Shakespeare's First Folio Part 501

Rome. A thousand times the worse to want thy light, Loue goes toward Loue as school-boyes fro[m] their books But Loue fro[m] Loue, towards schoole with heauie lookes.

Enter Iuliet againe.

Iul. Hist Romeo hist: O for a Falkners voice, To lure this Ta.s.sell gentle backe againe, Bondage is hoa.r.s.e, and may not speake aloud, Else would I teare the Caue where Eccho lies, And make her ayrie tongue more hoa.r.s.e, then With repet.i.tion of my Romeo

Rom. It is my soule that calls vpon my name.

How siluer sweet, sound Louers tongues by night, Like softest Musicke to attending eares

Iul. Romeo

Rom. My Neece

Iul. What a clock to morrow Shall I send to thee?

Rom. By the houre of nine

Iul. I will not faile, 'tis twenty yeares till then, I haue forgot why I did call thee backe

Rom. Let me stand here till thou remember it

Iul. I shall forget, to haue thee still stand there, Remembring how I Loue thy company

Rom. And Ile still stay, to haue thee still forget, Forgetting any other home but this

Iul. 'Tis almost morning, I would haue thee gone, And yet no further then a wantons Bird, That let's it hop a little from his hand, Like a poore prisoner in his twisted Gyues, And with a silken thred plucks it backe againe, So louing Iealous of his liberty

Rom. I would I were thy Bird

Iul. Sweet so would I, Yet I should kill thee with much cheris.h.i.+ng: Good night, good night

Rom. Parting is such sweete sorrow, That I shall say goodnight, till it be morrow

Iul. Sleepe dwell vpon thine eyes, peace in thy brest

Rom. Would I were sleepe and peace so sweet to rest, The gray ey'd morne smiles on the frowning night, Checkring the Easterne Clouds with streakes of light, And darkenesse fleckel'd like a drunkard reeles, From forth dayes pathway, made by t.i.tans wheeles.

Hence will I to my ghostly Friers close Cell, His helpe to craue, and my deare hap to tell.

Enter.

Enter Frier alone with a basket.

Fri. The gray ey'd morne smiles on the frowning night, Checkring the Easterne Cloudes with streaks of light: And fleckled darknesse like a drunkard reeles, From forth daies path, and t.i.tans burning wheeles: Now ere the Sun aduance his burning eye, The day to cheere, and nights danke dew to dry, I must vpfill this Osier Cage of ours, With balefull weedes, and precious Iuiced flowers, The earth that's Natures mother, is her Tombe, What is her burying graue that is her wombe: And from her wombe children of diuers kind We sucking on her naturall bosome find: Many for many vertues excellent: None but for some, and yet all different.

O mickle is the powerfull grace that lies In Plants, Hearbs, stones, and their true qualities: For nought so vile, that on earth doth liue, But to the earth some speciall good doth giue.

Nor ought so good, but strain'd from that faire vse, Reuolts from true birth, stumbling on abuse.

Vertue it selfe turnes vice being misapplied, And vice sometime by action dignified.

Enter Romeo.

Within the infant rind of this weake flower, Poyson hath residence, and medicine power: For this being smelt, with that part cheares each part, Being tasted stayes all sences with the heart.

Two such opposed Kings encampe them still, In man as well as Hearbes, grace and rude will: And where the worser is predominant, Full soone the Canker death eates vp that Plant

Rom. Good morrow Father

Fri. Benedecite.

What early tongue so sweet saluteth me?

Young Sonne, it argues a distempered head, So soone to bid goodmorrow to thy bed; Care keepes his watch in euery old mans eye, And where Care lodges, sleepe will neuer lye: But where vnbrused youth with vnstuft braine Doth couch his lims, there, golden sleepe doth raigne; Therefore thy earlinesse doth me a.s.sure, Thou art vprous'd with some distemprature; Or if not so, then here I hit it right.

Our Romeo hath not beene in bed to night

Rom. That last is true, the sweeter rest was mine

Fri. G.o.d pardon sin: wast thou with Rosaline?

Rom. With Rosaline, my ghostly Father? No, I haue forgot that name, and that names woe

Fri. That's my good Son, but wher hast thou bin then?

Rom. Ile tell thee ere thou aske it me agen: I haue beene feasting with mine enemie, Where on a sudden one hath wounded me, That's by me wounded: both our remedies Within thy helpe and holy phisicke lies: I beare no hatred, blessed man: for loe My intercession likewise steads my foe

Fri. Be plaine good Son, rest homely in thy drift, Ridling confession, findes but ridling shrift

Rom. Then plainly know my hearts deare Loue is set, On the faire daughter of rich Capulet: As mine on hers, so hers is set on mine; And all combin'd, saue what thou must combine By holy marriage: when and where, and how, We met, we wooed, and made exchange of vow: Ile tell thee as we pa.s.se, but this I pray, That thou consent to marrie vs to day

Fri. Holy S[aint]. Francis, what a change is heere?

Is Rosaline that thou didst Loue so deare So soone forsaken? young mens Loue then lies Not truely in their hearts, but in their eyes.

Iesu Maria, what a deale of brine Hath washt thy sallow cheekes for Rosaline?

How much salt water throwne away in wast, To season Loue that of it doth not tast.

The Sun not yet thy sighes, from heauen cleares, Thy old grones yet ringing in my auncient eares: Lo here vpon thy cheeke the staine doth sit, Of an old teare that is not washt off yet.

If ere thou wast thy selfe, and these woes thine, Thou and these woes, were all for Rosaline.

And art thou chang'd? p.r.o.nounce this sentence then, Women may fall, when there's no strength in men

Rom. Thou chid'st me oft for louing Rosaline

Fri. For doting, not for louing pupill mine

Rom. And bad'st me bury Loue

Fri. Not in a graue, To lay one in, another out to haue

Rom. I pray thee chide me not, her I Loue now Doth grace for grace, and Loue for Loue allow: The other did not so

Fri. O she knew well, Thy Loue did read by rote, that could not spell: But come young wauerer, come goe with me, In one respect, Ile thy a.s.sistant be: For this alliance may so happy proue, To turne your houshould rancor to pure Loue

Rom. O let vs hence, I stand on sudden hast

Fri. Wisely and slow, they stumble that run fast.

Exeunt.

Enter Benuolio and Mercutio.

Mer. Where the deule should this Romeo be? came he not home to night?

Ben. Not to his Fathers, I spoke with his man

Mer. Why that same pale hard-harted wench, that Rosaline torments him so, that he will sure run mad