Romeo & Juliet

Two households both alike in dignity In fair Verona where we lay our scene

From ancient grudge break to new mutiny, Where civil blood makes civil hands unclean.

From forth the fatal loins of these two foes A pair of star-cross'd lovers take their life;

Whose misadventur'd piteous overthrows Doth with their death bury their parents' strife.

The fearful passage of their death-mark'd love, And the continuance of their parents' rage,

Which but their children's end naught could remove,

Is now the two hours' traffic of our stage;

The which, if you with patient ears attend,

What here shall miss, our toil shall strive to mend.

Gregory, on my word, we'll not carry coals.

No, for then we should be colliers.

I strike quickly, being moved.

The quarrel is between our masters and us their men.

'Tis all one. I will show myself a tyrant:

When I have fought with the men, I will be civil with the maids.

- I will cut off their heads. - The heads of the maids?

Ay, the heads of the maids, or their maidenheads; take it in what sense thou wilt.

They must take it in sense that feel it.

Me they shall feel whilst I am able to stand: And 'tis known I am a pretty piece of flesh.

Draw thy tool; Here come two of the house of Montagues.

- Quarrel! I will back thee. - How! Turn thy back and run?

- Fear me not. - No, marry; I fear thee!

Let us take the law of our sides; let them begin.

I will frown as I pass by; let them take it as they list.

I will bite my thumb at them; which is 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?

- Is the law of our side if I say ay? - No.

No, sir, I do not bite my thumb at you, sir;

but I do bite my thumb, sir.

- Do you quarrel, sir? - Quarrel, sir! No, sir.

But if you do, sir, I am for you: I serve as good a man as you.

No better?

Say better; here comes one of our master's kinsmen.

Yes, better, sir.

You lie.

Gregory!

Halt!

Remember thy swashing blow.

Part, fools!

Turn thee, Benvolio, look upon thy death.

I do but keep the peace.

Put up thy sword, Or manage it to part these men with me.

What, drawn, and talk of peace!

I hate the word As I hate hell, all Montagues, and thee.

Have at thee, coward!

Argh!

Argh!

Argh!

Down with the Capulets!

Down with the Montagues!

What noise is this? Give me my long sword, ho!

A crutch, a crutch! Why call you for a sword?

My sword, I say! Old Montague is come, And flourishes his blade in spite of me.

Thou villain Capulet!

- Hold me not, let me go. - Thou shalt not stir one foot to seek a foe.

Strike! Beat them down!

Clubs, bills, and partisans!

Rebellious subjects, enemies of peace, Profaners of this neighbour-stained steel!

Will they not hear?

What, ho! You men, you beasts,

That quench the fire of your pernicious rage With purple fountains issuing from your veins,

On pain of torture, from those bloody hands Throw your mistemper'd weapons to the ground

And hear the sentence of your moved prince.

Three civil brawls, bred of an airy word, By thee, old Capulet, and Montague,

Have thrice disturb'd the quiet of our streets;

And made Verona's ancient citizens Cast by their grave beseeming ornaments,

To wield old partisans, in hands as old, Canker'd with peace, to part your canker'd hate.

If ever you disturb our streets again, Your lives shall pay the forfeit of the peace.

For this time, all the rest depart away:

Capulet, you shall go along with me.

Montague, come you this afternoon, To hear our farther pleasure in this case.

Once more, on pain of death, all men depart.

O, where is Romeo? Saw you him today? Right glad I am he was not at this fray.

Madam, an hour before the worshipp'd sun Peer'd forth the golden window of the east,

A troubled mind drew me to walk abroad; Where, underneath the grove of sycamore

That westward rooteth from the city's side, So early walking did I see your son:

Towards him I made; but he was ware of me, And stole into the covert of the wood.

Many a morning hath he there been seen, With tears augmenting the fresh morning's dew,

Adding to clouds more clouds with his deep sighs:

But all so soon as the all-cheering sun

Should in the farthest east begin to draw The shady curtains from Aurora's bed,

Away from light steals home my heavy son,

And private in his chamber pens himself; Shuts up his windows,

locks fair daylight out And makes himself an artificial night:

Black and portentous must this humour prove, Unless good counsel may the cause remove.

- My noble uncle, do you know the cause? - I neither know it nor can learn of him.

