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Anon, good nurse ----- Sweet Mountague be true:
Stay but a little, I will come again.
Rom. O blessed, blessed night. I am afraid
All this is but a dream I hear and see ;
Too flattering sweet to be substantial.
Re-enter Juliet above.
Jul. 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 love, throughout the world.
I come, anon but if thou mean'st not well,
I do beseech thee -----[Within: Madam.] By and by I come---
To cease thy suit, and leave me to my grief.
To-morrow will I send.
Rom. So thrive my soul.
Jul. A thousand times good night.
Rom. A thousand times the worse to want thy light.
Love goes tow'rd love, as school-boys from their books,
But love from love, towards school with heavy looks.
Enter Juliet again.
Jul. Hist! Romeo, bist! O for a falkner's voice,
To lure this Taffel gentle back again
Bondage is hoarse and may not speak aloud,
Else would I tear the cave where Echo lyes,
And make her airy tongue more hoarse than mine
With repetition of my Romeo.
Rom. It is my love that calls upon my name,
How silver-sweet found lovers tongues by night,
Like softest musick to attending ears!
Rom. My sweet!
Jul. At what a clock to-morrow
Shall I send to thee?
Rom. By the hour of nine.
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 ir.
Jul. I shall forget, to have thee still stand there, Remembring 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,
That lets it hop a little from her hand,
Like a poor prisoner in his twisted gyves
· And with a Glk 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.
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 friar's close cell,
His help to crave, and my dear hap to tell.
Enter Friar Lawrence, with a basket.
HE grey-ey'd morn smiles on the frowning night,
Check’ring the eastern clouds with streaks of light,
And darkness flecker'd like a drunkard reels
From forth day's path-way, made by Titan's wheels.
Now ere the sun advance his burning eye,
The day to chear, and night's dank dew to dry,
I must fill
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:
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 nought so vile, that on the earth doth live,
But to the earth some special good doth give:
Nor ought so good, but strain’d from that fair use,
Revolts to vice, and stumbles on abuse.
Virtue it self turns vice, being misapplied,
And vice sometime by action dignified.
* These four first lines are here replaced, conformably to the first edition; where such a description is much more proper than in the mouth of Romeo just before, when be was full of nothing but the thoughts of his mistress. i Revolts from true birth, stumbling on abuse.
Within the infant rind of this small flower
Poison hath residence, and medicine power:
For this being smelt, with that sense chears each part;
Being tasted, slays all senses with the heart.
Two such opposed foes 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.
Rom. Good-morrow, father.
What early tongue so sweet salutes mine ear ?
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 lodgeth, sleep will never lye;
But where unbruised youth with uostuft brain
Doth couch his limbs, there golden sleep doth reign,
Therefore thy earliness doth me assure,
Thou art up-rouz’d by 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,
Fri. God pardon fin! wast thou with Rosaline ?
Rom. With Rosaline, my ghostly father? no.
I have forgot that name, and that name's woe.
Fri. That's my good son: but where halt thou been then ?
Rom. I 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 physick lies ;
I bear no hatred, blessed man, for lo
My intercession likewise steads
Fri. Be plain, good son, and homely in thy drift ;
Ridling confession finds but ridling hrift.
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 mer, 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.
Fri. Holy saint Francis, what a change is here?
Is Rosaline, whom thou didst love so dear,
So soon forsaken? young mens love then lyes
Not truly in their hearts, but in their eyes.
Jesu Maria! what a deal of brine
Hath washt thy fallow 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 my ancient ears ;
Lo here upon thy cheek the stain doth fit
Of an old tear that is not wash'd off
If e'er thou wast thy self, 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 chidd'It me oft for loving Rosaline.
Fri. For doating, not for loving, pupil mine.
Rom. And bad'It me bury love.
Fri. Not in a grave,
To lay one in, another out to have.