Reading Help THE TRAGEDY OF ROMEO AND JULIET
I have forgot why I did call thee back. `
` Rom. Let me stand here till thou remember it. `
` Jul. I shall forget, to have thee still stand there, `
` Rememb'ring how I love thy company. `
` Rom. And I'll still stay, to have thee still forget, `
` Forgetting any other home but this. `
` Jul. 'Tis almost morning. I would have thee gone- `
` And yet no farther than a wanton's bird, `
` That lets it hop a little from her hand, `
` Like a poor prisoner in his twisted gyves, `
` And with a silk thread plucks it back again, `
` So loving-jealous of his liberty. `
` Rom. I would I were thy bird. `
` Jul. Sweet, so would I. `
` Yet I should kill thee with much cherishing. `
` Good night, good night! Parting is such sweet sorrow, `
` That I shall say good night till it be morrow. `
` [Exit.] `
` Rom. Sleep dwell upon thine eyes, peace in thy breast! `
` Would I were sleep and peace, so sweet to rest! `
` Hence will I to my ghostly father's cell, `
` His help to crave and my dear hap to tell. `
` Exit `
` `
` `
` `
` `
` Scene III. `
` Friar Laurence's cell. `
` `
` Enter Friar, [Laurence] alone, with a basket. `
` `
` Friar. The grey-ey'd morn smiles on the frowning night, `
` Check'ring the Eastern clouds with streaks of light; `
` And flecked darkness like a drunkard reels `
` From forth day's path and Titan's fiery wheels. `
` Non, ere the sun advance his burning eye `
` The day to cheer and night's dank dew to dry, `
` I must up-fill this osier cage of ours `
` With baleful weeds and precious-juiced flowers. `
` The earth that's nature's mother is her tomb. `
` What is her burying gave, that is her womb; `
` And from her womb children of divers kind `
` We sucking on her natural bosom find; `
` Many for many virtues excellent, `
` None but for some, and yet all different. `
` O, mickle is the powerful grace that lies `
` In plants, herbs, stones, and their true qualities; `
` For naught so vile that on the earth doth live `
` But to the earth some special good doth give; `
` Nor aught so good but, strain'd from that fair use, `
` Revolts from true birth, stumbling on abuse. `
` Virtue itself turns vice, being misapplied, `
` And vice sometime's by action dignified. `
` Within the infant rind of this small flower `
` Poison hath residence, and medicine power; `
` For this, being smelt, with that part cheers each part; `
` Being tasted, slays all senses with the heart. `
` Two such opposed kings encamp them still `
` In man as well as herbs- grace and rude will; `
` And where the worser is predominant, `
` Full soon the canker death eats up that plant. `
` `
` Enter Romeo. `
` `
` Rom. Good morrow, father. `
` Friar. Benedicite! `
` What early tongue so sweet saluteth me? `
` Young son, it argues a distempered head `
` So soon to bid good morrow to thy bed. `
` Care keeps his watch in every old man's eye, `
` And where care lodges sleep will never lie; `
` But where unbruised youth with unstuff'd brain `
` Doth couch his limbs, there golden sleep doth reign. `
` Therefore thy earliness doth me assure `
` Thou art uprous'd with some distemp'rature; `
` Or if not so, then here I hit it right- `
` Our Romeo hath not been in bed 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 thou ask it me again. `
` I have been feasting with mine enemy, `
` Where on a sudden one hath wounded me `
` That's by me wounded. Both our remedies `
` Within thy help and holy physic lies. `
` I bear no hatred, blessed man, for, lo, `
` My intercession likewise steads my foe. `
` Friar. Be plain, good son, and homely in thy drift `
` Riddling confession finds but riddling shrift. `
` Rom. Then plainly know my heart's dear love is set `
` On the fair daughter of rich Capulet; `
` As mine on hers, so hers is set on mine, `
` And all combin'd, save what thou must combine `
` By holy marriage. When, and where, and how `
` We met, we woo'd, and made exchange of vow, `
` I'll tell thee as we pass; but this I pray, `
` That thou consent to marry us to-day. `
