 Romeo and Juliet by William Shakespeare. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. PERSONS REPRESENTED Escalus, Prince of Verona, read by David Munkaster. Paris, a young nobleman, kinsman to the prince, read by M.B. Montague, read by Chris Hughes, and Capulet, read by Andy Minter, heads of two houses at variants with each other. An old man, uncle to Capulet, read by Alan Davis Drake. Romeo, son to Montague, read by Simon Taylor. Mercutio, kinsman to the prince, and friend to Romeo, read by Andrew Abram. Benvolio, nephew to Montague, and friend to Romeo, read by David Nickel. Tybold, nephew to Lady Capulet, read by Joshua B. Christensen. Friar Lawrence, our Franciscan, read by Alan Davis Drake. Friar John, of the same order, read by Sean McKinley. Balthazar, servant to Romeo, read by Scott D. Farquhar. Samson, servant to Capulet, read by Esther. Gregory, servant to Capulet, read by David O'Connell. Peter, servant to Juliet's nurse, read by Jacina. Abraham, servant to Montague, read by Caliban. An apothecary, read by Lucy Perry. Three musicians, read by Laurie Ann Walden, Olm123, and Aaron Walden. Chorus, read by Ancila. Page to Paris, read by C.J. Noack. Lady Montague, wife to Montague, read by Christine Noack. Lady Capulet, wife to Capulet, read by Corey Samuel. Juliet, daughter to Capulet, read by Elizabeth Clett. Nurse to Juliet, read by Kristen Hughes. Servants to Capulet, read by Abigail Bartels and Lizzie Driver. Three Watchmen, read by Caliban, Jacina, and Brifery. Citizens, read by Rice Lawson and Laurie Ann Walden. Stage Directions, read by David Lawrence. The Prologue of Romeo and Juliet by William Shakespeare. Enter Chorus. Two households, both alike in dignity. In fair Verona, where we lay our scene. From ancient grudge break to new mutiny, where civil blood makes civil hands unclean. From forth the fatal loins of these two foes, a pair of star-crossed lovers take their life. Whose misadventured pideous overthrows, doth with their death bury their parents' strife. The fearful passage of their death marked love and continuance of their parents' rage, which but their children's end not could remove, is now the two-hour's traffic of our stage. The witch, if you with patienteers attend, what here shall miss, our toil shall strive to mend. Exit. End of Prologue. Act I of Romeo and Juliet by William Shakespeare. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Act I. Scene I. A public place. Enter Samson and Gregory, armed with swords and bucklers. Gregory, on my word, will not carry coals. No, for then we should be coals. I mean, and we'd be in collar, we'll draw. Aye, while you live, draw your neck out of the collar. I strike quickly, being moved. But thou art not quickly moved to strike. A dog of the house of Montague moves me. To move is to stir, and to be valiant is to stand. Therefore if thou art moved, thou runst away. A dog of that house shall move me to stand. I will take the wall of any man or maid of Montague's. That shows thee a weak slave, for the weakest goes to the wall. And therefore women, being the weaker vessels, are ever thrust to the wall. Therefore I will push Montague's men from the wall, and thrust his maids to the wall. The quarrel is between our masters, and us their men. Tis all one. I will show myself a tyrant. When I have fought with the men, I will be cruel with the maids. I will cut off their heads. The heads of the maids? Aye, the heads of the maids, or their maiden heads. They must take it in what sense thou wilt. They must take it in sense that feel it. Me, they shall feel while I am able to stand. And Tis known, I am a pretty piece of flesh. Tis well thou art not fish. If thou hadst, thou hadst been poor John. Draw thy tool. Here comes two of the house of Montague's. My naked weapon is out. Quarrel, I will back thee. How? Turn thy back and run? Fear me not. No, Mary, I fear thee. Let us take the law of our sides. Let them begin. I will frown as I pass by, and let them take it as they list. Nay, as they dare, I will bite my thumb at them, which is disgrace to them if they bear it. Enter Abraham and Balthazar. Do you bite your thumb at us, sir? I do bite my thumb, sir. Do you bite your thumb at us, sir? Is the law of our side, if I say aye? No. No, sir. I do not bite my thumb at you, sir. But I bite my thumb, sir. Do you quarrel, sir? Quarrel, sir? No, sir. But if you do, sir, am for you. I serve as good a man as you. No better? Well, sir. St. Better, here comes one of my master's kinsmen. Yes, better, sir. You lie. Draw if you be men. Gregory, remember thy swashing blow. Fight. Enter Benvolio. Part, fools. Put up your swords. You know not what you do. Beats down their swords. Enter Tybalt. What? Art thou drawn among these heartless hines? Turn thee, Benvolio. Look upon my death. I do but keep the peace. Put up thy sword, or manage it to part these men with me. What? Draw on and talk of peace. I hate the word. As I hate hell, all Montague's and thee have at thee towered. They fight. Enter several of both houses who join the fray. Then enter citizens with clubs. Clubs, bills and partisans strike. Beat them down. Down with the Capulets. Down with the Montague's. Enter Capulet in his gown and Lady Capulet. What noise is this? Give me my long sword, oh. A crutch, a crutch. Why call you for a sword? My sword, I say. Old Montague has come and flourishes his blade in spite of me. Enter Montague and his Lady Montague. Thou villain, Capulet. Hold me not. Let me go. Thou shalt not stir one foot to seek a foe. Enter Prince with attendance. Rebellious subjects. Enemies to peace. Profaners of this neighbour's stained steel. Will they not hear? What owe you men, you beasts, that quench the fire of your pernicious rage with purple fountains issuing from your veins on pain of torture from those bloody hands. Throw your mistempered weapons to the ground and hear the sentence of your moving prince. Three civil brawls. Bread of an airy word. By thee, old Capulet and Montague, have thrice disturbed the quiet of our streets and made Verona's ancient citizens cast by their grave-beseeming ornaments to wield all partisans in hands as old, cankered with peace, to part your cankered hate. If you ever disturb our streets again, your lives shall pay the forfeit of the peace. For this time, all the rest depart away. You, Capulet, shall go along with me and Montague, come you this afternoon to know our father's pleasure in this case, to old Freetown, our common judgement-place. Once more, on pain of death, all men depart. Excellent Prince and Attendance, Capulet, Lady Capulet, Tybald, Citizens and Servants. Who set this ancient quarrel new approach? Speak, nephew, will you buy when it began? Here were the servants of your adversary and yours close-fighting, air-eyed approach. I drew to part them. In the instant came the fiery Tybalt with his sword prepared, which, as he breathed defiance to my ears, he swung about his head and cut the winds and nothing hurt with all hised him in scorn. While we were interchanging thrusts and blows, came more and more and fought on part and part till the Prince came, who parted either part. Oh, where is Romeo? Saw you him to-day? Right glad I am he was not at this fray. Madam, an hour before the worshipped son peered forth the golden window of the east, a troubled mind draved me to walk abroad, where, underneath the grove of Sycamore, that westward routeth from the city's side, so early walking did I see your son. Towards him I made, but he was aware of me and stole into the covert of the wood. I, measuring his affections by my own that are most busied when they are most alone, pursued my humour not pursuing his, and gladly shunned who gladly fled from me. Many a morning hath he there been seen, with tears augmenting the fresh morning's dew, adding to clouds more clouds with his deep sighs. But all so soon as the all-charing sun should in the farthest east begin to draw the shady curtains from Aurora's bed, away from light steals home my heavy sun, and private in his chamber pens himself, shuts up his windows, locks fair daylight out and makes himself an artificial night. Black and portentious must this humour prove unless good counsel may the cause remove. My noble uncle, do you know the cause? I neither know it nor can learn of him. Have you importuned him by any means? Both by myself and many other friends. But he, his own affections, counsellor, is to himself, I will not say how true, but to himself so secret and so close, so far from sounding and discovery, as is the bud bit with an envious worm, ere he can spread his sweet leaves to the air, or dedicate his beauty to the sun. Could we but learn from whence his sorrows grow, we would as willingly give cure as no. See where he comes! So please you step aside. I'll know his grievance, or be much denied. I would thy word so happy by thy stay to hear true shrift. Come, madam, let's away. Exant Montague and Lady, enter Romeo. Good morrow, cousin. Is the day so young? But news struck nine. I, me, sad hours seem long. Was that my father that went hence so fast? It was. What sadness lengthens Romeo's hours? Not having that, which having makes them short. In love? Out. Of love? Out of her favour, where I am in love. Alas, that love so gentle in his view should be so tyrannous and rough in proof! Alas, that love whose view is muffled still should without eyes see pathways to his will. Where shall we dine? Oh, what fray was here! Yet tell me not, for I've heard it all. Here's much to do with hate, but more with love. Why, then, o brawling love, o loving hate, o anything of