Romeo and Juliet

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 diverse 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 sometimes by action dignified.
Within the infant rind of this small flower
Poison hath residence and medicine power:
For this, being smelt, with that part cheers each part;
Being tasted, slays all senses with the heart.
Two such opposed kings 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. Romeo Good morrow, father. Friar Laurence

Benedicite!
What early tongue so sweet saluteth me?
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 lodges, sleep will never lie;
But where unbruised youth with unstuff’d brain
Doth couch his limbs, there golden sleep doth reign:
Therefore thy earliness doth me assure
Thou art up-roused by some distemperature;
Or if not so, then here I hit it right,
Our Romeo hath not been in bed to-night.

Romeo That last is true; the sweeter rest was mine. Friar Laurence God pardon sin! wast thou with Rosaline? Romeo

With Rosaline, my ghostly father? no;
I have forgot that name, and that name’s woe.

Friar Laurence That’s my good son: but where hast thou been, then? Romeo

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
Within thy help and holy physic lies:
I bear no hatred, blessed man, for, lo,
My intercession likewise steads my foe.

Friar Laurence

Be plain, good son, and homely in thy drift;
Riddling confession finds but riddling shrift.

Romeo

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 combined, save what thou must combine
By holy marriage: when and where and how
We met, 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.

Friar Laurence

Holy Saint Francis, what a change is here!
Is Rosaline, whom thou didst love so dear,
So soon forsaken? young men’s love then lies
Not truly in their hearts, but in their eyes.
Jesu Maria, what a deal of brine
Hath wash’d thy sallow 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 sit
Of an old tear that is not wash’d off yet:
If e’er thou wast thyself and these woes thine,
Thou and these woes were all for Rosaline:
And art thou changed? pronounce this sentence then,
Women may fall, when there’s no strength in men.

Romeo Thou chid’st me oft for loving Rosaline. Friar Laurence For doting, not for loving, pupil mine. Romeo And bad’st me bury love. Friar Laurence

Not in a grave,
To lay one in, another out to have.

Romeo

I pray thee, chide not: she whom I love now
Doth grace for grace and love for love allow;
The other did not so.

Friar Laurence

O, she knew well
Thy love did read by rote and could not spell.
But come, young waverer, come, go with me,
In one respect I’ll thy assistant be;
For this alliance may so happy prove,
To turn your households’ rancour to pure love.

Romeo O, let us hence; I stand on sudden haste. Friar Laurence Wisely and slow; they stumble that run fast. Exeunt.

Scene IV

A street.

	Enter Benvolio and Mercutio.
Mercutio	Where the devil should this Romeo be? Came he not home to-night?
Benvolio	Not to his father’s; I spoke with his man.
Mercutio	Ah, that same pale hard-hearted wench, that Rosaline. Torments him so, that he will sure run mad.
Benvolio	Tybalt, the kinsman of old Capulet, Hath sent a letter to his father’s house.
Mercutio	A challenge, on my life.
Benvolio	Romeo will answer it.
Mercutio	Any man that can write may answer a letter.
Benvolio	Nay, he will answer the letter’s master, how he dares, being dared.
Mercutio	Alas poor Romeo! he is already dead: stabbed with a white wench’s black eye; shot thorough the ear with a love-song; the very pin of his heart cleft with the blind bow-boy’s butt-shaft: and is he a man to encounter Tybalt?
Benvolio	Why, what is Tybalt?
Mercutio	More than prince of cats, I can tell you. O, he is the courageous captain of complements. 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 hai!
Benvolio	The what?
Mercutio	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 perdona-mi’s, who stand so much on the new form, that they cannot sit at ease on the old bench? O, their bones, their bones!
	Enter Romeo.
Benvolio	Here comes Romeo, here comes Romeo.
Mercutio	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 kitchen-wench; marry, she had a better love to be-rhyme her; Dido a dowdy;