rome, will
pay for you the
beautiful galliard.
Young
Romeo is it?
'Tis he, that
villain Romeo.
I would not for
the wealth of all
the town Here in
my house do him
disparagement:
Therefore be
patient, take
no note of him:
I'll not endure him.
He shall be endured:
I have seen the
day That I have worn
a visor and could
tell A whispering
tale in a fair
lady's ear,
For shame!
I'll make you quiet.
What, cheerly,
my hearts!
Put on the mask.
Leave this
place at once.
Go.
O, she doth teach
the torches to
burn bright!
It seems she hangs
upon the cheek of
night Like a
rich jewel in an
Ethiope's ear;
Beauty too rich for
use, for earth
too dear!
What lady is that,
which doth enrich
the hand Of
yonder knight?
I know not, sir.
The measure done,
I'll watch her place
of stand, And,
touching hers,
make blessed
my rude hand.
Shall we rest?
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.
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.
Have not saints
lips, and holy
palmers too?
Ay, pilgrim, lips
that they must use
in prayer.
O, then, dear
saint, let lips do
what hands do; They
pray, grant thou,
lest faith turn
to despair.
Madam, your
mother craves a word
with you.
Who is her mother?
Marry, bachelor,
Her mother is the
lady of the house,
Is she a Capulet?
Where's he gone?
Where?
Go ask his name:
if he be married.
My grave is like to
be my wedding bed.
His name
is Romeo, and a
Montague; The
only son of your
great enemy.
My only love
sprung from my
only hate!
My life is
my foe's debt.
Can I go forward
when my heart
is here?
Where the devil
should this Romeo be?
Came he not
home to-night?
Ah, that same pale
hard-hearted wench,
that Rosaline.
Torments him so, that
he will sure run mad.
Romeo, my cousin Romeo!
The fool is gone.
He is mad.
He is wise; And,
on my lie, hath
stol'n him home to bed.
Call, call, call!
Call, good Mercutio.
Call?
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;
Hey! Come!
I conjure thee by
Rosaline's bright
eyes, By her high
forehead and her
scarlet lips, By her
fine foot, straight
leg and quivering
thigh And the
demesnes that
there adjacent lie,
And if he hear thee,
thou wilt anger him.
This cannot anger
him: my invocation
Is fair and honest,
and in his mistres s'
name I conjure only
but to raise up him.
Come, shall we go?
Go, then; for 'tis
in vain To seek him
here that means
not to be found.
Blind is his love and
best befits the dark.
If love be blind,
love cannot hit
the mark.
He jests at scars
that never felt
a wound
But, soft!
what light through
yonder window breaks?
O Romeo, Romeo!
wherefore art thou Romeo?
Deny thy father and
refuse thy name;
'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!
that which we call
a rose By any other
name would
smell as sweet;
Romeo, doff thy name,
And for that name
which is no part of
thee Take all myself.
I take thee at
thy word: Call me but
love, and I'll be new
baptized; Henceforth
I never will be Romeo.
What man art thou
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.
My ears have not
yet drunk a hundred
words Of that
tongue's utterance,
yet I know the sound:
Art thou not Romeo
and a Montague?
Neither, fair
saint, if either
thee dislike.
How camest thou
hither, tell me,
and wherefore?
The orchard walls
are high and hard
to climb,
With love's
light wings did I
o'er-perch these
walls; For stony
limits cannot hold
love out, Therefore
thy kinsmen are
no let to me.
If they do see
thee, they will
murder thee.
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.
By whose direction
found'st thou out
this place?
By love, who first
did prompt me to
inquire; He lent me
counsel and I lent
him eyes.
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; O
gentle Romeo, If thou
dost love, pronounce
it faithfully: In
truth, fair Montague,
I am too fond, And
therefore thou mayst
think my 'havior
light: But trust me,
gentleman, I'll prove
more true Than
those that have more
cunning to
be strange.
Do not impute this
yielding to light
love, Which the
dark night hath
so discovered.
Lady, by yonder
blessed moon I swear
That tips with
silver all these
fruit-tree tops--
O, swear not
by the moon, the
inconstant moon, That
monthly changes in
her circled orb, Lest
that thy love prove
likewise variable.
What shall
I swear by?
Do not swear at
all; Or, if thou
wilt, swear by thy
gracious self, And
I'll believe thee.
Sweet, good night!
This bud of love,
by summer's ripening
breath, May prove a
beauteous flower when
next we meet.
Good night,
good night!
as sweet repose and
rest Come to thy
heart as that
within my breast!
O, wilt thou leave
me so unsatisfied?
What satisfaction
canst thou
have to-night?
The exchange of
thy love's faithful
vow for mine.
I gave thee mine
before thou didst
request it: And yet I
would it were to
give again.
Wouldst thou
withdraw it?
for what
purpose, love?
But to be frank, and
give it thee again.
I hear some noise
within; dear love,
adieu!
Juliet.
Anon, good nurse!
Sweet Montague, be true.
Stay but a little,
I will come again.
O blessed,
blessed night!
I am afeard.
Being in night, all
this is but a dream,
Too flattering-sweet
to be substantial.
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.
So thrive my soul--
A thousand
times good night!
A thousand times
the worse, to want
thy light
Hist! Romeo, hist!
O, for a falconer's
voice, To lure this
tassel-gentle
back again!
Romeo!
My dear?
Romeo!
My dear?
I have forgot why
I did call thee back.
Let me stand here
till thou remember it.
I shall forget,
to have thee still
stand there,
And I'll still
stay, to have thee
still forget,
'Tis almost
morning; I would have
thee gone: And yet
no further than a
wanton's bird; Who
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.
I would I
were thy bird.
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.
Goodnight.
The grey-eyed
morn smiles on the
frowning night,
Chequering the
eastern clouds with
streaks of light,
Now, ere the sun
advance his burning
eye, The day to cheer
and night's dank dew
to dry, I must
up-fill this osier
cage of ours With
baleful weeds and
precious-juiced
flowers.
The earth that's
nature's mother is
her tomb; What is her
burying grave that is
her womb, And from
her womb children of
divers kind We
sucking on her
natural bosom find,
O, mickle is the
powerful grace that
lies In herbs,
plants, stones, and
their true qualities:
Within the infant
rind of this sweet flower
Within the infant
rind of this...
Within the infant
rind of this sweet
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.
Good morrow, father.
Benedicite!
No. no, no.
Young son, it argues
a distemper'd head So
soon to bid good
morrow to thy bed:
Care keeps his watch
in every old man's
eye, And where care
lodges, sleep will
never lie; But where
unbruised youth with
unstuff'd brain Doth
couch his limbs,
there golden sleep
doth reign:
Therefore thy earliness
doth me assure
Thou art up-roused by
some distemperature;
Or if not so, then
here I hit it right,
Our Romeo hath not
been in bed to-night.
That last is true;
the sweeter rest was mine
God pardon sin!
wast thou with Rosaline?
With Rosaline,
my ghostly father?
no;
I have forgot that name,
and that name's woe.
That's my good son:
but where hast
thou been, then?
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.
Be plain, good son,
and homely in
thy drift;
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
combined, save what
thou must combine
By holy marriage:
but this I pray, That
thou consent to marry
us to-day.