nothing first create. O heavy lightness, serious vanity, mis-shape and chaos of well-seeming forms, feather of lead, bright smoke, cold fire, sick health, still waking sleep. That is not what it is. This love, feel I, that feel no love in this. Does thou not laugh? No, cos I rather weep. Good heart at what? At thy good heart's oppression. Why, such is love's transgression. Griefs of mine own lie heavy in my breast, which thou wilt propagate to have it pressed, with more of thine, this love that thou has shown doth add more grief to too much of mine own. Love is a smoke raised with a fume of sighs, being purged, a fire sparkling in lover's eyes, being vexed, a sea nourished with lover's tears. What is it else? A madness most discreet, a choking gall and a preserving sweet. Farewell, my cos. Going, soft, I will go along, and if you leave me so, you do me wrong. Tut, I have lost myself. I am not here. This is not Romeo. He's some other where. Tell me, in sadness, who is that you love? What shall I groan and tell thee? Groan? Why, no, but sadly tell me who. A bit of sick man in sadness make his will. Word ill urged to one that is so ill. In sadness, cousin, I do love a woman. I aim so near when I supposed you loved. A right good markman, and she's fair I love. A right fair mark, fair cos, is soonest hit. Well, in that hit you miss, she'll not be hit with Cupid's arrow. She have Diane's wit, and in strong proof of chastity well armed. From love's weak childish bow, she lives unharmed. She'll not stay the siege of loving terms, nor bide the encounter of assailing eyes, nor ope her lap to saints adducing gold. Oh, she's rich in beauty, only poor that when she dies, with beauty dies her stall. Then she have sworn that she will still live chaste? She have, and in that sparing makes huge waste for beauty, starved with her severity cuts beauty off from all posterity. She's too fair, too wise, wisely too fair, to merit bliss by making me despair. She have foresworn to love, and in that vow do I live dead that live to tell it now. He rule by me, forget to think of her. Oh, teach me how I should forget to think. By giving liberty unto thine eyes, examine other beauties. Tis the way to call hers exquisite in question more. These happy masks that kiss fair ladies brows, being black, puts us in mind they hide the fair. He that is struck and blind cannot forget the precious treasure of his eyesight lost. Show me a mistress that is passing fair, what doth her beauty serve but as a note where I may read who passed that passing fair. Farewell, thou canst not teach me to forget. I'll pay that doctrine, or else die in debt. Excellent. Scene two. A street. Intercapulet, Paris, and servant. But Montague is bound as well as I, in penalty alike. It is not hard, I think, for men so old as we to keep the peace. Of honourable reckoning are you both, and pity tears you lived at odds so long. But now, my lord, what say you to my suit? But saying all what I have said before. My child is yet a stranger in the world. She hath not seen the change of fourteen years. Let two more summers wither in their pride. There we may think her right to be a bride. Younger than she are happy mothers made. And too soon marred are those so early made. The earth hath swallowed all my hopes but she. She is the hopeful lady of my earth. But woo her gentle Paris, get her heart. My will to her consent is but a part. And she agree within her scope of choice lies my consent. And fair recording voice. This night I hold an older custom feast. Where too I have invited many a guest, such as I love. And you among the store one more most welcome makes my number more. At my poor house look to behold this night. Earth treading stars that make dark heaven light. Such comfort as do lusty young men feel, when well appalled April on the heel of limping winter treads. Even such delight among fresh female buds shall you this night inherit at my house. Here all see, unlike her most, whose merit most shall be. Which among view of many mine being one may stand in number, though in reckoning none. Come, go with me. Go, Sira, trudge about through fair Verona. Find those persons out whose names are written there. Gives a paper. And to them say, my house and welcome on their pleasure stay. Exit Capulet and Paris. Find them out whose names are written here. It is written that the shoemaker should meddle with his yard and the tailor with his last, the fisher with his pencil and the painter with his nets. But I am sent to find those persons whose names are here writ and can never find what names the writing person hath here writ. I must to the learned in good time. Entry Benvolio and Romeo. Tut, man, one fire burns out another's burning. One pain is lessened by another's anguish. Turn giddy and be hulp by backward turning. One desperate grief cures with another's languish. Take thou some new infection to thy eye, and the rank poison of the old will die. Your plantain leaf is excellent for that. For what, I pray thee? For your broken shin. Why, Romeo, art thou mad? Not mad, but bound more than a madman is. Shut up in prison, kept without my food, whipped and tormented and... Good then, good fellow. God give good then. I pray, sir, can you read? I, mine own fortune in my misery. Perhaps you have learned it without book. But I pray, can you read anything you see? I, if I know the letters and the language. You say honestly. Rest you merry. Stay, fellow. I can read. Reads. Senior Martino and his wife and daughters. County Anselmo and his beautiest sisters. The Lady Widow of Vitruvio. Senior Plascencio and his lovely nieces. Mercutio and his brother Valentine. Mine Uncle Capulet, his wife and daughters. My fair niece Rosaline. Livia, senior Valencio and his cousin Tybalt. Lucio and the lively Helena. A fair assembly. Gives back the paper. Wither, should they come? Up. Wither? To supper. To our house. Whose house? My master's. Indeed, I should have asked you that before. Now I'll tell you without asking. My master is the great rich Capulet. And if you be not of the house of Montegous, I pray, come and crush a cup of wine. Rest you merry. Exit. At this same ancient feast of Capulets, Sups the fair Rosaline, whom thou so lovest, With all the admired beauties of Verona. Go dither, and with unattainted eye, Compare her face with some that I shall show, And I will make thee think thy swan acro. When the devout religion of mine I maintain such falsehood, Then turn tears to fires. And these, who often drowned, could never die, Transparent heretics be burnt for liars. One fairer than my love, The all-seeing son, Near saw her match since first the world begun. Tut, you saw her fair, none else being by, Herself poised with herself in either eye, But in that crystal scales let there be weighed Your lady's love against some other maid, That I will show you shining at this feast, And she shall scant show well, That now shows best. I'll go along, no such sight to be shown, But to rejoice in splendour of my own. Exit. Scene three. Room in Capulet's house. Enter Lady Capulet, and nurse. Nurse, where's my daughter? Call her forth to me. Now, by my maiden-head, At twelve-year-old I bade her come. What lamb, what lady-bird! God forbid, where's this girl? What Juliet? Enter Juliet. How now, who calls? Your mother. Madam, I am here. What is your will? This is the matter. Nurse, give leave a while, we must talk in secret. Nurse, come back again. I have remembered me. Thou's here, our council. Thou knowest my daughter's of a pretty age. Faith, I can tell her age unto an hour. She's not fourteen. I'll lay fourteen of my teeth. But to my teen it be spoken I have but four. She is not fourteen. How long is it now to lamestide? A fortnight, and odd days. Even a rod of all days in a year Come lamest eve at night, she shall be fourteen. Susan and she, God rest all Christian souls. We're of an age. Well, Susan is with God. She was too good for me. But as I said, on lamest eve at night, shall she be fourteen. That she may marry, I remember it well. It is since the earthquake now eleven years, and she was weaned. I never shall forget it, of all the days of the year upon that day. For I had then laid wormwood to my dug, sitting in the sun under the dove-house wall. My lord knew would then at Mantua. Nay, I do bear a brain. As I said, when it did taste the wormwood on the nipple of my dug and felt it bitter, pretty fool, to see it techy, and fall out with the dug. Shake, quote the dove-house. It was no need, I throw, to bid me trudge. And since that time it is eleven years, for then she could stand alone. Nay, by the rude she could have run and waddled all about. For even the day before she broke her brow, and then my husband, God be with his soul, a was a merry man took up the child. Yay, quote he! Dost thou fall upon thy face? Thou wilt fall backward when thou hast more wit. Wilt thou not jewel? And by my holy dame, the pretty wretch left crying and said, I, to see now how a jest shall come about. I warrant, and I should live a thousand years. I never should forget it. Wilt thou not jewel, quote he, and pretty fool it stinted and said, I? Enough of this. I pray thee, hold thy peace. Yes, madam. Yet I cannot choose but laugh, to think it should leave crying and say, I. And yet I warrant it had upon its brow a bump as big as a young cockerel's stone, a perilous knock, and it cried bitterly. Yay, quote my husband, falst upon thy face? Thou wilt fall backward when thou comes to age? Wilt thou not jewel? It stinted and said, I? And stint thou too, I pray thee, nurse, say, I? Peace I have done. Thou wasst the