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; Rom. It is my soul that calls upon my name: Jul. Romeo! 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 bis twisted gyves, And with a silk thread plucks it back again, So loving-jealous of his liberty. Rom. I would, I were thy bird. 'Would I were sleep and peace, so sweet to rest! [Exit. SCENE 111. FRIAR LAURENCE'S Cell. 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: With baleful weeds, and precious-juiced flowers. None but for some, and yet all different. Full soon the canker death eats up that plant. Rom. Good morrow, father! Fri. But where unbruised youth, with unstuff'd brain, Thou art up-rous'd by some distemp❜rature; Rom. That last is true, the sweeter rest was mine. I have been feasting with mine enemy; Fri. Be plain, good son, and homely in thy drift; Riddling confession finds but riddling shrift. 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 Fri. Holy saint Francis; what a change is here! Hath wash'd thy sallow cheeks for Rosaline! If e'er thou wast thyself, and these woes thine, And art thou chang'd? pronounce this sentence then- Fri. For doting, not for loving, pupil mine. Fri. Not in a grave, To lay one in, another out to have. Rom. I pray thee, chide not; she, whom I love now, Doth grace for grace, and love for love allow; The other did not so. Fri. O, she knew well, Thy love did read by rote, and could not spell. For this alliance may so happy prove, To turn your households' rancour to pure love. SCENE IV. A Street. Enter BENVOLIO and MERCUTIO. Mer. Where the devil should this Romeo be?— Ben. Not to his father's; I spoke with his man. Torments him so, that he will sure run mad. Mer. A challenge, on my life. Ben. Romeo will answer it. Mer. Any man, that can write, may answer a letter. Ben. Nay, he will answer the letter's master, how he dares, being dared. Mer. 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? Ben. Why, what is Tybalt? Mer. More than prince of cats, I can tell you. O, he is 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! Ben. The what? Mer. 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-moys, who stand so much on the new form, that they cannot sit at ease on the old bench? O, their bons, their bons! Enter ROMEO. Ben. Here comes Romeo, here comes Romeo. Mer. 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 gipsy; Helen and Hero, hildings and harlots; Thisbé, a grey eye or so, but not to the purpose.-Signior Romeo, bon jour! there's a French salutation to your French slop. You gave us the counterfeit fairly last night. Rom. Good-morrow to you both. What counterfeit did I give you? Mer. The slip, sir, the slip; Can you not conceive? Rom. Pardon, good Mercutio, my business was great; and, in such a case as mine, a man may strain courtesy. Mer. That's as much as to say-such a case as your's constrains a man to bow in the hams. Rom. Meaning-to court'sy. C |