Holy Saint
Francis, what a
change is here!
Is Rosaline, whom
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!
And art thou changed?
pronounce this
sentence then,
Women may fall,
when there's no
strength in men.
Thou chid'st
me oft for
loving Rosaline.
For doting, not
for loving, pupil mine.
And bad'st
me bury love.
Not in a grave,
To lay one in,
another out to have.
I pray thee, chide
not; she whom I love
now Doth grace for
grace and love for
love allow; The
other did not so.
In one respect
I'll thy assistant
be; For this alliance
may so happy prove,
To turn your
households' rancour
to pure love.
The clock struck
nine when I did send
the nurse; In half an
hour she promised
to return.
Perchance she
cannot meet him:
that's not so.
love's heralds should
be thoughts, Which
ten times faster
glide than the
sun's beams,
O God, she comes!
O, she comes!
O honey nurse,
what news?
Hast thou
met with him?
I am a-weary, give
me leave awhile: Fie,
how my bones ache!
what a jaunt have I had!
Nay, come, I pray
thee, speak; good,
good nurse, speak.
Jesu, what haste?
can you not stay awhile?
Do you not see that
I am out of breath?
How art thou out
of breath, when thou
hast breath To say to
me that thou art out
of breath?
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?
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?
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?'
O God's lady dear!
Are you so hot?
marry, come up, I
trow; Henceforward
do your messages yourself.
Oh. Here's such a coil!
come, what says Romeo?
Have you got
leave to go to
church to-morrow?
I have.
For nought so vile
that on the earth
doth live But to the
earth some special
good doth give, Nor
aught so good but
strain'd from that
fair use Revolts from
true birth, stumbling
on abuse: Virtue
itself turns vice,
being misapplied;
Two such opposed foes
encamp them still In
man as well as herbs,
grace and rude will
And where the worser
is predominant
It is she.
And where the worser
is predominant,
Let's go father.
And where
the worser is
predominant, Full
soon the canker death
eats up that plant.
Too swift arrives
as tardy as too slow.
So smile the heavens
upon this holy act,
That after hours with
sorrow chide us not!
Do thou but close
our hands with
holy words, Then
love-devouring death
do what he dare;
(Speaking in Latin)
Amen!
Amen.
Thank you sir.
oh, gold, come
quick, look.
Romeo, the hate I
bear thee can afford
No better term than
this,--thou art
a villain.
Tybalt, the reason
that I have to love
thee Doth much excuse
the appertaining rage
To such a greeting:
villain am I none;
Boy, this shall
not excuse the
injuries That thou
hast done me;
therefore turn and draw.
I do protest, I
never injured 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 my own,
--be satisfied.
O calm, dishonourable,
vile submission!
Alla stoccata
carries it away.
Tybalt, you rat-catcher,
will you walk?
What wouldst
thou have with me?
Good king of cats,
Mercutio!
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, drybeat
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.
I am for you.
Gentle Mercutio,
put thy rapier up.
Come, sir, your passado.
Draw, Benvolio;
beat down their weapons.
Gentlemen, for shame
Hold, Tybalt!
good Mercutio!
Good Mercutio!
Why the devil
came you between us?
I was hurt
under your arm.
Courage, man; the
hurt cannot be much.
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 grave man.
I am peppered, I warrant,
for this world.
A plague on both
your houses!
O Romeo, Romeo,
brave Mercutio's dead!
Away to heaven,
respective lenity,
And fire-eyed 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.
Thou, wretched boy,
that didst consort
him here,
Shalt with him hence.
Romeo, away, be gone!
The citizens are up,
and Tybalt slain.
Stand not amazed: the
prince will doom thee
death, If thou art
taken: hence, away,
be gone!
O, I am fortune's fool.
Where are the
vile beginners of
this fray?
I can discover all
Tybalt, my cousin!
O my brother's child!
For blood of ours,
shed blood of Montague.
Oh bloody fill
of my dear kin.
Romeo slew Tybalt,
Romeo must not live.
Can heaven
be so envious?
Romeo can, Though
heaven cannot:
O Romeo, Romeo!
Who ever would
have thought it?
Romeo!
Can heaven
be so envious?
Romeo can
Oh God!
did Romeo's hand
shed Tybalt's blood?
It did, it did;
alas the day, it did!
O serpent heart,
hid with a flowering face!
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?
There's no trust,
No faith, no honesty
in men; all perjured,
All forsworn, all
naught, all
dissemblers.
Shame come to Romeo!
Will you speak
well of him that
kill'd your cousin?
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?
Romeo that spoke
him fair, bade him
bethink How nice the
quarrel was, and
urged 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, 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,
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.
Romeo slew him, he
slew Mercutio; Who
then the price of his
dear blood doth owe?
Not Romeo, prince,
he was Mercutio's
friend; His fault
concludes but what
the law should end,
The life of Tybalt.
Mercy but murders,
pardoning those
that kill.
I bring thee
tidings of the
prince's doom.
A gentler judgment
vanish'd from his
lips, Not body's
death, but body's
banishment.
Banishment!
Ha, banishment!
be merciful, say
'death;' For exile
hath more terror in
his look, Much more
than death: do not
say 'banishment.'
Hence from Verona
art thou banished:
Be patient, for the
world is broad
and wide.
There is no world
without Verona walls,
But purgatory,
torture, hell itself.
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: he is
banished: 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'?
Hear me but
speak a word.
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,
Juliet's nurse.
Shh, shhh, shh.
Leave us.
I come from
Lady Juliet.
Welcome, then.
O holy friar, O,
tell me, holy friar,
Where is my lady's
lord, where's Romeo?
There on the
ground, with his own
tears made drunk.
O, he is even in
my mistress' case,
Just in her case
Spakest
thou of Juliet?
how is it with her?
Doth she not think me
an old murderer, Now
I have stain'd the
childhood of our joy
With blood removed
but little from
her own?
Where is she?
and how doth she?
and what says My
conceal'd lady to our
cancell'd love?
O, she says
nothing, sir, but
weeps and weeps; And
now falls on her bed;
and then starts up,
And Tybalt calls; and
then on Romeo cries,
And then down
falls again.
Stand up, stand up;
stand, and you be a
man: For Juliet's
sake, for her sake,
rise and stand; Why
should you fall into
so deep an O?
Art thou a man?
thy form cries out
thou art: Thy tears
are womanish;
Go, get thee to thy
love, as was decreed,
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.
Make haste.
Balthasar.
Thank you my lord.
Romeo!
She's there.
Back, foolish
tears, back to your
native spring; Your
tributary drops
belong to woe, Which
you, 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?
Wilt thou be gone?
it is not yet near
day: It was the
nightingale, and
not the lark, That
pierced the fearful
hollow of thine ear;
Nightly she sings on
yon pomegranate-tree:
Believe me, love, it
was the nightingale.
It was the lark,
the herald of the morn,
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.
Yon light is not
day-light, I know it,
I: Therefore stay
yet; thou need'st not
to be gone.
Let me stay here, let
me be ta'en and die;
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.
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.
O, now be gone;
more light and
light it grows.
More light and
light, more dark
and dark it grows
Madam!
Nurse?
The day is broke;
be wary, look about.