prettiest babe that ere I nursed. And I might live to see thee married once I have my wish. Mary, that Mary is the very theme I came to talk of. Tell me, daughter Juliet, how stands your disposition to be married? It is an honour that I dream not of. An honour? Were not I thine only nurse? I would say thou had sucked wisdom from thy teat. Well, think of marriage now. Younger than you, here in Verona, ladies of esteem are made already mothers. By my count I was your mother much upon these years that you are now a maid. Thus, then, in brief, the valiant Paris seeks you for his love. A man, young lady, lady such a man as all the world! Why, he's a man of wax. Verona's summer hath not such a flower. Nay, he's a flower in faith, a very flower. What say you? Can you love the gentleman? This night you shall behold him at our feast. Read our the volume of young Paris's face, and find delight writ there with beauty's pen. Examine every married lineament, and see how one another lends content, and what obscured in this fair volume lies, find written in the margin of his eyes. This precious book of love, this unbound lover, to beautify him only lacks a cover. The fish lives in the sea, and is much pride for fair without the fair within to hide. That book in many's eyes doth share the glory, that in gold clasps locks in the golden story. So shall you share all that he doth possess. By having him, making yourself no less. No less? Nay, bigger! Women grow by men. Speak briefly. Can you like of Paris's love? I'll look to like, if looking liking move. But no more deep will I endart mine eye, than your consent gives strength to make it fly. Enter a servant. Madam, the guests are come, supper served up. You called, my young lady asked for. The nurse cursed in the pantry, and everything in extremity. I must hence to wait. I beseech you follow straight. We follow thee. Exit, servant. Juliet, the county stays. Go, girl. Seek happy nights to happy days. Exit. Scene four. A street. Enter Romeo, Mercutio, Benvolio, with five or six maskers, torchbearers, and others. What? Shall this speech be spoke for our excuse, or shall we on without apology? The date is out of such prolixity. We'll have no cupid hoodwinked with a scarf, bearing a tartar's painted bow of lath, scaring the ladies like a crowkeeper, nor, no, without book prologue, faintly spoke after the prompter for our entrance. But let them measure us by what they will. We'll measure them a measure, and be gone. Give me a torch. I'm not for this ambling. Being but heavy, I will bear the light. Nay, gentle Romeo. We must have you dance. Not I, believe me. You have dancing shoes with nimble soles. I have a soul of lead, so stakes me to the ground I cannot move. You are a lover. Borrow cupid's wings, and soar with them above a common bound. I am too sore and pierced with his shaft to soar with his light feathers, and so bound I cannot bound a pitch above dull woe. Under love's heavy burden do I sink. And to sink it in should you burden love. Too great oppression for a tender thing. Is love a tender thing? It is too rough, too rude, too boisterous, and it pricks like thorn. If love be rough with you, be rough with love. Prick love for pricking, and you beat love down. Give me a case to put my visage in. Putting on a mask. A visor'd for a visor'd. What care I what curious I doth quote deformities? Here are the beetle-brows shall blush for me. Come, knock an enter, and no sooner in, but every man betake him to his legs. A torch for me, let wanton's light of heart tickle the senseless rushes with their heels, for I am proverbed with a grand sire phrase. I'll be a candle-holder and look on. The game was near so fair, and I am done. Soth, done's the mouse, the constable's own word. If thou art done, we'll draw thee from the mire of this, so reverent, love, wherein thou sticks'd up to the ears. Come, we burn daylight, how? Nay, that's not so. I mean, sir, in delay we waste our lights in vain, like lamps by day. Take our good meaning, for our judgment sits five times in that, ere once in our five wits. And we mean well in going to this mask, but tis no wit to go. Why, may one ask? I dreamt a dream tonight. And so did I. Well, what was yours? That dreamers often lie. In bed asleep, while they do dream things true. Oh, then I see Queen Mab have been with you. She is the fairy's midwife, and she comes in shape no bigger than an agate stone on the forefinger of an alderman, drawn with a team of little atomies a thwart men's noses as they lie asleep. Her wagon spokes made of long spinner's legs, the cover of the wings of grasshoppers, the traces of the smallest spider's web, the collars of the moonshine's watery beams, her whip of cricket's bone, the lash of film, her wagoner, a small gray-coated net, not half so big as a round little worm pricked from the lazy finger of a maid. Her chariot is an empty hazelnut made by the joiner-squirrel or old grub, time out of mind the fairy's coach-makers. And in this state she gallops night by night through lovers' brains, and then they dream of love, or courtiers' knees that dream on curtsies straight, or lawyers' fingers who straight dream on thieves, or ladies' lips who straight on kisses dream, which oft the angry mad with blisters plagues because their breaths with sweetmeats tainted are. Sometimes she gallops or a courtiers' nose, and then dreams he of smelling out a suit, and sometimes comes she with a tithe-pig's tail tickling a parson's nose as he lies asleep, then dreams he of another benefice. Sometime he drives or a soldier's neck, and then dreams he of cutting foreign throats, of breeches, and buscados, Spanish blades of health's five-fathomed deep, and then anon drums in his ear, at which he starts and wakes, and, being thus frightened, swears a prayer or two and sleeps again. This is that very mab that plaits the mains of horses in the night, and bakes the elf-locks in foul sluttish hairs, which once untangled much misfortune-boats. This is the hag when maids lie on their backs that presses them and learns them first to bear, making them women of good courage. This is she! Peace, peace, Mercutio, peace, thou talks of nothing! True, I talk of dreams, which are the children of an idle brain, begot of nothing but vain fantasy, which is as thin of substance as the air, and more inconstant than the wind, who woos even now the frozen bosom of the north, and, being angered, puffs away from thence, turning his face to the dew-dropping south. This wind you talk of blows us from ourselves. Supper is done, and we shall come too late. I fear too early for my mind misgives some consequence, yet hanging in the stars shall bitterly begin his fearful date with this night's revels and expire the term of a despised life closed in my breast by some vile forfeit of untimely death. But he that hath a steerage of my course directs my sail. On, rusty gentleman! Strike drum! Exit. Scene five, a hall in Capulet's house. Musicians waiting. Enter servants. Where's Potpan? That he helps not to take away. He's shifted trencher. He's scraped a trencher. When could Manas shall lie all in one or two men's hands? And they unwashed, too. Tis a foul thing. Away with the joined stools. Remove the court cupboard. Look to the plate. Good thou, save me a piece of march-pain. And as thou loves me, let the porter let in Susan Grindstone and Nell. Antony and Potpan. Aye, boy, ready. You are looked for and called for, asked for and sought for in the great chamber. We cannot be here and there, too. Cheerily, boys, be brisk awhile, and the longer live a take-all. They retire behind. Enter Capulet and company, with the guests, the maskers. Welcome, gentlemen. Ladies that have their toes unplayed with corns will have a bout with you. Ah, my mistresses! Which of you all will now deny to dance? She that makes dainty? She, I'll swear, have corns. Am I come near you now? Welcome, gentlemen. I have seen the day that I have worn a vizard and could tell a whispering tale in a fair lady's ear, such as would be sm... It is gone. It is gone. It is gone. You're welcome, gentlemen. Come, musicians, play. The hall all give room and foot it goes. Music plays, and they dance. More light you knaves, turn the tables up, and quench the fire. The room is grown too hot. Ah, Syrah! This unlooked-for sport comes well. Nay, sit, nay, sit, good cousin Capulet. For you and I are past our dancing days. How long it's now since last yourself and I were in the mask? By your lady. Thirty years. What, man? Tis not so much. Tis not so much. It is since the nutshell of Lucentio. Come, Pentecost, as quickly as it will some five and twenty years, and then we masked. Tis more, tis more. His son is elder, sir. His son is thirty. Wait, you tell me that. His son was but a ward two years ago. What lady is that, which doth enrich the hand of yonder night? Not, sir. Oh, she doth teach the torches to burn bright. It seems she hangs upon the cheek of night like a rich jewel in Ethiopia's ear. Beauty too rich for use for earth, too dear. So shows a snowy dove trooping with crows as yonder lady over her fellow's 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 for swear it sight, for I nests saw true beauty till this night? This, by his voice, should be a Montague. Fetch me, my rapier boy. What dares the slave come hither covered with an antique face to fleer and scorn at our salinity? By the stock and honour of my kin to strike him dead, I hold it not a sin. Why, how now, kinsmen? Wherefore storm you so? Uncle, this is a Montague, our foe, a villain that has hit a common spite to scorn at our salinity this night. Young Romeo, is it? Tis he that villain, Romeo. Content thee, gentle cars, let him alone. He bears him like a portly gentleman, and to say truth verona brags of him to be of virtuous and well-governed 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, and he'll be seeming semblance for a feast. It fits. When such a villain is a guest, I'll not endure him. He shall be endured. What, good man boy? I say he shall. Go to. 