LITMIR.BIZ

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       Well, think of marriage now: younger than you,

       Here in Verona, ladies of esteem,

       Are made already mothers: by my count

       I was your mother much upon these years

       That you are now a maid. Thus, then, in brief;—

       The valiant Paris seeks you for his love.

       Nurse.

       A man, young lady! lady, such a man

       As all the world—why he’s a man of wax.

       Lady Capulet.

       Verona’s summer hath not such a flower.

       Nurse.

       Nay, he’s a flower, in faith, a very flower.

       Lady Capulet.

       What say you? can you love the gentleman?

       This night you shall behold him at our feast;

       Read o’er the volume of young Paris’ face,

       And find delight writ there with beauty’s pen;

       Examine every married lineament,

       And see how one another lends content;

       And what obscur’d in this fair volume lies

       Find written in the margent of his eyes.

       This precious book of love, this unbound lover,

       To beautify him, only lacks a cover:

       The fish lives in the sea; and ‘tis much pride

       For fair without the fair within to hide:

       That book in many’s eyes doth share the glory,

       That in gold clasps locks in the golden story;

       So shall you share all that he doth possess,

       By having him, making yourself no less.

       Nurse.

       No less! nay, bigger; women grow by men

       Lady Capulet.

       Speak briefly, can you like of Paris’ love?

       Juliet.

       I’ll look to like, if looking liking move:

       But no more deep will I endart mine eye

       Than your consent gives strength to make it fly.

       [Enter a Servant.]

       Servant. Madam, the guests are come, supper served up, you called, my young lady asked for, the nurse cursed in the pantry, and everything in extremity. I must hence to wait; I beseech you, follow straight.

       Lady Capulet.

       We follow thee. [Exit Servant.]—

       Juliet, the county stays.

       Nurse.

       Go, girl, seek happy nights to happy days.

       [Exeunt.]

       SCENE IV. A Street.

       [Enter Romeo, Mercutio, Benvolio, with five or six Maskers;

       Torch-bearers, and others.]

       Romeo.

       What, shall this speech be spoke for our excuse?

       Or shall we on without apology?

       Benvolio.

       The date is out of such prolixity:

       We’ll have no Cupid hoodwink’d with a scarf,

       Bearing a Tartar’s painted bow of lath,

       Scaring the ladies like a crow-keeper;

       Nor no without-book prologue, faintly spoke

       After the prompter, for our entrance:

       But, let them measure us by what they will,

       We’ll measure them a measure, and be gone.

       Romeo.

       Give me a torch,—I am not for this ambling;

       Being but heavy, I will bear the light.

       Mercutio.

       Nay, gentle Romeo, we must have you dance.

       Romeo.

       Not I, believe me: you have dancing shoes,

       With nimble soles; I have a soul of lead

       So stakes me to the ground I cannot move.

       Mercutio.

       You are a lover; borrow Cupid’s wings,

       And soar with them above a common bound.

       Romeo.

       I am too sore enpierced with his shaft

       To soar with his light feathers; and so bound,

       I cannot bound a pitch above dull woe:

       Under love’s heavy burden do I sink.

       Mercutio.

       And, to sink in it, should you burden love;

       Too great oppression for a tender thing.

       Romeo.

       Is love a tender thing? it is too rough,

       Too rude, too boisterous; and it pricks like thorn.

       Mercutio.

       If love be rough with you, be rough with love;

       Prick love for pricking, and you beat love down.—

       Give me a case to put my visage in: [Putting on a mask.]

       A visard for a visard! what care I

       What curious eye doth quote deformities?

       Here are the beetle-brows shall blush for me.

       Benvolio.

       Come, knock and enter; and no sooner in

       But every man betake him to his legs.

       Romeo.

       A torch for me: let wantons, light of heart,

       Tickle the senseless rushes with their heels;

       For I am proverb’d with a grandsire phrase,—

       I’ll be a candle-holder and look on,—

       The game was ne’er so fair, and I am done.

       Mercutio.

       Tut, dun’s the mouse, the constable’s own word:

       If thou art dun, we’ll draw thee from the mire

       Of this—sir-reverence—love, wherein thou stick’st

       Up to the ears.—Come, we burn daylight, ho.

       Romeo.

       Nay, that’s not so.

       Mercutio.

       I mean, sir, in delay

       We waste our lights in vain, like lamps by day.

       Take our good meaning, for our judgment sits

       Five times in that ere once in our five wits.

       Romeo.

       And we mean well, in going to this mask;

       But ‘tis no wit to go.

       Mercutio.

       Why, may one ask?

       Romeo.

       I dreamt a dream tonight.

       Mercutio.

       And so did I.

       Romeo.

       Well, what was yours?

       Mercutio.

       That dreamers often lie.

       Romeo.

       In bed asleep, while they do dream things true.

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