Then, window,
let day in,
and let life out.
Farewell, farewell!
one kiss, and
I'll descend.
I must hear from
thee every day in the
hour, For in a minute
there are many days:
I will omit
no opportunity
O think'st thou
we shall ever
meet again?
I doubt it not;
and all these woes
shall serve For sweet
discourses in our
time to come.
O God, I have an
ill-divining soul!
thou look'st pale.'
And trust me,
love, in my eye so
do you: Dry sorrow
drinks our blood.
Adieu, adieu!
It is late, my lord.
Things have
fall'n out, sir, so
unluckily, That we
have had no time to
move our daughter:
Look you, she loved
her kinsman Tybalt
dearly, And so did
I:--Well, we were
born to die.
These times of woe
afford no time to woo
But, soft!
what day is this?
Monday, my lord,
Monday!
Well, Wednesday is
too soon, O' Thursday
let it be: o'
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?
My lord, I would
that Thursday
were to-morrow.
Senior Paris.
I think she will be
ruled In all respects
by me; nay, more,
I doubt it not.
Why, how now, Juliet!
Madam, I am not well.
Evermore weeping for
your cousin's death?
some grief shows much
of love; But much of
grief shows still
some want of wit.
Yet let me
weep for such a
feeling loss.
Well, girl, thou
weep'st not so much
for his death, As
that the villain
lives which
slaughter'd him.
What villain madam?
That same villain, Romeo.
God Pardon him!
I do, with all my
heart; And yet no
man like he doth
grieve my heart.
O, how my heart
abhors To hear him
named, and cannot
come to him.
To wreak the love
I bore my cousin,
Tybolt, Upon his body
that slaughter'd him!
We will have
vengeance for it,
fear thou not:
Then weep no more.
But now I'll tell
thee joyful tidings,
girl.
And joy comes well
in such a needy time:
What are they,
I beseech your ladyship?
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
expect'st not nor
I look'd not for.
Madam, in happy time,
what day is that?
Marry, my child,
early next Thursday
morn, The gallant,
rich and noble
gentleman, The County
Paris, at Saint
Peter's Church, Shall
happily make thee
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.
Tell him so yourself,
And see how he will
take it at your hands.
Do as you will.
For it have done well.
How now, wife!
Have you not told
her our decree?
Ay, sir; but she
will none, she gives
you thanks.
I would the fool were
married to her grave.
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?
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.
How now, how
now, chop-logic!
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.
You tallow-face
Fie, fie!
what, are you mad?
Good father, I
beseech you on my
knees, Hear me with
patience but to
speak a word.
Hang thee,
young baggage!
disobedient wretch!
I tell thee what: get
thee to church o'
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!
God in heaven
bless her!
You are to blame, my
lord, to rate her so.
And why, my
lady wisdom?
hold your tongue,
Good prudence;
smatter with your
gossips, go.
I speak no treason.
O, God ye god-den.
May not one speak?
You are too hot
God's bread!
it makes me mad: Day,
night, late, early,
at home, abroud.
Alone, in company,
waking and sleeping.
still my care hath
been To have her
match'd: and having
now provided A
gentleman of princely
parentage, Of fair
demesnes, rich,
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, as you will not
wed, I'll pardon you:
Look to't, think
on't, I do not use
to jest.
Thursday is near;
lay hand on heart,
advise:
O, sweet my
mother, cast me
not away!
Delay this marriage
for a month, a week;
Talk not to me,
for I'll not speak
a word:
O God!
--O nurse, how shall
this be prevented?
My husband is on
earth, my faith
in heaven;
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, 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.
Speakest thou
from thy heart?
And from my soul too;
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:
Well, thou
hast comforted me
marvellous much.
Good father pardon,
I beseech you!
Henceforward I am
ever ruled by you.
But now let me go,
having displeased
you, to Laurence'
cell, To make
confession and
to be absolved.
This is
wisely done.
Where is
Friar Laurence?
There.
(Speaking in Latin)
O shut the door!
and when thou hast
done so, Come weep
with me; past hope,
past cure, past help!
(Speaking in Latin)
God join'd my
heart and Romeo's,
thou our hands; And
ere this hand, by
thee to Romeo seal'd,
Shall be the label to
another deed, Or
my true heart with
treacherous revolt
Turn to another, this
shall slay them both:
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,
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,
Hold, then;
To-morrow night look
that thou lie alone;
Let not thy nurse lie
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;
Each part, deprived
of supple government,
Shall, stiff and
stark and cold,
appear like death:
And in this borrow'd
likeness of shrunk
death Thou shalt
continue two and
forty hours,
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
uncover'd on the bier
Thou shalt be borne
to that same ancient
vault Where all the
kindred of the
Capulets lie.
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.
In the mean time,
against thou shalt
awake, Shall Romeo
by my letter
know our drift,
Then I will watch
thou waking, and
secretely hither to
bring the to this
cell until the
chapter day.
Which we in Mantua
each year do hold
at Easter time.
Wtih all the friars
confused I'll have
its wearing, I'll
bear the hense,
to Romeo.
But tell me, wilt
thou not fear thy
newly entombed
cousin Tybalt?
Give me, give me!
O, tell
not me of fear!
Love give me
strength!
and strength shall
help afford.
Farewell, dear
father!
See where she
comes from shrift
with merry look.
Come.
How now, my
headstrong!
where have you
been gadding?
Where I have
learn'd me to
repent the sin
of disobedient
opposition To you and
your behests, and am
enjoin'd By holy
Laurence to fall
prostrate here, And
beg your pardon:
Why, I am glad
on't; this is well:
stand up: Stand up.
Now, afore God!
this reverend holy
friar, Our whole city
is much bound to him.
To Mantua?
(Speaking in Latin)
Hello there,
this way to Mantua?
Yes father.
There.
Come.
The wedding dress.
Is it not beautiful?
Hie, indeed.
Poor soul, thy
face is much abused
with tears.
The tears have
got small victory by
that; For it was
bad enough before
their spite.
Thou wrong'st it,
more than tears, with
that report.
That is no
slander, sir,
which is a truth;
Hie, father.
This will help
you father.
Holy father,
come quickly.
The man's dying.
The man's dyimg and
wiches to confess.
Hold my
brother's donkey.
OOH, ml letter.
Come, come
What is it
my good man?
Five days he
lies in bed, with a
strange sickness.
His body is
racked with pain.
I fear he dies!
He wants a ftaher
confessor for
his sins.
But will not have
a doctor for ail.
He fears death,
bnut he fears the
doctor more.
Charge will the
soul he may unburden
to one who also
knows of medicine
and be it so.
For body ailments
often mirrows a
sickness of the soul.
But this is plaque!
Water, water.
Water.
Hold, hold
the door.
My letter, my letter,
open up here.
My letter for Romeo!
Nay, nay!
I pray thee,
leave me to my self
to-night, For I have
need of many orisons
To move the heavens
to smile upon my
state, Which, well
thou know'st, is
cross, and
full of sin.
What, are
you busy, ho?
need you my help?
No, madam; we
have cull'd such
necessaries As are
behoveful 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.
Good night: Get
thee to bed, and
rest; for thou
hast need.
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:
My dismal scene I
needs must act alone
What if this mixture
do not work at all?