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. Why, uncle, tis a shame. Go to. Go to. You are a saucy boy. It's so indeed. This trick may chance to scage you. I know what you must contrarry me. Marry tis time. Well said, my hearts. You are a prink ox. Go. Be quiet, or more light, more light. For shame I'll make you quiet. What? Cheerily, my hearts. Patience perforce with willful collar meeting makes my flesh tremble in their different greeting. I will withdraw. But this intrusion shall, now seeming sweet, convert to bitter gall. Exit. 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. Good pilgrim, you do wrong your hand too much, which mannerly devotion shows in this. For saints have hands that pilgrims' hands do touch, and palm to palm this holy palmer's kiss. Have not saints' lips and holy palmers, too? I, pilgrim, lips that they must use in prayer. Oh, then, dear saint, let lips do what hands do. They pray, grant thou, lest faith turn to despair. Saints do not move, though grant for prayer's sake. And move not while my prayer's effect I take. Thus from my lips by thine my sin is purged. Kissing her. Then have my lips the sin that they have took. Sin from my lips? Oh, trespass, sweetly urged. Give me my sin again. You kiss by the book. Madam, your mother craves a word with you. What is her mother? Mary bachelor, her mother is the lady of the house, and a good lady, and a wise and virtuous. I nursed her daughter that you talked with all. I tell you, he that can lay hold of her shall have the chinks. Is she a capulet? Oh, dear account, my life is my foe's debt. Away be gone, the sport is at the best. Aye, so I fear the more is my unrest. Nay, gentlemen, prepare not to be gone. We have a trifling foolish banquet towards. Is Dean so? Why, then, I thank you all. I thank you, honest gentleman. Good night. More torches here. Come on, then. Let's debate. Ah, Sira. To second, capulet. By my fey it waxes late. I'll to my rest. Excellent. All but Juliet and nurse. Come hither, nurse. What is yawned, gentlemen? The sun and air of old Tiberio. What's he that now is going out of door? Mary, that, I think, be young Petrucchio. What's he that follows there that would not dance? I know not. Go ask his name. If he be married, my grave is like to be my wedding bed. His name is Romeo and Montague. The only son of your great enemy. My only love sprung from my only hate. Too early seen unknown and known too late. Predigious birth of love it is to me that I must love a loathed enemy. What's this? What's this? A rhyme I learned even now of when I danced with all. One calls within. Juliet. Anon, anon. Come, let's away. The strangers are all gone. Excellent. Enter Chorus. Now old desire doth in his deathbed lie. And young affection gapes to be his heir. That fair for which love groaned for it would die. With tender Juliet matched is now not fair. Now Romeo is beloved and loves again. A like bewitched by the charm of looks. But to his foe supposed he must complain. And she still loves sweet bait from fearful hooks. Being held afoe he may not have access. To breathe such vows as lovers used to swear. And she as much in love her means much less. To meet her new beloved anywhere. But passion lends them power, time means to meet. Tempering extremities with extreme sweet. Exit. End of Act 1. Act 2 of Romeo and Juliet by William Shakespeare. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Act 2. Scene 1. An opening place adjoining Capulet's garden. Enter Romeo. Can I go forward when my heart is here? Turn back dull earth and find thy centre out. He climbs the wall and leaps down within it. Enter Benvolio and Mercutio. Romeo! My cousin Romeo! He is wise and on my life hath stolen him to bed. He ran this way and leapt this orchard wall. Call good Mercutio. Nay, I'll conjure too. Romeo! Humours! Madman! Passion! Lover! Appear thou in the likeness of a sigh. Speak but one rhyme and I am satisfied. Cry but a me. Pronounce but love and dove. Speak to my gossip Venus one fair word. One nickname for her purplined son and heir, young Auburn Cupid, that shot so trim when King Cafetua loved the bigger maid. He hath not. He stireth not. He moveth not. The ape is dead and I must conjure him. I conjure thee by Rosalie's bright eyes, by her high forehead and her scarlet lip, by her fine foot, straight leg and quivering thigh, and the dimensities that their adjacent lie. That in thy likeness thou appear to us. And if he hear thee thou will anger him. This cannot anger him. To it anger him to raise a spirit in his mistress's circle of some strange nature, letting it there stand till she had laid it and conjured it down. That were some spite. My invocation is fair and honest, and in his mistress's name I conjure only but to raise up him. Come, he hath hid himself amongst these trees to be consorted with the humorous night. Blind is his love, and best befits the dark. If love be blind, love cannot hit the mark. Now will he sit under a meddler tree and wish his mistress were that kind of fruit as maids call meddlers when they laugh alone. Romeo, good night. I'll to my trucker bed. This field bed is too cold for me to sleep. Come, shall we go? Go then, for tis in vain to seek him here that means not to be found. Excellent. Scene two. Capulet's garden. Enter Romeo. He jests at scars that never fell to wound. Juliet appears above at a window. But soft! What light through yonder window breaks. It is the east, and Juliet is the sun. Rise, first sun, and kill the envious moon who is already sick and pale with grief that thou, her maid, art far more fair than she. Be not her maid, since she is envious. Her vestal livery is but sick and green and none but fools do wear it, cast it off. It is my lady. Oh, it is my love. Oh, that she knew she were. She speaks. Yet she says nothing. What of that? Her eye discourses. I will answer it. I'm too bold. It is not to me she speaks. Two of the fairest stars in all of heaven having some business to entreat her eyes to twinkle in their spheres till they return. What if her eyes were there, they in her head? The brightness of her cheek would shame those stars as daylight doth a lamp. Her eyes in heaven ward through the airy region stream so bright that birds would sing and think it were not night. See how she leans her cheek upon her hand. Oh, that I were a glove upon that hand that I might touch that cheek. Ah, me. She speaks. Oh, speak again, bright angel, for thou art as glorious to this night being over my head as is a winged messenger of heaven unto the white, upturned, wandering eyes of mortals that fall back to gaze on him when he bestrides the lazy-pacing clouds and sails upon the bosom of the air. Oh, Romeo, Romeo, wherefore art thou Romeo? Deny thy father and refuse thy name, or, if thou wilt not, be but sworn my love and all no longer be a capulet. Aside shall I hear more, or shall I speak at this? Tis but thy name that is my enemy. Thou art thyself, though not a Montague. What's Montague? It is nor hand, nor foot, nor arm, nor face, nor any other part belonging to a man. Oh, be some other name. What's in a name? That which we call a rose by any other name would smell as sweet. So Romeo would, were he not Romeo called, retain that dear perfection which he owes without that title. Romeo, doth thy name, and for that name which is no part of thee, take all myself. I'd take thee at thy word, call me but love, and I'll be new baptised, henceforth I never will be Romeo. What man art thou, that thus be screened in night so stumblest on my counsel? By a name I know not how to tell thee who I am. My name, dear saint, is hateful to myself, because it is an enemy to thee. Had I had written, I would tear the word. My ears have not yet drunk a hundred words of that tongue's utterance, yet I know the sound. Art thou not Romeo and a Montague? Neither, fair saint, if either thee dislike. How came'st thou hither? Tell me, and wherefore? The orchard walls are high and hard to climb, and the place death considering who thou art, if any of my kinsmen find thee here. With love's light wings do I owe a perch these walls, for stony limits cannot hold love out, and what love can do that dares love attempt. Therefore thy kinsmen are no let to me. If they do see thee, they will murder thee. Alack! There lies more peril in thine eye than twenty of their swords. Look thou but sweet, and I am proof against their enmity. I would not for the world they saw thee here. I have night's cloak to hide me from their sight, and but thou love me, let them find me here. My life were better ended by their hate than death prorogued wanting of thy love. By whose direction found'st thou out this place? By love that first it prompted me to inquire. He lent me counsel, and I lent him eyes. I am no pilot, yet word thou as far as that vast shore washed with the furthest sea, I would adventure for such merchandise. Thou knowest the mask of night is on my face. Else would a maiden blush be paint my cheek for that which thou hast heard me speak tonight. Fain would I dwell on form. Fain, fain, deny what I have spoke. But farewell, compliment. Dust thou love me? I know thou wilt say I, and