So soon to bid good morrow to thy bed:
Care keeps his watch in every old man’s eye,
And where care lodges sleep will never lie;
But where unbruised youth with unstuff’d brain
Doth couch his limbs, there golden sleep doth reign:
Therefore thy earliness doth me assure
Thou art uprous’d with some distemperature;
Or if not so, then here I hit it right,—
Our Romeo hath not been in bed tonight.
ROMEO.
That last is true; the sweeter rest was mine.
FRIAR.
God pardon sin! wast thou with Rosaline?
ROMEO.
With Rosaline, my ghostly father? no;
I have forgot that name, and that name’s woe.
FRIAR.
That’s my good son: but where hast thou been then?
ROMEO.
I’ll tell thee ere thou ask it me again.
I have been feasting with mine enemy;
Where, on a sudden, one hath wounded me
That’s by me wounded. Both our remedies
Within thy help and holy physic lies;
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