Shall I be
married then
to-morrow morning?
What if it be a
poison, which the
friar Subtly hath
minister'd to have me
dead, Lest in this
marriage he should be
dishonour'd, Because
he married me before
to Romeo?
How if, when I am
laid into the tomb,
I wake before the
time the holy
friar come to
redeem me?
Shall I not, then, be
stifled in the vault,
To whose foul mouth
no healthsome air
breathes in,
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 these many
hundred years, the
bones Of all my
buried ancestors are
packed: Where bloody
Tybalt, yet but
green in earth, Lies
festering in his
shroud; O, look!
methinks I see my
cousin's ghost
Seeking out Romeo,
stay, Tybalt, stay!
Romeo, I come!
this do I
drink to thee.
Hold, take these
keys, and fetch more
spices, nurse.
They call for
dates and quinces
in the pastry.
What, ho!
What, nurse, I say!
Go waken Juliet, go
and trim her up;
Mistress!
why, mistress!
Juliet!
fast, I warrant her,
she: Why, lamb!
why, lady! fie,
you slug-a-bed!
What, not a word
She's dead, She's
dead, She's dead!
If I may trust the
flattering truth of
sleep, My dreams
presage some joyful
news at hand: My
bosom's lord sits
lightly on 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 breathed such
life with kisses in
my lips, That I
revived, and was
an emperor.
Ah me!
how sweet is love
itself possess'd,
When but love's
shadows are so
rich in joy!
Welcome Balthasar.
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.
Then she is well,
and nothing can
be ill:
O, pardon me for
bringing these ill
news, Since you did
leave it for my
office, sir.
Ill news I sense?
Her body sleeps in
Capel's monument, And
her immortal part
with angels lips.
I saw this and
presently took post
to tell it you:
I do beseech you,
sir, have patience:
Your looks are pale
and wild,
and do import Some
misadventure.
Tush, thou
art deceived:
Hast thou no letters
to me from the friar?
No, my good lord.
No matter:
get thee gone,
then I defy
you, stars!
My lord.
No, no my
good lord!
Well, Juliet,
I will lie with
thee to-night.
Friar Laurence?
But he is morning
at a funeral.
where?
At the main church.
Death lies on her
like an untimely
frost Upon the
sweetest flower of
all the field.
O lamentable day!
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!
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:
Sir, go you in; and,
madam, go with him;
The heavens do lour
upon you for some
ill; Move them no
more by crossing
their high will.
Nurse.
Holy
Franciscan friar!
brother, ho!
Welcome from Mantua:
what says Romeo?
I could
not find him.
The searchers of
the town, suspecting
that I was 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.
Who bare my
letter, then,
to Romeo?
I could not send
it,--here it is
again,-- Nor get a
messenger to bring it
thee, So fearful were
they of infection.
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.
Stop thy
unhallow'd toil,
vile Montague!
Can vengeance be
pursued further
than death?
Condemned villain, I
do apprehend thee:
Obey, and go with me;
for thou must die.
I must indeed;
and therefore
came I hither.
Good gentle youth,
tempt not a
desperate man;
I beseech thee,
youth, Put not
another sin upon my
head, By urging me
to fury: O, be gone!
Stay not, be gone;
live, and hereafter
say, A madman's mercy
bade thee run away.
I do defy thy
conjurations,
And apprehend thee
for a felon here.
If thou be
merciful,
Open the tomb,
lay me with Juliet.
In faith, I will.
What said my man,
when my betossed soul
Did not attend him
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;
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 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
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
sea-sick weary bark!
Oh.
Romeo,
Romeo!
ROMEO!
Romeo
O, pale
O comfortable
friar!
where is my lord?
I do remember well
where I should be,
And there I am.
Where is my Romeo?
Lady, come from
that nest Of death,
contagion, and
unnatural sleep:
Come, come.
A greater power than
we can contradict
hath thwarted
our intents.
Come, come away.
Come, go,
good Juliet,
I dare no
longer stay.
Thy lips are warm.
This is thy sheath;
there rust,
and let me die.
O me!
this sight of death
is as a bell, that
warns my old age
to a sepulchre.
O thou untaught!
what manners
is in this?
To press before thy
father to a grave?
Capulet!
Montague!
See, what a scourge
is laid upon your
hate, That heaven
finds means to kill
your joys with love.
O brother Montague,
give me thy hand.
A 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.
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 misadventured
piteous overthrows Do
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,
nought 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.
I strike quickly,
being moved.
But thou art
not quickly moved
to strike.
A dog of the
house of Montague
moves me.
To move is
to stir;
and to be valiant is
to stand: therefore,
if thou art moved,
thou runn'st away.
A dog of that house
shall move me to
stand: I will take
the wall of any
man or maid
of Montague's.
That shows
thee a weak slave;
for the weakest
goes to the wall.
Tis true; and
therefore women,
being the weaker
vessels, are ever
thrust to the wall:
Here comes two
of the house of
the Montagues.
Quarrel, quarrel,
I will
back thee.
How! turn
thy back and run?
I will bite
my thumb at them;
which is a disgrace to
them, if they bear it.
Do you bite your
thumb at us, sir?
I do bite my
thumb, sir.
Do you bite your
thumb at us, sir?
Come, come,
come, come.
Come! RUN!
Abraham.
Open there.
Open, Open.
Open!
What, art thou
drawn among these
heartless hinds?
Turn thee, Benvolio,
look upon thy death.
A servant of the
Capulets has killed
Abraham. Abraham
has benn killed
at the hands
of a Capulet!
What's this?
Abraham!
Abraham! Abraham!
Where's my man?
Where's my man!
What noise
is this?
Abraham is dead.
Give me my sword!
Give me my
long sword, ho!
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,
Three civil brawls,
bred of an airy word,
By thee, old Capulet,
and Montague,
Have thrice disturb'd
the quiet of our streets,
On pain of torture,
from those bloody hands
Throw your mistemper'd
weapons to the ground,
And hear the sentence
of your moved prince.
If ever you disturb
our streets again,
Your lives shall pay the
forfeit of the peace.
Good-morrow,
cousin.
Is the
day so young?
But new
struck nine.
Ay me!
sad hours seem long.
What sadness
lengthens Romeo's hours?
Not having
that, which, having,
makes them short.
In love?
Out--
Of love?
Out
of her favour,
where I am in love.
Alas, that
love, so gentle in his
view, Should be so
tyrannous and rough
in proof!
Alas, that love,
whose view is
muffled still, Should,
without eyes, see
pathways to his will!
Why, then, O
brawling love!
O loving hate!
O any thing, of
nothing first create!
O heavy lightness!
serious vanity!
Dost thou not laugh?
No, coz, I
rather weep.
Good
heart, at what?
At thy good
heart's oppression.
Why, such is
love's transgression.
This love that
thou hast shown
Doth add more grief to
too much of mine own.
Farewell, my coz.
Soft!
I will go along;
An if you leave me
so, you do me wrong.
Tut, I
have lost myself;
I am not here;
This is not Romeo,
he's some other where.
Tell me in sadness,
who is that you love.
Bid a sick man
in sadness make his will:
Ah, word ill urged
to one that is so ill!