I will take thy word. Yet if thou swerst thou maest proof false, at lover's perjuries they say Jove laughs. O gentle Romeo, if thou dust love, pronounce it faithfully. Or if thou thinkst I am too quickly one, I'll frown and be perverse and say thee nay, so thou wilt woo. But else, not for the world. In truth, fair Montague, I am too fond. And therefore thou mayst think my haviour light. But trust me, gentlemen, I'll prove more true than those that have more cunning to be strange. I should have been more strange, I must confess. But that thou overheard stare I was where my true love passion. Therefore pardon me, and not impute this yielding to light to love which the dark night hath so discovered. Lady, by yonder blessed moon I swear that tips with silver all these fruit-tree tops. O swear not by the moon, the inconstant moon that monthly changes in her circled orb, lest that thy love prove likewise variable. What shall I swear by? Do not swear at all. Or if thou wilt swear by thy gracious self, which is the God of my idolatry, and I'll believe thee. With my heart's dear love. Well, do not swear, although I joy in thee I have no joy of this contract tonight. It is too rash, too unadvised, too sudden, too like the lightning which doth cease to be ere one can say it lightens. Sweet good night. This bud of love by summer's ripening breath may prove a beauteous flower when next we meet. Good night. Good night. A sweet repose and rest come to thy heart as that within my breast. Will thou leave me so unsatisfied? What satisfaction canst thou have tonight? The exchange of thy love's faithful vow for mine. I gave thee mine before thou didst request it, and yet I would it were to give again. What's thou withdrawal it? What purpose, love? But to be frank and give it thee again. And yet I wish but for the thing I have. My bounty is as boundless as the sea, my love as deep. The more I give to thee, the more I have, for both are infinite. I hear some noise within. Dear lover, do you? Nurse calls within. A non-good nurse. Sweet Montague be true. Stay but a little, I will come again. Exit. O blessed, blessed night, I am a feared being in night. All this is but a dream, too flattering sweet to be substantial. Enter Juliet above. Three words, dear Romeo, and good night indeed. If that thy bent of love be honourable, thy purpose marriage, send me word to-morrow by one that I'll procure to come to thee. Where and what time thou wilt perform the rite, and all my fortunes at thy foot I'll lay and follow thee, my lord, throughout the world. Within. Madam, I come and on. But if thou means not well, I do beseech thee. Within. Madam, by and by I come. To cease thy suit and leave me to my grief, to-morrow will I send. So thrive my soul. A thousand times, good night. Exit. A thousand times the worst to want thy light. Love goes toward love the schoolboys from their books, but love from love towards school with heavy looks. Retiring slowly, re-enter Juliet above. Hest, Romeo, hissed. Oh, for a falconer's voice to lure this tassle gentle back again. Bondage is hoarse and may not speak aloud. Else would I tear the cave where Echo lies and make her airy tongue more hoarse than mine, with repetition of my Romeo's name. It is my soul that calls upon my name. How silver sweet sound lovers' tongues by night like softest music to attending ears. Romeo, my dear. At what o'clock tomorrow shall I send to thee? At the hour of nine. I will not fail. Tis twenty years till then. I have forgot why I did call thee back. Let me stand here till thou remember it. I shall forget to have thee still stand there, remembering how I love thy company. And I'll still stay, to have thee still forget, forgetting any other home but this. Tis almost morning. I would have be gone. And yet no farther than a wanton's bird that lets it hop a little from her hand like a poor prisoner in his twisted jives, and with a silk thread plucks it back again so loving jealous of his liberty. I would I were thy bird. Sweet so would I. Yet I should kill thee with much cherishing. Good night. Good night. Parting is such sweet sorrow that I shall say good night till it be morrow. Exit. Sleep. Dwell upon mine eyes, peace in thy breast. Would I were sleep and peace so sweet to rest. Hence will I to my ghostly father's cell his help to crave and my dear hap to tell. Exit. Scene three. Friar Lawrence's cell. Enter Friar Lawrence with a basket. The green-eyed morn smiles on the frowning night, checkering the eastern clouds with streaks of light, and flecked darkness like the drunkard reels from fourth day's path and titans fiery wheels. None ere the sun advance his burning eye, the day to cheer and night's dank dew to dry. I must up-fill this osier cage of ours with baleful weeds and precious juiced flowers. The earth, that's nature's mother, is her tomb. What is her burying grave? That is her womb. And from her womb, children of diverse kinds, we sucking on her natural bosom find. Many for many, virtues excellent. None but for some, and yet all different. O, Michael is the powerful grace that lies in plants, herbs, stones, and their true qualities. For not so vile that on the earth doth live, but to the earth some special good doth give. Nor ought so good but strained from that fair use, revolts from true birth, stumbling on abuse. Virtue itself turns vice, being misapplied, and vice sometimes by action dignified. Within the infant rind of this small flower, poison hath residence and medicine power. For this being smelt with that part cheers each part. Being tasted slays all senses with the heart. Two such opposing kings encamp them still in man as well as herbs. Grace and rude will. And where the worser is predominant, full soon the canker death eats up that plant. Enter Romeo. Good morrow, father. Benedictity. What early tongue so sweet saluteeth me. Young son, it argues at this tempered head 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 unbrewed youth with unstuffed brain doth couch his limbs, there golden sleep doth reign. Therefore thy earthiness doth me assure thou art uproused with some distemperature. Or if not so, then here I hid it right. Our Romeo hath not been to bed tonight. That last is true. The sweeter rest was mine. God pardon sin. Wast thou with Rosalyn? With Rosalyn, my ghostly father. No, I have forgot that name and that name's woe. That's my good son. But where hast thou been, then? I'll tell thee ere thou ask at me again. I have been feasting with mine enemy, where on a sudden one hath wounded me that by me wounded both our remedies within thy help and holy physical eyes. I bear no hatred, blessed man, for, lo, my intercession likewise stares my foe. Be plain, good son, and homily in thy drift. Riddling confession finds but riddling shrift. 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 combined save what thou must combine by holy marriage. When, and where, and how we met, we wooved and made exchange of vow, I'll tell thee as we pass. But this I pray that thou consent to marry us today. Holy Saint Francis! What a change is here! Is Rosalyn that thou didst love so dear, so soon forsaken? Young men's love, then, lies not truly in their hearts, but in their eyes. Jesus Maria! What a deal of brine hath washed thy sallow cheeks for Rosalyn! How much salt water thrown away in waste to season love that doth not taste! The sun not yet thy size from heaven clears the old groan's ring yet in mine ancient ears. Lo, here upon thy cheek the stained doth sit of an old tear that is not washed off yet. If ere thou wasst thyself and these woes thine, thou and these woes were all for Rosalyn. And art thou changed? Pronounce these sentences, then, women may fall where there's no strength in men. Thou chidst me oft for loving Rosalyn. For doting not for loving pupil mine. And paged me very love. Not in a grave to lay one in, another out to have. I pray thee chide not, she whom I love now doth grace for grace and love for love allow, the other did not so. Oh, she knew well, thy love did read by rote that could not spell. But come, young waiverer, come go with me. In one respect I thy assistant be. For this alliance may so happy prove to turn our household's ranker to pure love. Oh, let us hence I stand on sudden haste. Wisely and slow. They stumble that run fast. Excent. Scene four, a street. Enter Benvolio and Mercutio. Where the devil should this Romeo be? Came he not home tonight? Not to his father's, I spoke with his man. Ah, that same pale, hard-hearted wench, that rose-lean, torments him so that he will sure run mad. Tibalt, the kinsman of old Capulet, hath sent a letter to his father's house. A challenge on my life. Romeo will answer it. Any man that can write may answer a letter. Nay, he will answer the letter's master how he dares being dead. 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 Tibalt? Why, what is Tibalt? More than a prince of cats, I can tell you. Oh, he's the courageous captain of compliments. He fights as you sing pricksong, keeps time, distance, and proportion. Rest's me his minimum rest. One, two, and the third in your bosom. The very butcher of a silk-button. A dualist. A dualist. A gentleman of the very first house. Of the first and second cause. Ah, the immortal passado. The punto-reverso. The hay. The what? The pox of such antique, lisp-ing, affected fantasticos. 