ACT I
A.
Rebellious Subjects, Enemies to Peace,
Profaners of this Neighbour-stainéd Steel…
You men, you beasts,
That quench the fire of your pernicious rage
With purple fountains issuing from your veins:
On pain of torture, from those bloody hands
Throw your mistempered Weapons to the Ground
And hear the Sentence of your movéd Prince.
Three Civil Brawls, bred of an airy Word,
By thee, old Capulet and Montague,
Have thrice disturb’d the Quiet of our Streets
And made Verona’s ancient Citizens
Cast by their grave beseeming Ornaments
To wield old Partisans, in Hands as old,
Cank’red with Peace, to part your cank’red Hate.
If ever you disturb our Streets again,
Your Lives shall pay the Forfeit of the Peace.
For this time all the rest depart away…
Once more, on pain of Death, all Men depart.
B.
O then I see Queen Mab hath been with you.
She is the Fairies’ Midwife, and she comes
In Shape no bigger than an Agate Stone
On the Forefinger of an Alderman,
Drawn with a Team of little Atomi
Over Men’s Noses as they lie asleep;
Her Wagon Spokes made of long Spinners’ Legs,
The Cover of the Wings of Grasshoppers,
Her Traces of the smallest Spider Web,
Her Collars of the Moonshine’s Wat’ry Beams,
Her Whip of Cricket’s Bone, the Lash of Film,
Her Wagoner a small grey-coated Gnat
Not half so big as a round little Worm
Prick’d from the Lazy finger of a Maid.
Her Chariot is an empty Hazelnut…
And in this State she gallops Night by Night
Through Lovers’ Brains, and then they dream of Love.
C.
What lady’s that which doth enrich the hand
Of yonder Knight?...
O she doth teach the Torches to burn bright.
It seems she hangs upon the Cheek of night
As a rich Jewel in an Ethiop’s Ear:
Beauty too rich for Use, for Earth too dear.
So shows a snowy Dove trooping with Crows
As yonder Lady o’er her Fellows shows.
The Measure done, I’ll watch her place of Stand,
And, touching hers, make blessed my rude Hand.
Did my Heart love till now? Forswear it, Sight;
For I ne’er saw true Beauty till this Night…
If I profane with my unworthiest hand
This holy shrine, the gentle sin is this:
My lips, two blushing pilgrims, ready stand
To smooth that rough touch with a tender kiss.
ACT II
A.
But soft, what Light through yonder Window breaks?
It is the East, and Juliet is the Sun.
Arise, fair sun, and kill the envious Moon,
Who is already sick and pale with Grief
That thou her Maid art far more fair than she…
It is my Lady, O it is my Love:
O that she knew she were.
She speaks, yet she says nothing: what of that?
Her eye discourses; I will answer it.
I am too bold: ‘tis not to me she speaks.
Two of the fairest Stars in all Heaven,
Having some Business, do entreat her eyes
To twinkle in their Spheres till they return.
What if her Eyes were there, they in her Head?
The brightness of her Cheek would shame those Stars
As Day-light doth a lamp; her eyes in Heaven
Would through the Airy Region stream so bright
That Birds would sing and think it were not night.
B.
O Romeo, Romeo, wherefore art thou Romeo?
Deny thy Father and refuse thy Name;
Or if thou wilt not, be but sworn my Love
And I’ll no longer be a Capulet…
‘Tis but thy Name that is my enemy:
thou art thy Self, though not a Montague.
What’s Montague? It is nor Hand nor Foot,
Nor Arm nor Face, nor any other Part
Belonging to a Man. O be some other Name.
What’s in a Name? That which we call a Rose
By any other Name would smell as sweet;
So Romeo would, were he not Romeo call’d,
Retain that dear Perfection which he owes
Without that title. Romeo, doff thy Name,
And for thy Name, which is no part of thee,
Take all my Self.
C.
The Clock struck nine when I did send the Nurse;
In half an Hour she promis’d to return.
Perchance she cannot meet him. That’s not so:
O she is lame. Love’s Heralds should be Thoughts,
Which ten times faster glides than the Sun’s Beams,
Driving back Shadows over low’ring Hills.
Therefore do noble pinion’d Doves draw Love,
And therefore hath the Wind swift Cupid Wings.
Now is the Sun upon the highmost Hill
Of this Day’s Journey, and from nine till twelve
Is three long Hours. Yet she is not come.
Had she affections and warm youthful blood,
She would be as swift in motion as a ball;
My words would bandy her to my sweet love,
And his to me.
But old folks, many feign as they were dead,
Unwieldy, slow, heavy, and pale as lead.
ACT III
A.
Art thou a Man? Thy Form cries out thou art.
Thy Tears are Womanish; thy wild Acts
Denote the unreasonable fury of a Beast.