Juliet!
How now!
who calls?
Your mother.
Come now, quick, quick!
Madam,
I am here.
What is your will?
This is the matter:
--nurse, give leave awhile,
We must talk in secret:
--nurse, come back again;
I have remember'd
me, thou's hear
our counsel.
Thou know'st my
daughter's of
a pretty age.
Faith, I
can tell her age
unto an hour.
How long is it now
To Lammas-tide?
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,
For then she could
stand alone;
nay, by the 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 holidame,
The pretty wretch left
crying and said 'Ay.'
I warrant, an I should
live a thousand years,
I never should forget
it: 'Wilt thou not,
Jule?' quoth he;
And, pretty fool, it
stinted and said 'Ay.'
And stint thou too,
I pray thee, nurse,
say I.
Peace,
I have done.
God mark thee
to his grace!
An I might live to
see thee married once,
I have my wish.
Marry, that 'marry'
is the very
theme I came to talk of.
Tell me, daughter
Juliet, How
stands your disposition
to be married?
To marry?
It is an honour
that I dream not of.
An honour!
were not I thine
only nurse,
I would say thou
hadst suck'd wisdom
from thy teat.
Well, think of
marriage now;
younger than you,
Here in Verona,
ladies of esteem, Are
made already mothers.
Thus then in brief:
The valiant Paris seeks
you for his love.
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.
Younger than
she are happy
mothers made.
And too soon
marr'd are those
so early made.
The earth hath
swallow'd all my
hopes but she, But
woo her, gentle
Paris, get her
heart, 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.
But my will to her
consent is but a part.
Madam, Juliet.
Come quickly.
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;
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.
At this same
ancient feast of
Capulet's Sups the
fair Rosaline whom
thou so lovest,
I aim'd so near,
when I supposed
you loved.
A right fair
mark, fair coz,
is soonest hit.
Good evening
my lord.
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
the encounter of
assailing eyes,
O, she is rich in
beauty, only poor,
That when she dies
with beauty
dies her store.
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.
Tut, man, one
fire burns out
another's burning,
One pain is lessen'd
by another's
anguish;
Turn giddy,
and be holp by
backward 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.
Be ruled by me, forget
to think of her.
O, teach me how
I should forget
to think.
Examine
other beauties.
Farewell: thou
canst not teach me
to forget.
One fairer
than my love!
the all-seeing sun
Ne'er saw her match
since first the
world begun.
Juliet, the
county stays.
Go, girl, seek
happy nights to
happy days.
Welcome, gentlemen!
ladies that have
their toes Unplagued
with corns will have
a bout with you.
Ah ha, my mistresses!
which of you all
Will now deny to dance?
Romeo is here.
Romeo?
Yes sir.
Uncle, this is a
Montague, our foe,
A villain that
is hither come in
spite, To scorn at our
solemnity this night
My fair ladies.
my noble lords, now
the musicians of
center Rome, will
pay for you the
beautiful galliard.
Young
Romeo is it?
'Tis he, that
villain Romeo.
I would not for
the wealth of all
the town Here in
my house do him
disparagement:
Therefore be
patient, take
no note of him:
I'll not endure him.
He shall be endured:
I have seen the
day That I have worn
a visor and could
tell A whispering
tale in a fair
lady's ear,
For shame!
I'll make you quiet.
What, cheerly,
my hearts!
Put on the mask.
Leave this
place at once.
Go.
O, she doth teach
the torches to
burn bright!
It seems she hangs
upon the cheek of
night Like a
rich jewel in an
Ethiope's ear;
Beauty too rich for
use, for earth
too dear!
What lady is that,
which doth enrich
the hand Of
yonder knight?
I know not, sir.
The measure done,
I'll watch her place
of stand, And,
touching hers,
make blessed
my rude hand.
Shall we rest?
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.
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.
Have not saints
lips, and holy
palmers too?
Ay, pilgrim, lips
that they must use
in prayer.
O, then, dear
saint, let lips do
what hands do; They
pray, grant thou,
lest faith turn
to despair.
Madam, your
mother craves a word
with you.
Who is her mother?
Marry, bachelor,
Her mother is the
lady of the house,
Is she a Capulet?
Where's he gone?
Where?
Go ask his name:
if he be married.
My grave is like to
be my wedding bed.
His name
is Romeo, and a
Montague; The
only son of your
great enemy.
My only love
sprung from my
only hate!
My life is
my foe's debt.
Can I go forward
when my heart
is here?
Where the devil
should this Romeo be?
Came he not
home to-night?
Ah, that same pale
hard-hearted wench,
that Rosaline.
Torments him so, that
he will sure run mad.
Romeo, my cousin Romeo!
The fool is gone.
He is mad.
He is wise; And,
on my lie, hath
stol'n him home to bed.
Call, call, call!
Call, good Mercutio.
Call?
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;
Hey! Come!
I conjure thee by
Rosaline's bright
eyes, By her high
forehead and her
scarlet lips, By her
fine foot, straight
leg and quivering
thigh And the
demesnes that
there adjacent lie,
And if he hear thee,
thou wilt anger him.
This cannot anger
him: my invocation
Is fair and honest,
and in his mistres s'
name I conjure only
but to raise up him.
Come, shall we go?
Go, then; for 'tis
in vain To seek him
here that means
not to be found.
Blind is his love and
best befits the dark.
If love be blind,
love cannot hit
the mark.
He jests at scars
that never felt
a wound
But, soft!
what light through
yonder window breaks?
O Romeo, Romeo!
wherefore art thou Romeo?
Deny thy father and
refuse thy name;
'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!
that which we call
a rose By any other
name would
smell as sweet;
Romeo, doff thy name,
And for that name
which is no part of
thee Take all myself.
I take thee at
thy word: Call me but
love, and I'll be new
baptized; Henceforth
I never will be Romeo.
What man art thou
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.
My ears have not
yet drunk a hundred
words Of that
tongue's utterance,
yet I know the sound:
Art thou not Romeo
and a Montague?
Neither, fair
saint, if either
thee dislike.
How camest thou
hither, tell me,
and wherefore?
The orchard walls
are high and hard
to climb,
With love's
light wings did I
o'er-perch these
walls; For stony
limits cannot hold
love out, Therefore
thy kinsmen are
no let to me.
If they do see
thee, they will
murder thee.
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.
By whose direction
found'st thou out
this place?
By love, who first
did prompt me to
inquire; He lent me
counsel and I lent
him eyes.
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; O
gentle Romeo, If thou
dost love, pronounce
it faithfully: In
truth, fair Montague,
I am too fond, And
therefore thou mayst
think my 'havior
light: But trust me,
gentleman, I'll prove
more true Than
those that have more
cunning to
be strange.
Do not impute this
yielding to light
love, Which the
dark night hath
so discovered.
Lady, by yonder
blessed moon I swear
That tips with
silver all these
fruit-tree tops--
O, swear not
by the moon, the
inconstant moon, That
monthly changes in
her circled orb, Lest
that thy love prove
likewise variable.
What shall
I swear by?
Do not swear at
all; Or, if thou
wilt, swear by thy
gracious self, And
I'll believe thee.
Sweet, good night!
This bud of love,
by summer's ripening
breath, May prove a
beauteous flower when
next we meet.
