Servingman. I know not, sir.
Romeo. O, she doth teach the torches to burn bright!
Her beauty hangs upon the cheek of night
Like a rich jewel in an Ethiope's ear;
Beauty too rich for use, for earth too dear!
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So shows a snowy dove trooping with crows
As yonder lady o'er her fellows shows.
The measure done, I'll watch her place of stand,
And, touching hers, make blessed my rude hand.
Did my heart love till now? forswear it, sight!
For I ne'er saw true beauty till this night.
Tybalt. This, by his voice, should be a Montague.—
Fetch me my rapier, boy.—What dares the slave
Come hither, cover'd with an antic face,
To fleer and scorn at our solemnity?
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Now, by the stock and honour of my kin,
To strike him dead I hold it not a sin.
Capulet. Why, how now, kinsman! wherefore storm you so?
Tybalt. Uncle, this is a Montague, our foe,
A villain that is hither come in spite,
To scorn at our solemnity this night.
Capulet. Young Romeo is it?
Tybalt. 'Tis he, that villain Romeo.
Capulet. Content thee, gentle coz, let him alone.
He bears him like a portly gentleman;
And, to say truth, Verona brags of him
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To be a virtuous and well-govern'd youth.
I would not for the wealth of all the town
Here in my house do him disparagement;
Therefore be patient, take no note of him.
It is my will, the which if thou respect,
Show a fair presence and put off these frowns,
An ill-beseeming semblance for a feast.
Tybalt. It fits when such a villain is a guest;
I'll not endure him.
Capulet. He shall be endur'd;
What, goodman boy! I say he shall. Go to;
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Am I the master here, or you? go to.
You'll not endure him!—God shall mend my soul!—
You'll make a mutiny among my guests!
You will set cock-a-hoop! you'll be the man!
Tybalt. Why, uncle, 'tis a shame.
Capulet Go to, go to;
You are a saucy boy.—Is 't so, indeed?—
This trick may chance to scathe you—I know what.
You must contrary me! marry, 'tis time.—
Well said, my hearts!—You are a princox; go!
Be quiet, or—More light, more light!—For shame!
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I'll make you quiet. What!—Cheerly, my hearts!
Tybalt. Patience perforce with wilful choler meeting
Makes my flesh tremble in their different greeting.
I will withdraw; but this intrusion shall,
Now seeming sweet, convert to bitter gall. [Exit.
Romeo. [To Juliet] If I profane with my unworthiest hand
This holy shrine, the gentle fine is this:
My lips, two blushing pilgrims, ready stand
To smooth that rough touch with a tender kiss.
Juliet. Good pilgrim, you do wrong your hand too much,
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Which mannerly devotion shows in this;
For saints have hands that pilgrims' hands do touch,
And palm to palm is holy palmers' kiss.
Romeo. Have not saints lips, and holy palmers too?
Juliet. Ay, pilgrim, lips that they must use in prayer.
Romeo. O, then, dear saint, let lips do what hands do;
They pray, grant thou, lest faith turn to despair.
Juliet. Saints do not move, though grant for prayers' sake.
Romeo. Then move not, while my prayer's effect I take.
Thus from my lips by thine my sin is purg'd. [Kissing her.
Juliet. Then have my lips the sin that they have took.
Romeo. Sin from my lips? O trespass sweetly urg'd!
Give me my sin again.
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Juliet. You kiss by the book.
Nurse. Madam, your mother craves a word with you.
Romeo. What is her mother?
Nurse. Marry, bachelor,
Her mother is the lady of the house,
And a good lady, and a wise and virtuous.
I nurs'd her daughter that you talk'd withal;
I tell you, he that can lay hold of her
Shall have the chinks.
Romeo. Is she a Capulet?
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O dear account! my life is my foe's debt.
Benvolio. Away, be gone; the sport is at the best.
Romeo. Ay, so I fear; the more is my unrest.
Capulet. Nay, gentlemen, prepare not to be gone;
We have a trifling foolish banquet towards.—
Is it e'en so? why, then, I thank you all;
I thank you, honest gentlemen; good night.—
More torches here!—Come on then, let's to bed.
Ah, sirrah, by my fay, it waxes late;
I'll to my rest. [Exeunt all but Juliet and Nurse.
Juliet. Come hither, nurse. What is yond gentleman?
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Nurse. The son and heir of old Tiberio.
Juliet. What's he that now is going out of door?
Nurse. Marry, that, I think, be young Petruchio.
Juliet. What's he that follows there, that would not dance?
Nurse. I know not.
Juliet. Go, ask his name.—If he be married,
My grave is like to be my wedding bed.
Nurse.