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, Grand Sire, that we should be thus afflicted by these strange flies. These fashion-monkers. These pardonemois, who stand so much on the new form that they cannot sit at ease on the old bench. Oh, they're bonds. They're bonds. Here comes Romeo. Here comes Romeo. Without his row, like a dried herring. Oh, 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. Mary, she had a better love to be rhyme her. Dido, a dowdy. Cleopatra, a gypsy. Helen and hero, hildings and harlots. Thisby, a grey eye or so. But not to the purpose. Enter Romeo. Señor Romeo! Bonjour! There is a French salutation to your French slop. You gave us the counterfeit fairly last night. Good morrow to you both. What counterfeit did I give you? The slip, sir. The slip. Can you not conceive? Pardon. Good Mercutio. My business was great, and in such a case as mine, a man may strain courtesy. That's as much to say. Such a case as yours constrains a man to bow in the hands. Meaning to courtesy. Thou hast most kindly hid it. Nay, I am the very pink of courtesy. Pink for flower. Right. Why, then, is my pump well flowered? Well said. Follow me, this jest now, till thou hast worn out thy pump, that when the single soul of it is worn, the jest may remain, after the wearing, soul singular. Oh, single-sold jest, solely singular for the singleness. Come between us, Good Benvolio. My wits faint. Sweets and spurs, sweets and spurs, or I'll cry a match. Nay, if thy wits run the wild goose chase, I have done. For thou hast more of the wild goose in one of thy wits than I am sure I have in my whole five. Was I with you there, for the goose? Thou was never with me for anything when I was not there for the goose. I will bite thee by the ear for that jest. Nay, good goose, bite not. Thy wit is a very bitter sweetening. It is a most sharp sauce. And is it not, then, well-served into a sweet goose? Oh, here's a wit of cheverell that stretches from an inch narrow to an L broad. I will stretch it out for that word broad, which added to the goose proves the far and wide a broad goose. Why, is this not better now than groaning for love? Now art thou sociable, now art thou Romeo. Now art thou what thou art, by art as well as by nature. For this driveling love is like a great natural that runs lulling up and down to hide his bobble in a hole. Stop there, stop there. Thou desirous'd me to stop in my tail against the hare. Thou what else have made thy tail large? Oh, thou art deceived. I would have made it short, for I was come to the whole depth of my tail, and meant, indeed, to occupy the argument no longer. Here's Goodlegere. Enter Nurse and Peter. A sail, a sail, a sail. Two, two, a shirt and a smock. Peter. Anon. My fan, Peter. Good, Peter, to hide her face for her fan's the fairer face. God ye good morrow, gentlemen. God ye good den, fair gentlewoman. Is it good den? Tis no less, I tell ye, for the body hand of the dial is now upon the prick of noon. Out upon you. What a man are you. One, gentlewoman, that God hath made for himself to mar. By my troth it is well said. For himself to mar, quote thee. Gentlemen, can any of you tell me where I may find the young Romeo? I can tell you, but young Romeo will be older when you have found him than he was when you sought him. I am the youngest of that name for fault of the worse. You say well. Yea, is the worst well? Very well took, if faith. Wisely, wisely. If you be he, sir, I desire some confidence with you. She will indict into some supper. What hast thou found? No hair, sir, unless a hair, sir, in a lenten pie, that is something stale and a whore ere it be spent. Sing's. An old hair whore and an old hair whore is very good meat in lant, but a hair that is whore is too much for a score when it whores ere it be spent. Romeo, will you come to your father's? We'll to dinner thither. I will follow you. Farewell, ancient lady, farewell. Singing. Lady, lady, lady. Excellent, Mercutio, and Benvolio. Marry farewell. I pray you, sir, what saucy merchant was this that was so full of his rope-ery? A gentleman, nurse, that loves to hear himself talk and will speak more in a minute than he will stand to in a month. And to speak anything against me, I'll take him down, and a willustier than he is, and twenty such jacks. And if I cannot, I'll find those that shall. Scurvy knave. I am none of his flirt-gills. I am none of his skeins-mates. And thou must stand by, too, and suffer every knave to use me at his pleasure. I saw no man use you at his pleasure. If I had, my weapon should quickly have been out, I warrant you. I dare draw as soon as another man, if I see occasion in a good quarrel. And the law is on my side. Now, for God, I am so vexed that every part about me quivers. Scurvy knave. Pray you, sir, a word. And as I told you, my young lady bid me inquire you out. What she bade me say I will keep to myself. But first let me tell ye, if ye should lead her into a fool's paradise, as they say, it were a very gross kind of behaviour, as they say. For the gentlewoman is young, and therefore, if ye should deal double with her, truly it were an ill thing to be offered to any gentlewoman, and very weak dealing. Nurse, commend me to thy lady and mistress. I protest unto thee. Good heart and in faith I will tell her as much. Lord, Lord, she will be a joyful woman. What will thou tell her, nurse? That does not mark me. I will tell her, sir, that you do protest, which, as I take it, is a gentleman-like offer. I bid her devise some means to come to shrift this afternoon, and there she shall at Friar Lawrence's cell be shrieved and married. Here is for thy pains. No, truly, sir, not a penny. Go too, I say you shall. This afternoon, sir. Well, she shall be there. And stay, good nurse, behind the Abbey Wall. Within this hour my man shall be with thee, and bring thee cords made like a tackled stair, which to the high top gallant of my joy shall be a convoy in a secret night. Farewell. Be trusty, and I'll quit thy pains. Farewell. Commend me to thy mistress. Now, God in heaven bless thee. Hark you, sir. What sayest thou, my dear nurse? Is your man secret? Did you near hear say, too may keep counsel, putting one away? I warrant thee my man's as true as steel. Well, sir, my mistress is the sweetest lady. Lord, Lord, when't was a little prating thing? Oh, there's a nobleman in town. One Paris that would feignly knife aboard, but she, good soul, had as leaf see a toad, a very toad as see him. I anger her sometimes and tell her that Paris is the proper man. But I'll warrant you, when I say so, she looks as pale as any clout in the verseal world. Doth not Rosemary and Romeo both begin with a letter? I, nurse, what of that, both with an R? R, marker. What's the dog's name? R is for the dog. No, I know it begins with some other letter, and she hath the prettiest sententious of it, of you and Rosemary, that it would do you good to hear it. Commend me to thy lady. Aye, a thousand times. Exit Romeo. Peter. Anon. Peter, take my fan and go before. Exit. Scene five. Capulet's garden. Enter Juliet. The clock struck nine when I did send the nurse. In half an hour she promised to return. Perchant she cannot meet him. That's not so. Oh, she is lame. Love's herald should be thoughts, which ten times faster glide than the sun's beams, driving back shadows over lowering hills. Therefore do nimble pinion doves draw love, and therefore hath the windswift cupid's wings. Now is the sun upon the highmost hill of this day's journey, and from nine till twelve is three long hours, yet she is not come. Had she affections and warm youthful blood she'd be as swift in motion as a ball. My words would bandy her to my sweet love and his to me. But old folks, many fain as they were dead, unwieldy, slow, heavy, and pale as lead. Oh, God, she comes! Enter nurse and Peter. Oh, honey nurse, what news! Hast thou met with him? Ascend thy man away. Peter, stay at the gate. Exit Peter. Now, good, sweet nurse. Oh, Lord, why looks thou sad? Though news be sad, yet tell them merrily. If good thou shapes them used to give sweet news by playing it to me with so sour a face. I am a weary. Give me leave awhile. Fire how my bones ache. What a jaunt have I had. I would thou hath my bones and I thy news. Nay, come, I pray thee speak. Good, good, nurse, speak. Jezu, what haste? Can you not stay awhile? Do you not see that I am out of breath? How art thou out of breath when thou hast breath to say to me that thou art out of breath? The excuse that thou dost make in this delay is longer than the tale thou dost excuse. Is thy news good or bad? Answer to that. Say either, and I'll stay the circumstance. Let me be satisfied. Is it good or bad? Well, you have made a simple choice. You know not how to choose a man. Romeo. No, not he. Though his face be better than any man's, yet his leg excels all men's, and for a hand and a foot and a body, though they be not to be talked on, yet they are past compare. He is not the flower of courtesy, but I'll warrant him as gentle as a lamb. Go thy ways, Wench, serve God. What, have you dined at home? No, no, but all this did I know before. What says he of our marriage? What of that? Lord, how my head aches. What a head have I? It beats as if it would fall in twenty pieces. My back at the other side. Oh, my back, my back. Be shrew your heart for sending me about to catch my death with Johnson up and down. If faith, I am sorry that thou art not well. Sweet, sweet, sweet nurse, tell me, what says my love? Your love says, like an honest gentleman, and a courteous and a kind and a handsome, and I warrant a virtuous. Where is your mother? Where is my mother? Why, she is within, where should she be? How oddly thou replyest, your love says, like an honest gentleman, where is your mother? Oh, God's lady dear, are you so hot? Mary, come up, I