- Have you importun'd him by any means? - Both by myself and many other friends.

Could we but learn from whence his sorrows grow,

We would as willingly give cure as know.

Trust me, my lord: So please you step aside;

I'll know his grievance or be much denied.

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!

Where shall we dine?

O, me! What fray was here?

Yet tell me not, for I have heard it all.

Here's much to do with hate, but more with love.

Why, then, O, brawling love! O, loving hate! O, anything, of nothing first create!

O, heavy lightness! Serious vanity!

Misshapen chaos of well-seeming forms!

Feather of lead, bright smoke, cold fire, sick health!

This love feel I, that feel no love in this.

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.

Love is a smoke rais'd with the fume of sighs; Being purg'd, a fire sparkling in lovers' eyes;

Being vex'd, a sea nourish'd with loving tears: What is it else?

A madness most discreet, A choking gall, and a preserving sweet.

Farewell, my coz.

Soft!

I will go along: And 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?

- What, shall I groan and tell thee? - Groan? Why, no;

But sadly tell me who.

In sadness, cousin, I do love a woman.

I aim'd so near when I suppos'd you lov'd.

A right good marksman! And she's fair I love.

A right fair mark, fair coz, is soonest hit.

Well, in that hit you miss: She'll not be hit With Cupid's arrow.

Then she hath sworn that she will still live chaste?

She hath, and in that sparing makes huge waste;

She hath forsworn to love;

and in that vow Do I live dead that live to tell it now.

Be rul'd by me,

forget to think of her.

O, teach me how I should forget to think.

By giving liberty unto thine eyes; Examine other beauties.

He that is strucken blind cannot forget The precious treasure of his eyesight lost:

Show me a mistress that is passing fair,

What doth her beauty serve but as a note Where I may read who pass'd that passing fair?

- Farewell: Thou canst not teach me to forget. - O, I'll pay that doctrine, or else die in debt.

But Montague is bound as well as I, In penalty alike;

and 'tis not hard, I think, For men so old as we to keep the peace.

Of honourable reckoning are you both, And pity 'tis you've liv'd at odds so long.

But now, my lord, what say you to my suit?

But saying o'er what I have said before: My child is yet a stranger to 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 swallowed all my hopes but she; She is the hopeful lady of my earth.

But woo her, gentle Paris, get her heart; My will to her consent is but a part.

And she agreed, within her scope of choice Lies my consent and fair according voice.

This night I hold an old accustom'd feast,

Whereto I have invited many a guest,

Such as I love; and you among the store,

One more, most welcome, makes my number more.

At my poor house look to behold this night

Earth-treading stars that make dark heaven light.

Such comfort as do lusty young men feel When well apparell'd April on the heel

Of limping Winter treads, even such delight Among fresh female buds

shall you this night inherit at my house.

Hear all, all see, And like her most whose merit most shall be;

Come, go with me.

Go, sirrah, trudge about Through fair Verona; find those persons out

Whose names are written there, and to them say,

My house and welcome on their pleasure stay.

Find them out whose names are written here?

'Tis written that the shoemaker should meddle with his... yard,

that the tailor with his... last,

that the fisher with his pencil and the painter with his nets...

But I am sent to find those persons whose names are here writ,

and can never find what names the writing person hath here writ.

I must to the learned.

In good time!

Tut, man, one fire burns out another's burning; One pain is lessoned 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.

Your plantain leaf is excellent for that.

- God-den, good fellow. - God gi' go-den.

- I pray, sir, can you read? - Ay, mine own fortune in my misery.

Perhaps you have learned that without book. But I pray, can you read anything that you see?

Ay, if I know the letters and the language.

Ye say honestly. Rest you merry!

Stay, fellow; I can read.

"Signior Martino and his wife and daughters;

County Anselme and his beauteous sisters;

The lady widow of Vitruvio; Signior Placentio and his lovely nieces;

Mercutio and his brother Valentine;

Mine uncle Capulet, his wife, and daughters;

My fair niece Rosaline and Livia;

Signior Valentino and his cousin Tybalt; Lucio and the lively Helena."

- A fair assembly. Whither should they come? - Up.

- Whither? - To supper, at our house.

indeed I should have ask'd you that before.

Now I'll tell you without asking.

My master is the great rich Capulet;

and if you not be of the house of Montague, come and crush a cup of wine.