` Friar. Holy Saint Francis! What a change is here! `
` Is Rosaline, that thou didst love so dear, `
` So soon forsaken? Young men's love then lies `
` Not truly in their hearts, but in their eyes. `
` Jesu Maria! What a deal of brine `
` Hath wash'd thy sallow cheeks for Rosaline! `
` How much salt water thrown away in waste, `
` To season love, that of it doth not taste! `
` The sun not yet thy sighs from heaven clears, `
` Thy old groans ring yet in mine ancient ears. `
` Lo, here upon thy cheek the stain doth sit `
` Of an old tear that is not wash'd off yet. `
` If e'er thou wast thyself, and these woes thine, `
` Thou and these woes were all for Rosaline. `
` And art thou chang'd? Pronounce this sentence then: `
` Women may fall when there's no strength in men. `
` Rom. Thou chid'st me oft for loving Rosaline. `
` Friar. For doting, not for loving, pupil mine. `
` Rom. And bad'st me bury love. `
` Friar. Not in a grave `
` To lay one in, another out to have. `
` Rom. I pray thee chide not. She whom I love now `
` Doth grace for grace and love for love allow. `
` The other did not so. `
` Friar. O, she knew well `
` Thy love did read by rote, that could not spell. `
` But come, young waverer, come go with me. `
` In one respect I'll thy assistant be; `
` For this alliance may so happy prove `
` To turn your households' rancour to pure love. `
` Rom. O, let us hence! I stand on sudden haste. `
` Friar. Wisely, and slow. They stumble that run fast. `
` Exeunt. `
` `
` `
` `
` `
` Scene IV. `
` A street. `
` `
` Enter Benvolio and Mercutio. `
` `
` Mer. Where the devil should this Romeo be? `
` Came he not home to-night? `
` Ben. Not to his father's. I spoke with his man. `
` Mer. Why, that same pale hard-hearted wench, that Rosaline, `
` Torments him so that he will sure run mad. `
` Ben. Tybalt, the kinsman to old Capulet, `
` Hath sent a letter to his father's house. `
` Mer. A challenge, on my life. `
` Ben. Romeo will answer it. `
` Mer. Any man that can write may answer a letter. `
` Ben. Nay, he will answer the letter's master, how he dares, `
` being `
` dared. `
` Mer. Alas, poor Romeo, he is already dead! stabb'd with a white `
` wench's black eye; shot through the ear with a love song; the `
` very pin of his heart cleft with the blind bow-boy's `
` butt-shaft; `
` and is he a man to encounter Tybalt? `
` Ben. Why, what is Tybalt? `
` Mer. More than Prince of Cats, I can tell you. O, he's the `
` courageous captain of compliments. He fights as you sing `
` pricksong-keeps time, distance, and proportion; rests me his `
` minim rest, one, two, and the third in your bosom! the very `
` butcher of a silk button, a duellist, a duellist! a gentleman `
` of `
` the very first house, of the first and second cause. Ah, the `
` immortal passado! the punto reverse! the hay. `
` Ben. The what? `
` Mer. The pox of such antic, lisping, affecting fantasticoes- `
` these `
` new tuners of accent! 'By Jesu, a very good blade! a very `
` tall `
` man! a very good whore!' Why, is not this a lamentable thing, `
` grandsir, that we should be thus afflicted with these strange `
` flies, these fashion-mongers, these pardona-mi's, who stand `
` so `
` much on the new form that they cannot sit at ease on the old `
` bench? O, their bones, their bones! `
` `
` Enter Romeo. `
` `
` Ben. Here comes Romeo! here comes Romeo! `
` Mer. Without his roe, like a dried herring. O flesh, flesh, how `
` art `
` thou fishified! Now is he for the numbers that Petrarch `
` flowed `
` in. Laura, to his lady, was but a kitchen wench (marry, she `
` had a `
` better love to berhyme her), Dido a dowdy, Cleopatra a gypsy, `
` Helen and Hero hildings and harlots, This be a gray eye or `
` so, `
` but not to the purpose. Signior Romeo, bon jour! There's a `
` French `
` salutation to your French slop. You gave us the counterfeit `
` fairly last night. `
` Rom. Good morrow to you both. What counterfeit did I give you? `
` Mer. The slip, sir, the slip. Can you not conceive? `