Good night,
good night!
as sweet repose and
rest Come to thy
heart as that
within my breast!
O, wilt thou leave
me so unsatisfied?
What satisfaction
canst thou
have to-night?
The exchange of
thy love's faithful
vow for mine.
I gave thee mine
before thou didst
request it: And yet I
would it were to
give again.
Wouldst thou
withdraw it?
for what
purpose, love?
But to be frank, and
give it thee again.
I hear some noise
within; dear love,
adieu!
Juliet.
Anon, good nurse!
Sweet Montague, be true.
Stay but a little,
I will come again.
O blessed,
blessed night!
I am afeard.
Being in night, all
this is but a dream,
Too flattering-sweet
to be substantial.
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.
So thrive my soul--
A thousand
times good night!
A thousand times
the worse, to want
thy light
Hist! Romeo, hist!
O, for a falconer's
voice, To lure this
tassel-gentle
back again!
Romeo!
My dear?
Romeo!
My dear?
I have forgot why
I did call thee back.
Let me stand here
till thou remember it.
I shall forget,
to have thee still
stand there,
And I'll still
stay, to have thee
still forget,
'Tis almost
morning; I would have
thee gone: And yet
no further than a
wanton's bird; Who
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.
I would I
were thy bird.
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.
Goodnight.
The grey-eyed
morn smiles on the
frowning night,
Chequering the
eastern clouds with
streaks of light,
Now, ere the sun
advance his burning
eye, The day to cheer
and night's dank dew
to dry, I must
up-fill this osier
cage of ours With
baleful weeds and
precious-juiced
flowers.
The earth that's
nature's mother is
her tomb; What is her
burying grave that is
her womb, And from
her womb children of
divers kind We
sucking on her
natural bosom find,
O, mickle is the
powerful grace that
lies In herbs,
plants, stones, and
their true qualities:
Within the infant
rind of this sweet flower
Within the infant
rind of this...
Within the infant
rind of this sweet
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.
Good morrow, father.
Benedicite!
No. no, no.
Young son, it argues
a distemper'd head So
soon to bid good
morrow to thy bed:
Care keeps his watch
in every old man's
eye, And where care
lodges, sleep will
never lie; But where
unbruised youth with
unstuff'd brain Doth
couch his limbs,
there golden sleep
doth reign:
Therefore thy earliness
doth me assure
Thou art up-roused by
some distemperature;
Or if not so, then
here I hit it right,
Our Romeo hath not
been in bed to-night.
That last is true;
the sweeter rest was mine
God pardon sin!
wast thou with Rosaline?
With Rosaline,
my ghostly father?
no;
I have forgot that name,
and that name's woe.
That's my good son:
but where hast
thou been, then?
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.
Be plain, good son,
and homely in
thy drift;
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
combined, save what
thou must combine
By holy marriage:
but this I pray, That
thou consent to marry
us to-day.
Holy Saint
Francis, what a
change is here!
Is Rosaline, whom
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!
And art thou changed?
pronounce this
sentence then,
Women may fall,
when there's no
strength in men.
Thou chid'st
me oft for
loving Rosaline.
For doting, not
for loving, pupil mine.
And bad'st
me bury love.
Not in a grave,
To lay one in,
another out to have.
I pray thee, chide
not; she whom I love
now Doth grace for
grace and love for
love allow; The
other did not so.
In one respect
I'll thy assistant
be; For this alliance
may so happy prove,
To turn your
households' rancour
to pure love.
The clock struck
nine when I did send
the nurse; In half an
hour she promised
to return.
Perchance she
cannot meet him:
that's not so.
love's heralds should
be thoughts, Which
ten times faster
glide than the
sun's beams,
O God, she comes!
O, she comes!
O honey nurse,
what news?
Hast thou
met with him?
I am a-weary, give
me leave awhile: Fie,
how my bones ache!
what a jaunt have I had!
Nay, come, I pray
thee, speak; good,
good nurse, speak.
Jesu, what haste?
can you not stay awhile?
Do you not see that
I am out of breath?
How art thou out
of breath, when thou
hast breath To say to
me that thou art out
of breath?
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?
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?
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?'
O God's lady dear!
Are you so hot?
marry, come up, I
trow; Henceforward
do your messages yourself.
Oh. Here's such a coil!
come, what says Romeo?
Have you got
leave to go to
church to-morrow?
I have.
For nought so vile
that on the earth
doth live But to the
earth some special
good doth give, Nor
aught so good but
strain'd from that
fair use Revolts from
true birth, stumbling
on abuse: Virtue
itself turns vice,
being misapplied;
Two such opposed foes
encamp them still In
man as well as herbs,
grace and rude will
And where the worser
is predominant
It is she.
And where the worser
is predominant,
Let's go father.
And where
the worser is
predominant, Full
soon the canker death
eats up that plant.
Too swift arrives
as tardy as too slow.
So smile the heavens
upon this holy act,
That after hours with
sorrow chide us not!
Do thou but close
our hands with
holy words, Then
love-devouring death
do what he dare;
(Speaking in Latin)
Amen!
Amen.
Thank you sir.
oh, gold, come
quick, look.
Romeo, the hate I
bear thee can afford
No better term than
this,--thou art
a villain.
Tybalt, the reason
that I have to love
thee Doth much excuse
the appertaining rage
To such a greeting:
villain am I none;
Boy, this shall
not excuse the
injuries That thou
hast done me;
therefore turn and draw.
I do protest, I
never injured 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 my own,
--be satisfied.
O calm, dishonourable,
vile submission!
Alla stoccata
carries it away.
Tybalt, you rat-catcher,
will you walk?
What wouldst
thou have with me?
Good king of cats,
Mercutio!
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, drybeat
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.
I am for you.
Gentle Mercutio,
put thy rapier up.
Come, sir, your passado.
Draw, Benvolio;
beat down their weapons.
Gentlemen, for shame
Hold, Tybalt!
good Mercutio!
Good Mercutio!
Why the devil
came you between us?
I was hurt
under your arm.
Courage, man; the
hurt cannot be much.
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 grave man.
I am peppered, I warrant,
for this world.
A plague on both
your houses!
O Romeo, Romeo,
brave Mercutio's dead!
Away to heaven,
respective lenity,
And fire-eyed 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.
Thou, wretched boy,
that didst consort
him here,
Shalt with him hence.
Romeo, away, be gone!
The citizens are up,
and Tybalt slain.
Stand not amazed: the
prince will doom thee
death, If thou art
taken: hence, away,
be gone!
O, I am fortune's fool.
Where are the
vile beginners of
this fray?
I can discover all
Tybalt, my cousin!
O my brother's child!
For blood of ours,
shed blood of Montague.
Oh bloody fill
of my dear kin.
Romeo slew Tybalt,
Romeo must not live.
Can heaven
be so envious?
Romeo can, Though
heaven cannot:
O Romeo, Romeo!
Who ever would
have thought it?
Romeo!
Can heaven
be so envious?
Romeo can
Oh God!
did Romeo's hand
shed Tybalt's blood?
It did, it did;
alas the day, it did!
O serpent heart,
hid with a flowering face!
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?