Unseemly Woman in a seeming Man,
And ill-beseeming Beast in seeming both,
Thou hast amaz’ed me. By my holy Order,
I thought thy Disposition better temper’d…
What, rouse thee, Man: thy Juliet is alive,
For whose dear sake thou wast but lately dead.
There art thou happy. Tybalt would kill thee,
But thou slew’st Tybalt. There art thou happy.
The Law that threat’ned Death becomes thy Friend
And turns it to Exile. There art thou happy.
A pack of Blessings light upon thy Back;
Happiness courts thee in her best Array;
But like a misbehav’d and sullen Wench,
Thou pouts upon thy Fortune and thy Love
B.
God’s bread, it makes me mad.
Day, night, hour, tide, time, work, play,
Alone, in company, still my care hath been
To have her matched…
And then to have a wretched puling fool,
A whining mammet, in her fortune’s tender,
To answer “I’ll not wed. I cannot love.
I am too young. I pray you, pardon me.”
But, an you will not wed, I’ll pardon you!
Graze where you will, you shall not house with me.
Look to ‘t; think on ‘t. I do not use to jest.
Thursday is near. Lay hand on heart; advise.
An you be mine, I’ll give you to my friend.
An you be not, hang, beg, starve, die in the streets,
For, by my soul, I’ll ne’er acknowledge thee,
Nor what is mine shall never do thee good.
Trust to ‘t; bethink you. I’ll not be forsworn.
ACT IV
A.
Tell me not, Friar, that thou hearest of this,
Unless thou tell me how I may prevent it.
If in thy wisdom thou canst give no help,
Do thou but call my resolution wise,
And with this knife I’ll help it presently [show knife]
God joined my heart and Romeo’s, thou our hands;
And ere this hand, by thee to Romeo’s sealed,
Shall be the label to another deed,
Or my true heart with treacherous revolt
Turn to another, this shall slay them both.
Therefore out of they long-experienced time
Give me some present counsel, or, behold,
‘Twixt my extremes and me this bloody knife
Shall play the umpire, arbitrating that
Which the commission of thy years and art
Could to no issue of true honor bring.
Be not so long to speak. I long to die
If what thou speak’st speak not of remedy.
ACT IV
B.
Hold, then. Go home; be merry; give consent
To marry Paris. Wednesday is tomorrow.
Tomorrow night look that thou lie alone;
Let not the Nurse lie wit thee in thy chamber.
Take thou this vial, being then in bed,
And this distilling liquor drink thou off;
When presently though all thy veins shall run
A cold and drowsy humor; for no pulse
Shall keep his native progress, but surcease.
No warmth, no breath shall testify thou livest.
The roses in thy lips and cheeks shall fade
To paly ashes, thy eyes’ windows fall
Like death when he shuts up the day of life.
Each part, deprived of supple government,
Shall, stiff and stark and cold, appear like death,
And in this borrowed likeness of shrunk death
Thou shalt continue two and forty hours
And then awake as from a pleasant sleep.
C.
What if this mixture do not work at all?
Shall I be married then tomorrow morning? [show knife]
No, no, this shall forbid it. Lie thou there.
…How if, when I am laid into the tomb,
I wake before the time that Romeo
Come to redeem me? There’s a fearful point.
Shall I not then be stifled in the vault,
To whose foul mouth no healthsome air breathes in,
And there die strangled ere my Romeo comes?
Or, if I live, is it not very like
The horrible conceit of death and night,
Together with the terror of the place –
…O, if I wake, shall I not be distraught,
environéd with all these hideous fears,
And madly play with my forefathers’ joints,
And pluck the mangled Tybalt from his shroud,
And, in this rage, with some great kinsman’s bone,
As with a club, dash out my desp’rate brains?
D.
Heaven and yourself
Had part in this fair maid. Now heaven hath all,
And all the better is it for the maid.
Your part in her you could not keep from death,
But heaven keeps his part in eternal life.
The most you sought was her promotion,
For ‘twas your heaven she should be advanced;
And weep you now, seeing she is advanced
Above the clouds, as high as heaven itself?
O, in this love you love your child so ill
That you run mad, seeing that she is well.
She’s not well married that lives married long,
But she’s best married that dies married young.
Dry up your tears, and stick your rosemary
On this fair corse, and, as the custom is,
And in her best array, bear her to church,
For though fond nature bids us all lament,
Yet nature’s tears are reason’s merriment.
ACT V
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…
Ah, dear Juliet,
Why art thou so fair? Shall I believe
That unsubstantial death is amorous,
And that the lean abhorréd 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…
Eyes, look your last;
Arms take your last Embrace; and Lips, O you
The Doors of breath, seal with a righteous Kiss
A dateless Bargain to engrossing Death.
-- Come, bitter Conduct; come unsavoury Guide.
Thou desperate Pilot, now at once run on
The dashing Rocks thy seasick, weary Bark.
Here’s to my Love. O true Apothecary:
Thy Drugs are quick. Thus with a Kiss I die.