` Rom. Pardon, good Mercutio. My business was great, and in such `
` a `
`
` Rom. Let me stand here till thou remember it. `
` Jul. I shall forget, to have thee still stand there, `
` Rememb'ring how I love thy company. `
` Rom. And I'll still stay, to have thee still forget, `
` Forgetting any other home but this. `
` Jul. 'Tis almost morning. I would have thee gone- `
` And yet no farther than a wanton's bird, `
` That lets it hop a little from her hand, `
` Like a poor prisoner in his twisted gyves, `
` And with a silk thread plucks it back again, `
` So loving-jealous of his liberty. `
` Rom. I would I were thy bird. `
` Jul. Sweet, so would I. `
` Yet I should kill thee with much cherishing. `
` Good night, good night! Parting is such sweet sorrow, `
` That I shall say good night till it be morrow. `
` [Exit.] `
` Rom. Sleep dwell upon thine eyes, peace in thy breast! `
` Would I were sleep and peace, so sweet to rest! `
` Hence will I to my ghostly father's cell, `
` His help to crave and my dear hap to tell. `
` Exit `
` `
` `
` `
` `
` Scene III. `
` Friar Laurence's cell. `
` `
` Enter Friar, [Laurence] alone, with a basket. `
` `
` Friar. The grey-ey'd morn smiles on the frowning night, `
` Check'ring the Eastern clouds with streaks of light; `
` And flecked darkness like a drunkard reels `
` From forth day's path and Titan's fiery wheels. `
` Non, ere the sun advance his burning eye `
` The day to cheer and night's dank dew to dry, `
` I must up-fill this osier cage of ours `
` With baleful weeds and precious-juiced flowers. `
` The earth that's nature's mother is her tomb. `
` What is her burying gave, that is her womb; `
` And from her womb children of divers kind `
` We sucking on her natural bosom find; `
` Many for many virtues excellent, `
` None but for some, and yet all different. `
` O, mickle is the powerful grace that lies `
` In plants, herbs, stones, and their true qualities; `
` For naught so vile that on the earth doth live `
` But to the earth some special good doth give; `
` Nor aught so good but, strain'd from that fair use, `
` Revolts from true birth, stumbling on abuse. `
` Virtue itself turns vice, being misapplied, `
` And vice sometime's by action dignified. `
` Within the infant rind of this small flower `
` Poison hath residence, and medicine power; `
` For this, being smelt, with that part cheers each part; `
` Being tasted, slays all senses with the heart. `
` Two such opposed kings encamp them still `
` In man as well as herbs- grace and rude will; `
` And where the worser is predominant, `
` Full soon the canker death eats up that plant. `
` `
` Enter Romeo. `
` `
` Rom. Good morrow, father. `
` Friar. Benedicite! `
` What early tongue so sweet saluteth me? `
` Young son, it argues a distempered head `
` So soon to bid good morrow to thy bed. `
` Care keeps his watch in every old man's eye, `
` And where care lodges sleep will never lie; `
` But where unbruised youth with unstuff'd brain `
` Doth couch his limbs, there golden sleep doth reign. `
` Therefore thy earliness doth me assure `
` Thou art uprous'd with some distemp'rature; `
` Or if not so, then here I hit it right- `
` Our Romeo hath not been in bed 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 thou ask it me again. `
` I have been feasting with mine enemy, `
` Where on a sudden one hath wounded me `
` That's by me wounded. Both our remedies `
` Within thy help and holy physic lies. `
` I bear no hatred, blessed man, for, lo, `
` My intercession likewise steads my foe. `
` Friar. Be plain, good son, and homely in thy drift `
` Riddling confession finds but riddling shrift. `
` Rom. Then plainly know my heart's dear love is set `
` On the fair daughter of rich Capulet; `
` As mine on hers, so hers is set on mine, `
` And all combin'd, save what thou must combine `
` By holy marriage. When, and where, and how `
` We met, we woo'd, and made exchange of vow, `
` I'll tell thee as we pass; but this I pray, `
` That thou consent to marry us to-day. `
` Friar. Holy Saint Francis! What a change is here! `