There's no trust,
No faith, no honesty
in men; all perjured,
All forsworn, all
naught, all
dissemblers.
Shame come to Romeo!
Will you speak
well of him that
kill'd your cousin?
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?
Romeo that spoke
him fair, bade him
bethink How nice the
quarrel was, and
urged 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, 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,
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.
Romeo slew him, he
slew Mercutio; Who
then the price of his
dear blood doth owe?
Not Romeo, prince,
he was Mercutio's
friend; His fault
concludes but what
the law should end,
The life of Tybalt.
Mercy but murders,
pardoning those
that kill.
I bring thee
tidings of the
prince's doom.
A gentler judgment
vanish'd from his
lips, Not body's
death, but body's
banishment.
Banishment!
Ha, banishment!
be merciful, say
'death;' For exile
hath more terror in
his look, Much more
than death: do not
say 'banishment.'
Hence from Verona
art thou banished:
Be patient, for the
world is broad
and wide.
There is no world
without Verona walls,
But purgatory,
torture, hell itself.
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: he is
banished: 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'?
Hear me but
speak a word.
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,
Juliet's nurse.
Shh, shhh, shh.
Leave us.
I come from
Lady Juliet.
Welcome, then.
O holy friar, O,
tell me, holy friar,
Where is my lady's
lord, where's Romeo?
There on the
ground, with his own
tears made drunk.
O, he is even in
my mistress' case,
Just in her case
Spakest
thou of Juliet?
how is it with her?
Doth she not think me
an old murderer, Now
I have stain'd the
childhood of our joy
With blood removed
but little from
her own?
Where is she?
and how doth she?
and what says My
conceal'd lady to our
cancell'd love?
O, she says
nothing, sir, but
weeps and weeps; And
now falls on her bed;
and then starts up,
And Tybalt calls; and
then on Romeo cries,
And then down
falls again.
Stand up, stand up;
stand, and you be a
man: For Juliet's
sake, for her sake,
rise and stand; Why
should you fall into
so deep an O?
Art thou a man?
thy form cries out
thou art: Thy tears
are womanish;
Go, get thee to thy
love, as was decreed,
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.
Make haste.
Balthasar.
Thank you my lord.
Romeo!
She's there.
Back, foolish
tears, back to your
native spring; Your
tributary drops
belong to woe, Which
you, 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?
Wilt thou be gone?
it is not yet near
day: It was the
nightingale, and
not the lark, That
pierced the fearful
hollow of thine ear;
Nightly she sings on
yon pomegranate-tree:
Believe me, love, it
was the nightingale.
It was the lark,
the herald of the morn,
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.
Yon light is not
day-light, I know it,
I: Therefore stay
yet; thou need'st not
to be gone.
Let me stay here, let
me be ta'en and die;
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.
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.
O, now be gone;
more light and
light it grows.
More light and
light, more dark
and dark it grows
Madam!
Nurse?
The day is broke;
be wary, look about.
Then, window,
let day in,
and let life out.
Farewell, farewell!
one kiss, and
I'll descend.
I must hear from
thee every day in the
hour, For in a minute
there are many days:
I will omit
no opportunity
O think'st thou
we shall ever
meet again?
I doubt it not;
and all these woes
shall serve For sweet
discourses in our
time to come.
O God, I have an
ill-divining soul!
thou look'st pale.'
And trust me,
love, in my eye so
do you: Dry sorrow
drinks our blood.
Adieu, adieu!
It is late, my lord.
Things have
fall'n out, sir, so
unluckily, That we
have had no time to
move our daughter:
Look you, she loved
her kinsman Tybalt
dearly, And so did
I:--Well, we were
born to die.
These times of woe
afford no time to woo
But, soft!
what day is this?
Monday, my lord,
Monday!
Well, Wednesday is
too soon, O' Thursday
let it be: o'
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?
My lord, I would
that Thursday
were to-morrow.
Senior Paris.
I think she will be
ruled In all respects
by me; nay, more,
I doubt it not.
Why, how now, Juliet!
Madam, I am not well.
Evermore weeping for
your cousin's death?
some grief shows much
of love; But much of
grief shows still
some want of wit.
Yet let me
weep for such a
feeling loss.
Well, girl, thou
weep'st not so much
for his death, As
that the villain
lives which
slaughter'd him.
What villain madam?
That same villain, Romeo.
God Pardon him!
I do, with all my
heart; And yet no
man like he doth
grieve my heart.
O, how my heart
abhors To hear him
named, and cannot
come to him.
To wreak the love
I bore my cousin,
Tybolt, Upon his body
that slaughter'd him!
We will have
vengeance for it,
fear thou not:
Then weep no more.
But now I'll tell
thee joyful tidings,
girl.
And joy comes well
in such a needy time:
What are they,
I beseech your ladyship?
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
expect'st not nor
I look'd not for.
Madam, in happy time,
what day is that?
Marry, my child,
early next Thursday
morn, The gallant,
rich and noble
gentleman, The County
Paris, at Saint
Peter's Church, Shall
happily make thee
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.
Tell him so yourself,
And see how he will
take it at your hands.
Do as you will.
For it have done well.
How now, wife!
Have you not told
her our decree?
Ay, sir; but she
will none, she gives
you thanks.
I would the fool were
married to her grave.
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?
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.
How now, how
now, chop-logic!
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.
You tallow-face
Fie, fie!
what, are you mad?
Good father, I
beseech you on my
knees, Hear me with
patience but to
speak a word.
Hang thee,
young baggage!
disobedient wretch!
I tell thee what: get
thee to church o'
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!
God in heaven
bless her!
You are to blame, my
lord, to rate her so.
And why, my
lady wisdom?
hold your tongue,
Good prudence;
smatter with your
gossips, go.
I speak no treason.
O, God ye god-den.
May not one speak?
You are too hot
God's bread!
it makes me mad: Day,
night, late, early,
at home, abroud.
Alone, in company,
waking and sleeping.
still my care hath
been To have her
match'd: and having
now provided A
gentleman of princely
parentage, Of fair
demesnes, rich,
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, as you will not
wed, I'll pardon you:
Look to't, think
on't, I do not use
to jest.
Thursday is near;
lay hand on heart,
advise:
O, sweet my
mother, cast me
not away!
Delay this marriage
for a month, a week;
Talk not to me,
for I'll not speak
a word:
O God!
--O nurse, how shall
this be prevented?
My husband is on
earth, my faith
in heaven;
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, 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.
Speakest thou
from thy heart?
And from my soul too;
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:
Well, thou
hast comforted me
marvellous much.
Good father pardon,
I beseech you!
Henceforward I am
ever ruled by you.
But now let me go,
having displeased
you, to Laurence'
cell, To make
confession and
to be absolved.
This is
wisely done.
Where is
Friar Laurence?
There.
(Speaking in Latin)
O shut the door!
and when thou hast
done so, Come weep
with me; past hope,
past cure, past help!
(Speaking in Latin)
God join'd my
heart and Romeo's,
thou our hands; And
ere this hand, by
thee to Romeo seal'd,
Shall be the label to
another deed, Or
my true heart with
treacherous revolt
Turn to another, this
shall slay them both:
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,
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,
Hold, then;
To-morrow night look
that thou lie alone;
Let not thy nurse lie
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;
Each part, deprived
of supple government,
Shall, stiff and
stark and cold,
appear like death:
And in this borrow'd
likeness of shrunk
death Thou shalt
continue two and
forty hours,
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
uncover'd on the bier
Thou shalt be borne
to that same ancient
vault Where all the
kindred of the
Capulets lie.
