Dost thou love me? I know, thou wilt say-Ay;
And I will take thy word: yet, if thou swear'st,
Thou may'st prove false; at lovers' perjuries,
They say, Jove laughs. O, gentle Romeo,
If thou dost love, pronounce it faithfully:
Or if thou think'st I am too quickly won,
I'll frown, and be perverse, and say thee nay,
So thou wilt woo; but, else, not for the world.
In truth, fair Montague, I am too fond;
And therefore thou may'st think my haviour light:
But trust me, gentleman, I'll prove more true
Than those, that have more cunning to be strange.
I should have been more strange, I must confess,
But that thou over-heard'st, ere I was ware,
My true love's passion: therefore pardon me;
And not impute this yielding to light love,
Which the dark night hath so discovered.

Rom. Lady, by yonder blessed moon I swear,
That tips with silver all these fruit-tree tops,-
Jul. O, swear not by the moon, the inconstant moon,
That monthly changes in her circled orb,

Lest that thy love prove likewise variable.
Rom. What shall I swear by?

Jul. Do not swear at all;

Or, if thou wilt, swear by thy gracious self,
Which is the god of my idolatry,

And I'll believe thee.

Rom. If my heart's dear love

Jul. Well, do not swear: although I joy in thee,

I have no joy of this contract to-night:

It is too rash, too unadvis'd, too sudden;

Too like the lightning, which doth cease to be,

Ere one can say-It lightens. Sweet, good night!
This bud of love by summer's ripening breath
May prove a beauteous flower, when next we meet.
Good night, good night! as sweet repose and rest
Come to thy heart, as that within my breast!
Rom. O, wilt thou leave me so unsatisfied?
Jul. What satisfaction canst thou have to night?
Rom. The exchange of thy love's faithful vow for
mine.

Jul. I gave thee mine before thou didst request it: And yet I would it were to give again.

Rom. Would'st thou withdraw it? for what purpose, love?

Jul. But to be frank, and give it thee again.
And yet I wish but for the thing I have:
My bounty is as boundless as the sea,
My love as deep; the more I give to thee,
The more I have, for both are infinite.

[Nurse calls within.

I hear some noise within; Dear love, adieu!
Anon, good nurse!-Sweet Montague, be true.
Stay but a little, I will come again.

Rom. O blessed blessed night! I am afeard,

Being in night, all this is but a dream,

Too flattering-sweet to be substantial.

Re-enter JULIET, above.

[Exit.

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 lord throughout the world:
Nurse. [Within.] Madam.

Jul. I come, anon:-But if thou mean'st not well, I do beseech thee,

Nurse. [Within.] Madam.

Jul. 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!

[Exit.

Rom. A thousand times the worse, to want thy light.-Love goes toward love, as school-boys from their books; But love from love, toward school with heavy looks. [Retiring slowly.

Re-enter JULIET, above.

Jul. Hist! Romeo, hist!-O, for a falconer's voice, To lure this tassel-gentle back again!

Bondage is hoarse, and may not speak aloud;

Else would I tear the cave where echo lies,

And make her airy tongue more hoarse than mine
With repetition of my Romeo's name.

Rom. It is my soul, that calls upon my name:
How silver-sweet sound lovers' tongues by night,
Like softest music to attending ears!

Jul. Romeo!

Rom. My sweet!

Jul. At what o'clock to-morrow

Shall I send to thee?

Rom. At 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 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 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,
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, with a basket.

Fri. The grey-ey'd morn smiles on the frowning night,

Checkering the eastern clouds with streaks of light;

And flecked darkness 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 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 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 herbs, plants, 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 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 med'cine power:

For this, being smelt, with that part cheers 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.

Enter ROMEO.

Rom. Good morrow, father!

Fri. Benedicite!