Jul. At what o'clock to-morrow At the hour of nine. Shall I send to thee? Rom. Jul. I will not fail: 'tis twenty years till then. I have forgot why I did call thee back. Rom. Let me stand here till thou remember it. Jul. I shall forget, to have thee still stand there, Remembering 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 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, 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. Would I were sleep and peace, so sweet to rest! [Exit above. Rom. Sleep dwell upon thine eyes, peace in thy breast!— 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, with a basket. Fri. L. The grey-ey'd morn smiles on the frowning night, Chequering the eastern clouds with streaks of light; And flecked darkness like a drunkard reels From forth day's path and Titan's fiery wheels: With baleful weeds and precious-juicèd flowers. The earth, that's nature's mother, is her tomb; None but for some, and yet all different. For this, being smelt, with that part cheers each part; Full soon the canker death eats up that plant. Enter ROMEO. Rom. Good morrow, father. Benedicite! Fri. L. And where care lodges, sleep will never lie; But where unbruisèd (21) youth with unstuff'd brain Doth couch his limbs, there golden sleep doth reign: Therefore thy earliness doth me assure Thou art up-rous'd by some distemperature; 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. Rom. With Rosaline, my ghostly father? no; I have forgot that name, and that name's woe. Fri. L. 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 I bear no hatred, blessèd man; for, lo, My intercession likewise steads my foe. Fri. L. 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 Fri. L. Holy Saint Francis, what a change is here! So soon forsaken? young men's love, then, lies Hath wash'd thy sallow cheeks for Rosaline! And art thou chang'd? pronounce this sentence, then,- Rom. And bad'st me bury love. Fri. L. To lay one in, another out to have. Not in a grave, Rom. I pray thee, chide not: she whom I love now Doth grace for grace and love for love allow; Thy love did read by rote, and could not spell. For this alliance may so happy prove, To turn your households' rancour to pure love. Fri. L. 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. Ah, that same pale hard-hearted wench, that Rosaline, Torments him so, that he will sure run mad. Ben. Tybalt, the kinsman of 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! stabbed with a white wench's black eye; shot thorough the ear with a lovesong; 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 is the courageous captain of compliments. (2) He fights as you sing prick-song, keeps time, distance, and proportion; rests me his minim rest, one, two, and the third in your bosom: the very butcher of a silk button, a duellist, a duellist; a gentleman of the very first house,-of the first and second cause: ah, the immortal passado! the punto reverso ! the hay! Ben. The what? Mer. The pox of such antic, lisping, affecting fantasticoes; these new tuners of accents!" By Jesu, a very good blade!-a very tall man!-a very good whore!"—Why, is not this a lamentable thing, grandsire, that we should be thus afflicted with these strange flies, these fashion-mongers, these pardonnez-mois, who stand so much on the new form, that they cannot sit at ease on the old bench? O, their bons, their bons! 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 kitchenwench,―marry, she had a better love to be-rhyme her; Dido, a dowdy; Cleopatra, a gipsy; Helen and Hero, hildings and harlots; Thisbe, a grey eye or so, but not to the purpose, Enter ROMEO. 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 case as mine a man may strain courtesy. Mer. That's as much as to say, Such a case as yours constrains a man to bow in the hams. Rom. Meaning, to court'sy. Mer. Thou hast most kindly hit it. Rom. A most courteous exposition. Mer. Nay, I am the very pink of courtesy. Rom. Pink for flower. Mer. Right. Rom. Why, then is my pump well flowered. |