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.
In the mean time,
against thou shalt
awake, Shall Romeo
by my letter
know our drift,
Then I will watch
thou waking, and
secretely hither to
bring the to this
cell until the
chapter day.
Which we in Mantua
each year do hold
at Easter time.
Wtih all the friars
confused I'll have
its wearing, I'll
bear the hense,
to Romeo.
But tell me, wilt
thou not fear thy
newly entombed
cousin Tybalt?
Give me, give me!
O, tell
not me of fear!
Love give me
strength!
and strength shall
help afford.
Farewell, dear
father!
See where she
comes from shrift
with merry look.
Come.
How now, my
headstrong!
where have you
been gadding?
Where I have
learn'd me to
repent the sin
of disobedient
opposition To you and
your behests, and am
enjoin'd By holy
Laurence to fall
prostrate here, And
beg your pardon:
Why, I am glad
on't; this is well:
stand up: Stand up.
Now, afore God!
this reverend holy
friar, Our whole city
is much bound to him.
To Mantua?
(Speaking in Latin)
Hello there,
this way to Mantua?
Yes father.
There.
Come.
The wedding dress.
Is it not beautiful?
Hie, indeed.
Poor soul, thy
face is much abused
with tears.
The tears have
got small victory by
that; For it was
bad enough before
their spite.
Thou wrong'st it,
more than tears, with
that report.
That is no
slander, sir,
which is a truth;
Hie, father.
This will help
you father.
Holy father,
come quickly.
The man's dying.
The man's dyimg and
wiches to confess.
Hold my
brother's donkey.
OOH, ml letter.
Come, come
What is it
my good man?
Five days he
lies in bed, with a
strange sickness.
His body is
racked with pain.
I fear he dies!
He wants a ftaher
confessor for
his sins.
But will not have
a doctor for ail.
He fears death,
bnut he fears the
doctor more.
Charge will the
soul he may unburden
to one who also
knows of medicine
and be it so.
For body ailments
often mirrows a
sickness of the soul.
But this is plaque!
Water, water.
Water.
Hold, hold
the door.
My letter, my letter,
open up here.
My letter for Romeo!
Nay, nay!
I pray thee,
leave me to my self
to-night, For I have
need of many orisons
To move the heavens
to smile upon my
state, Which, well
thou know'st, is
cross, and
full of sin.
What, are
you busy, ho?
need you my help?
No, madam; we
have cull'd such
necessaries As are
behoveful 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.
Good night: Get
thee to bed, and
rest; for thou
hast need.
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:
My dismal scene I
needs must act alone
What if this mixture
do not work at all?
Shall I be
married then
to-morrow morning?
What if it be a
poison, which the
friar Subtly hath
minister'd to have me
dead, Lest in this
marriage he should be
dishonour'd, Because
he married me before
to Romeo?
How if, when I am
laid into the tomb,
I wake before the
time the holy
friar come to
redeem me?
Shall I not, then, be
stifled in the vault,
To whose foul mouth
no healthsome air
breathes in,
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 these many
hundred years, the
bones Of all my
buried ancestors are
packed: Where bloody
Tybalt, yet but
green in earth, Lies
festering in his
shroud; O, look!
methinks I see my
cousin's ghost
Seeking out Romeo,
stay, Tybalt, stay!
Romeo, I come!
this do I
drink to thee.
Hold, take these
keys, and fetch more
spices, nurse.
They call for
dates and quinces
in the pastry.
What, ho!
What, nurse, I say!
Go waken Juliet, go
and trim her up;
Mistress!
why, mistress!
Juliet!
fast, I warrant her,
she: Why, lamb!
why, lady! fie,
you slug-a-bed!
What, not a word
She's dead, She's
dead, She's dead!
If I may trust the
flattering truth of
sleep, My dreams
presage some joyful
news at hand: My
bosom's lord sits
lightly on 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 breathed such
life with kisses in
my lips, That I
revived, and was
an emperor.
Ah me!
how sweet is love
itself possess'd,
When but love's
shadows are so
rich in joy!
Welcome Balthasar.
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.
Then she is well,
and nothing can
be ill:
O, pardon me for
bringing these ill
news, Since you did
leave it for my
office, sir.
Ill news I sense?
Her body sleeps in
Capel's monument, And
her immortal part
with angels lips.
I saw this and
presently took post
to tell it you:
I do beseech you,
sir, have patience:
Your looks are pale
and wild,
and do import Some
misadventure.
Tush, thou
art deceived:
Hast thou no letters
to me from the friar?
No, my good lord.
No matter:
get thee gone,
then I defy
you, stars!
My lord.
No, no my
good lord!
Well, Juliet,
I will lie with
thee to-night.
Friar Laurence?
But he is morning
at a funeral.
where?
At the main church.
Death lies on her
like an untimely
frost Upon the
sweetest flower of
all the field.
O lamentable day!
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!
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:
Sir, go you in; and,
madam, go with him;
The heavens do lour
upon you for some
ill; Move them no
more by crossing
their high will.
Nurse.
Holy
Franciscan friar!
brother, ho!
Welcome from Mantua:
what says Romeo?
I could
not find him.
The searchers of
the town, suspecting
that I was 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.
Who bare my
letter, then,
to Romeo?
I could not send
it,--here it is
again,-- Nor get a
messenger to bring it
thee, So fearful were
they of infection.
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.
Stop thy
unhallow'd toil,
vile Montague!
Can vengeance be
pursued further
than death?
Condemned villain, I
do apprehend thee:
Obey, and go with me;
for thou must die.
I must indeed;
and therefore
came I hither.
Good gentle youth,
tempt not a
desperate man;
I beseech thee,
youth, Put not
another sin upon my
head, By urging me
to fury: O, be gone!
Stay not, be gone;
live, and hereafter
say, A madman's mercy
bade thee run away.
I do defy thy
conjurations,
And apprehend thee
for a felon here.
If thou be
merciful,
Open the tomb,
lay me with Juliet.
In faith, I will.
What said my man,
when my betossed soul
Did not attend him
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;
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 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
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
sea-sick weary bark!
Oh.
Romeo,
Romeo!
ROMEO!
Romeo
O, pale
O comfortable
friar!
where is my lord?
I do remember well
where I should be,
And there I am.
Where is my Romeo?
Lady, come from
that nest Of death,
contagion, and
unnatural sleep:
Come, come.
A greater power than
we can contradict
hath thwarted
our intents.
Come, come away.
Come, go,
good Juliet,
I dare no
longer stay.
Thy lips are warm.
This is thy sheath;
there rust,
and let me die.
O me!
this sight of death
is as a bell, that
warns my old age
to a sepulchre.
O thou untaught!
what manners
is in this?
To press before thy
father to a grave?
Capulet!
Montague!
See, what a scourge
is laid upon your
hate, That heaven
finds means to kill
your joys with love.
O brother Montague,
give me thy hand.
A 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.