throw. Is this the poultice for my aching bones? Henceforward do your messages yourself. Here's such a coil. Come, what says Romeo? Have you got leave to go to Schrift today? I have. Then high you hence to Friar Lawrence's cell. There stays a husband to make you a wife. Now comes the wanton blood up in your cheeks. They'll be in scarlet straight at any news. High you to church. I must another way to fetch a ladder. By the witch your love must climb a bird's nest soon when it is dark. I am the drudge and toil in your delight. But you shall bear the burden soon at night. Go, I'll to dinner. High you to the cell. High to high fortune, honest nurse farewell. Excent. Scene six, Friar Lawrence's cell. Enter Friar Lawrence and Romeo. So smile the heavens upon this holy act, that after hours with sorrow chide us not. Amen, amen. But come, what sorrow can it cannot countervail the exchange of joy that one short minute gives me in her sight. Do thou but close our hands with holy words then love devouring death do what he dare. It is enough I may but call her mine. These violent delights have violent ends. And in their triumph die, like fire and powder, which as they kiss consume. The sweetest honey is loathsome in his own deliciousness, and in the taste confounds the appetite. Therefore love moderately, long love doth so. Too swift arrives as tardy as too slow. Here comes the lady. Oh, so light a foot will ne'er wear out the everlasting flint. A lover may bestride the gossamer that idols in the wanton summer air, and yet not fall. So light is vanity. Enter Juliet. Good even to my ghostly confessor. Romeo shall thank thee, daughter, for us both. As much to him else is his thanks too much. Ah, Juliet, if the measure of thy joy be heaped like mine, and that thy skill be more to blaze in it than sweetened with thy breath this neighbour air, and let rich music's tongue unfold the imagined happiness that both receive in either by this dear encounter. Conceit, more rich in matter than in words, brags of his substance, not of ornament. They are but beggars that can count their worth. But my true love is grown to such excess I cannot sum up some of half my wealth. Come, come with me, and we will make short work. For by your leaves you shall not stay alone till Holy Church incorporate two in one. Excent. End of Act II. Act III of Romeo and Juliet by William Shakespeare. This is the LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Act III, Scene I, a public place. Enter Mercutio, Benvolio, Page, and Servants. I pray thee good Mercutio, let's retire. The day is hot, the Capulets are broad, and if we meet we shall not scape a brawl. For now, these hot days is the mad blood stirring. Thou art like one of these fellows that, when he enters the confines of a tavern, clasped me his sword upon the table and says, God sent me no need of thee, and by the operation of the second cup, draws him on the drawer when indeed there is no need. Am I like such a fellow? Come, come. Thou art as hot a jack in thy mood as any in Italy, and as soon moved to be moody, and as soon moody to be moved. And what too? Nay, and there were two such, we should have none shortly, for one would kill the other. Thou, why, thou wilt quarrel with a man that hath a hair more or a hair less in his beard than thou hast. Thou wilt quarrel with a man for cracking nuts, having no other reason but because thou hast hazel eyes. What eye but such an eye would spy out such a quarrel? Thy head is as full of quarrels as an egg is full of meat, and yet thy head hath been beaten as idle as an egg for quarrelling. Thou hast quarrelled with a man for coughing in the street, because he hath wakened thy dog that hath lain asleep in the sun. Didst thou not fall out with the tailor for wearing his new doublet before Easter, with another for tying his new shoes with an old ribbon? And yet thou wilt tutor me from quarrelling. And I were apt to quarrel as thou art any man should buy the fee sample of my life for an hour and a quarter. The fee simple! Oh, simple! By my head! Here come the Capulets! By my heel I care not. Enter Tybalt and others. Follow me close, for I will speak to them. Gentlemen, good den! A word with one of you. And but one word with one of us. Couple it with something. Make it a word and a blow. You shall find me apt enough to do that, sir, and you will give me occasion. Could you not take some occasion without giving? Accusio, thou consortes with Romeo. Consort? What dost thou make us minstrels? And thou make minstrels of us look to hear nothing but discords. Here's my fiddle-stick. Here's that shall make you dance. Zounds, consort! We talk here in the public haunt of men, either withdraw unto some private place and reason coldly of your grievances or else depart, here all eyes gaze on us. Men's eyes were made to look and let them gaze. I will not budge for no man's pleasure, I. Well, peace be with you, sir. Here comes my man. Enter Romeo. But I'll be hanged, sir, if he wear your livery. Mary, go before to the field. He'll be your follower. Your worship, in that sense, may call him man. Romeo, the love I bear thee can afford no better term than this. Thou art a villain! Tybalt, the reason that I have to love thee doth much excuse the appertaining rage to such a greeting. Villain am I none. Therefore, farewell, I see thou noest me not. Boy, this shall not excuse the injuries that thou hast done me. Therefore turn and draw! I do protest I never injured thee. But love thee better than thou canst devise till thou shalt know the reason of my love. And so, good Capulet, which name I tender as dearly as mine own, be satisfied. Oh, calm, dishonourable vile submission. Alastocata carries it away. Draws. Tybalt, you rat chaser. Will you walk? What would thou have with me? Good king of cats. Nothing but one of your nine lives. That I mean to make bold with all. And, as you shall use me hereafter, dry-beat the rest of the eight. Will you pluck your sword out of his pitcher by the ears? Make haste, lest mine be about your ears ere it be out. I am for you. Drawing. Gentle Macuscio, put my rapier up. Come, sir, your passado. They fight. Draw, Benvolio, beat down their weapons. Gentleman for shame, for bear this outrage. Tybalt, Macuscio, the prince expressly have forbid this bandying in Verona Street. Hold, Tybalt! Good Macuscio! Exit, Tybalt, with his partisans. Ah! Ah! I am hurt. A plague on both your houses. I am sped. Is he gone and hath nothing? What, are thou hurt? Aye-aye, a scratch, a scratch. Mary, it is enough. Where is my page? Go, villain, fetch a surgeon. Exit page. Courage, man. The hurt cannot be much. No, it is not so deep as a well, nor so wide as a church door. But it is enough. It will serve. Ask for me tomorrow, and you shall find me a grave man. I am peppered. I warrant for this world. A plague on both your houses. Sounds, a dog, a rat, a mouse, a cat to scratch a man to death. A braggart, a rogue, a villain that fights by the book of arithmetic. Why the devil came you between us? I was hurt under your arm. I thought all for the best. Help me into some house, Benvolio, or I shall faint. A plague on both your houses. They have made worms meat of me. I have it, and soundly, too. Your houses! Exit Mercutio and Benvolio. This gentleman, the prince's near ally, my very friend, hath got his mortal hurt in my behalf. My reputation stained with tibbled slander. Tibbled, but an hour hath been my kinsman. Oh, sweet Juliet, my beauty hath made me effeminate and in my temper softened valour's steel. Re-enter, Benvolio. Oh, Romeo! Romeo! Brave Mercutio's dead! That gallant spirit hath aspired the clouds, which too untimely here did scorn the earth. This day's black fate on more days doth depend. This but begins the woe others must end. Here comes the furious tibbled back again. Alive in triumph and Mercutio slain. Away to heaven respective lenity and fire-eyed fury be my conduct now. Re-enter, tibbled. Now, tibbled, take the villain back again that laid thou gavest me. For Mercutio's soul is but a little way above our heads, staying for thine to keep him company. Either thou, or I, or both, must go with him. Thou, wretched boy, that it's consort him here shalt with him hence. This shall determine that. They fight, tibbled falls. Romeo, away, be gone. The citizens are up and tibbled slain. Stand not amazed. The prince will doom thee death if thou art taken. Hence, be gone, away! Oh, I am fortune's fool. Why dost thou stay? Exit, Romeo. Enter citizens and company. Which way ran he that killed Mercutio? Tibbled, that murderer. Which way ran he? There lies that, tibbled. Up, sir, go with me. I charge thee in the prince's name, obey. Enter prince, attended. Montague, Capulet, their wives, and others. Where are the vile beginners of this prey? Oh, noble prince, I can discover all the unlucky manage of this fatal brawl. There lies the man slain by young Romeo that slew thy kinsmen, brave Mercutio. Tibbled, my cousin. Oh, my brother's child. Oh, prince. Oh, husband. Oh, the blood is spilled of my dear kinsmen. Prince, as thou art true, for blood of ours shed blood of Montague. Oh, cousin, cousin. Benvolio, who began this bloody fray? Tibbled, here slain, whom Romeo's hand did slay. Romeo that spoke him fair bade him bethink how nice the quarrel was and urged with all your high displeasure. All this, uttered with gentle breath, calm look, knees humbly bowed, could not take truce with the unruly spleen of Tibbled, deaf to peace. But he that tilts with piercing steel at bold Mercutio's breast, who all as hot turns deadly point to point, and with a