` Is Rosaline, that thou didst love so dear, `
` So soon forsaken? Young men's love then lies `
` Not truly in their hearts, but in their eyes. `
` Jesu Maria! What a deal of brine `
` Hath wash'd thy sallow cheeks for Rosaline! `
` How much salt water thrown away in waste, `
` To season love, that of it doth not taste! `
` The sun not yet thy sighs from heaven clears, `
` Thy old groans ring yet in mine ancient ears. `
` Lo, here upon thy cheek the stain doth sit `
` Of an old tear that is not wash'd off yet. `
` If e'er thou wast thyself, and these woes thine, `
` Thou and these woes were all for Rosaline. `
` And art thou chang'd? Pronounce this sentence then: `
` Women may fall when there's no strength in men. `
` Rom. Thou chid'st me oft for loving Rosaline. `
` Friar. For doting, not for loving, pupil mine. `
` Rom. And bad'st me bury love. `
` Friar. Not in a grave `
` To lay one in, another out to have. `
` Rom. I pray thee chide not. She whom I love now `
` Doth grace for grace and love for love allow. `
` The other did not so. `
` Friar. O, she knew well `
` Thy love did read by rote, that could not spell. `
` But come, young waverer, come go with me. `
` In one respect I'll thy assistant be; `
` For this alliance may so happy prove `
` To turn your households' rancour to pure love. `
` Rom. O, let us hence! I stand on sudden haste. `
` Friar. Wisely, and slow. They stumble that run fast. `
` Exeunt. `
` `
` `
` `
` `
` Scene IV. `
` A street. `
` `
` Enter Benvolio and Mercutio. `
` `
` Mer. Where the devil should this Romeo be? `
` Came he not home to-night? `
` Ben. Not to his father's. I spoke with his man. `
` Mer. Why, that same pale hard-hearted wench, that Rosaline, `
` Torments him so that he will sure run mad. `
` Ben. Tybalt, the kinsman to old Capulet, `
` Hath sent a letter to his father's house. `
` Mer. A challenge, on my life. `
` Ben. Romeo will answer it. `
` Mer. Any man that can write may answer a letter. `
` Ben. Nay, he will answer the letter's master, how he dares, `
` being `
` dared. `
` Mer. Alas, poor Romeo, he is already dead! stabb'd with a white `
` wench's black eye; shot through the ear with a love song; the `
` very pin of his heart cleft with the blind bow-boy's `
` butt-shaft; `
` and is he a man to encounter Tybalt? `
` Ben. Why, what is Tybalt? `
` Mer. More than Prince of Cats, I can tell you. O, he's the `
` courageous captain of compliments. He fights as you sing `
` pricksong-keeps time, distance, and proportion; rests me his `
` minim rest, one, two, and the third in your bosom! the very `
` butcher of a silk button, a duellist, a duellist! a gentleman `
` of `
` the very first house, of the first and second cause. Ah, the `
` immortal passado! the punto reverse! the hay. `
` Ben. The what? `
` Mer. The pox of such antic, lisping, affecting fantasticoes- `
` these `
` new tuners of accent! 'By Jesu, a very good blade! a very `
` tall `
` man! a very good whore!' Why, is not this a lamentable thing, `
` grandsir, that we should be thus afflicted with these strange `
` flies, these fashion-mongers, these pardona-mi's, who stand `
` so `
` much on the new form that they cannot sit at ease on the old `
` bench? O, their bones, their bones! `
` `
` Enter Romeo. `
` `
` Ben. Here comes Romeo! here comes Romeo! `
` Mer. Without his roe, like a dried herring. O flesh, flesh, how `
` art `
` thou fishified! Now is he for the numbers that Petrarch `
` flowed `
` in. Laura, to his lady, was but a kitchen wench (marry, she `
` had a `
` better love to berhyme her), Dido a dowdy, Cleopatra a gypsy, `
` Helen and Hero hildings and harlots, This be a gray eye or `
` so, `
` but not to the purpose. Signior Romeo, bon jour! There's a `
` French `
` salutation to your French slop. You gave us the counterfeit `
` fairly last night. `
` Rom. Good morrow to you both. What counterfeit did I give you? `
` Mer. The slip, sir, the slip. Can you not conceive? `
` Rom. Pardon, good Mercutio. My business was great, and in such `
` a `
`