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I bear no hatred, blessed man; for, lo,

       My intercession likewise steads my foe.

       Friar.

       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 combin’d, 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.

       Holy Saint Francis! what a change is here!

       Is Rosaline, that 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 mine 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 chang’d? Pronounce this sentence then,—

       Women may fall, when there’s no strength in men.

       Romeo.

       Thou chidd’st me oft for loving Rosaline.

       Friar.

       For doting, not for loving, pupil mine.

       Romeo.

       And bad’st me bury love.

       Friar.

       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.

       O, she knew well

       Thy love did read by rote, that 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.

       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 tonight?

       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 to 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 through 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’s the courageous captain of compliments. 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 hay.—

       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 pardonnez-moi’s, who stand so much on the new form that they cannot sit at ease on the old bench? O, their bons, their bons!

       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 berhyme her; Dido, a dowdy; Cleopatra, a gypsy; Helen and Hero, hildings and harlots; Thisbe, a gray eye or so, but not to the purpose,—

       [Enter Romeo.]

       Signior Romeo, bon jour! there’s a French salutation to your

       French slop. You gave us the counterfeit fairly last night.

       Romeo.

       Good morrow to you both. What counterfeit did I give you?

       Mercutio.

       The slip, sir, the slip; can you not conceive?

       Romeo. Pardon, good Mercutio, my business was great; and in such a case as mine a man may strain courtesy.

       Mercutio. That’s as much as to say, such a case as yours constrains a man to bow in the hams.

       Romeo.

       Meaning, to court’sy.

       Mercutio.

       Thou hast most kindly hit it.

       Romeo.

       A most courteous exposition.

       Mercutio.

       Nay, I am the very pink of courtesy.

       Romeo.

       Pink for flower.

       Mercutio.

       Right.

       Romeo.

       Why, then is my pump well-flowered.

       Mercutio. Well said: follow me this jest now till thou hast worn out thy pump;that, when the single sole of it is worn, the jest may remain, after the wearing, sole singular.

       Romeo.

       O single-soled jest, solely singular for the singleness!

       Mercutio.

      

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