marshal scorn, one hand beats cold death aside, and with the other sends it back to Tibbled, whose dexterity retorts it. Romeo, he cries aloud, hold, hold, hold, friends, part, and swifter than his tongue, his agile arm beats down their fatal points and twix them rushes, underneath whose arm an envious thrust from Tibbled hit the life of Stout Mercutio, and then Tibbled fled, but by and by comes back to Romeo, who had but newly entertained revenge, and to it they go like lightning, for ere I could draw to part them was Stout Tibbled slain, and as he fell did Romeo turn and fly. This is the truth, or let Benvolio die. He is a kinsman to the Montague, affection makes him false, he speaks not true, some twenty of them fought in this black strife, and all those twenty could but kill one life. I beg for justice, which thou prince must give. Romeo slew Tibbled. Romeo must not live. Romeo slew him. He slew Mercutio, who now, the price of his dear blood doth owe. Not Romeo, Prince, he was Mercutio's friend. His fault concludes but what the law should end, the life of Tibbled. And for that offence, immediately we do exile him hence. I have an interest in your hate's proceeding. My blood for your rude brawls doth lie a-bleeding. I'll immerse you with so strong a fine that you shall all repent the loss of mine. I will be deaf to pleading and excuses. No tears nor prayers shall purchase out abuses. Therefore use none. Let Romeo hence in haste else where he is found that our is his last. Bear hence this body, and attend our will. No mercy but murders pardoning those that kill. Excent. Scene two. A room in Capulet's house. Enter Juliet. Gallop apace, you fiery-footed steeds towards Phoebus lodging. Such a wagoner as Phaeton would whip you to the west and bring in cloudy night immediately. Spread thy close curtain, love-performing night. Rude eyes may wink, and Romeo leaped to these arms untalked of and unseen. Lovers can see to do their amorous rites by their own beauties, or if love be blind it best agrees with night. Come, civil night, thou sober-suited matron all in black, and learn me how to lose a winning match played for a pair of stainless maidenhoods. Hood my unmanned blood, baiting in my cheeks with thy black mantle, till strange love, grown bold, think true love acted simple modesty. Come, night, come, Romeo, come, thou day in night, for thou wilt lie upon the wings of night whiter than new snow upon a raven's back. Come, gentle night, come loving black-browed night, give me my Romeo, and when he shall die take him and cut him out in little stars, and he will make the face of heaven so fine that all the world will be in love with night, and pay no worship to the garish sun. Oh, I have bought the mansion of a love but not possessed it, and though I am sold not yet enjoyed, so tedious is this day as is the night before some festival to an impatient child that hath new robes and may not wear them. Oh, here comes my nurse, and she brings news, and every tongue that speaks what Romeo's name speaks heavenly eloquence. Enter, nurse, with cords. Now, nurse, what news? What hast thou there, the cords that Romeo bid thee fetch? I, I, the cords. Throws them down. Ah, me, what news? Why dost thou wring thy hands? Ah, well a day. He's dead, he's dead, he's dead. We are undone, lady, we are undone. Lack the day, he's gone, he's killed, he's dead. Can heaven be so envious? Romeo can, though heaven cannot. Oh, Romeo, Romeo! Who would ever have thought it? Romeo! What devil art thou that dost torment me thus? This torture should be roared in dismal hell. Hath Romeo slain himself? Say thou but I, and that bare vowel I shall poison more than the death-darting eye of cockatrice. I am not I if there be such an eye, or those eyes shut that make the answer I. If he be slain say I, or if not know. Brief sounds determine of my wheel or woe. I saw the wound, I saw it with mine eyes. God save the mark, here, on his manly breast. A piteous course, a bloody piteous course. Pale, pale as ashes, all bedobbed in blood, all in gore blood. I swooned at the sight. Oh, break my heart! Poor bank-crout, break it once! To prison eyes, near look on liberty! Vile earth, too-earth resign! End motion here, and thou and Romeo press one heavy beer. Oh, Tybalt, Tybalt! The best friend I had! Oh, courteous Tybalt! Honest gentleman! That ever I should live to see thee dead! What storm is this that blows so contrary? Is Romeo slaughtered and is Tybalt dead? My dear loved cousin and my dear lord? Then dreadful trumpet sound the general doom! For who is living if those two are gone? Tybalt is gone, and Romeo banished. Romeo that killed him, he is banished. Oh, God! Did Romeo's hand shed Tybalt's blood? It did! It did, alas the day it did! Oh, serpent heart hid with a flowering face! Did ever dragon keep so fair a cave? Beautiful, tyrant, fiend, angelical! Dove feathered raven, wolfish, ravening lamb! Despise its substance of divinest show! Just opposite to what thou justly seemed! A damned and saint and honorable villain! Oh, nature, what hath thou to do in hell without its bow or the spirit of a fiend in mortal paradise of such sweet flesh? Was ever book containing such vile matter so fairly bound? Oh, that deceit should dwell in such a gorgeous palace! There's no trust, no faith, no honesty in men! All purged, all foresworn, all not, all dissemblers! Ah, where is my man? Give me some aqua vitae. These griefs, these woes, these sorrows make me old. Shame come to Romeo! Blister'd be thy tongue for such a wish. He was not born to shame. Upon his brow shame is a shame to sit. For tis a throne where honour may be crowned sole monarch of the universal earth. Oh, what a beast was I to chide at him! Will you speak well of him that killed your cousin? Shall I speak ill of him that is my husband? Ah, poor my lord, what tongue shall smooth thy name when I, thy three-hour's wife, have mangled it? But wherefore, villain, didst thou kill my cousin? That villain cousin would have killed my husband. Back foolish tears, back to your native spring. Your tributary drops belong to woe, which you mistaking offer up to joy. My husband lives that tibbled would have slain, and tibbled's dead that would have slain my husband. All this is comfort. Wherefore we buy, then? Some word there was, worse than tibbled's death, that murdered me. I would forget it, feign. But, oh, it presses to my memory like damned, guilty deeds to sinner's minds. Tibbled is dead and Romeo banished. That banished, that one word banished, hath slain ten thousand tibbled. Tibbled's death was woe enough of it, and ended there. Or if sour woe delights in fellowship and needly will be ranked with other griefs. Why followed not when she said, tibbled's dead, thy father, or thy mother, nay, or both, which modern lamentation might have moved? But are the rear word following tibbled's death? Romeo is banished. To speak that word is father, mother, tibbled, Romeo, Juliet, all slain, all dead. Romeo is banished. There is no end, no limit measure bound in that word's death. No words can that woe sound. Where is my father and mother, nurse? Weeping and wailing over tibbled's course. Will you go to them? I will bring you thither. Wash they his wounds with tears. Mine shall be spent when theirs are dry for Romeo's banishment. Take up those cords. Poor ropes, you are beguiled both you and I, for Romeo is exiled. He made you for a highway to my bed, but I, a maid, die made in widow-ed. Come, cords, come, nurse, alter my wedding-bed and death, not Romeo, take my maiden-head. Hide your chamber. I'll find Romeo to comfort you. I watch well where he is. Hark ye, your Romeo will be here at night. I'll to him. He is hid at Lawrence cell. Oh, find him! Give this ring to my true knight and bid him come to take his last farewell. Exit. Scene three. Friar Lawrence's cell. Enter, Friar Lawrence. Romeo, come forth. Come forth, thou fearful man. Affliction is enamoured of thy parts and thou art wedded to calamity. Enter, Romeo. Father, what news? What is the Prince's doom? What sorrow craves acquaintance at my hand that I yet know not? Too familiar is my dear son with such sour company. I bring the tidings of the Prince's doom. What less than doomsday is the Prince's doom? A gentler judgment vanished from his lips. Not body's death, but body's banishment. Ha! banishment? Be merciful, say death, for exile hath more terror in his look much more than death. Do not say banishment. Hence, from Verona art thou banished. Be patient, for the world is broad and wide. There is no world without Verona's walls, but purgatory, torture, hell itself, hence banished is banished from the world and world's exile is death, then banished is death mistermed, calling death banishment thou cutst my head off with a golden axe and smiles upon the stroke that murders me. O deadly sin, O rude unthankfulness, thy fault our law calls death. But the kind Prince, taking thy part, hath brushed aside the law. And turned that black word death to banishment. This is dear mercy, and thou seest it not. Tis torture and not mercy. Heaven is here where Juliet lives and every cat and dog and little mouse, every unworthy thing, live here in heaven and may look on her, but Romeo may not. More validity, more honourable state, more courtship lives in carrion flies than Romeo. They may seize on the white wonder of dear Juliet's hand and steal immortal blessing from her lips, who even in pure and vestal modesty still blush as thinking their own kisses sin. But Romeo may not. He's banished. This may flies do when I from this must fly and sayest thou yet that exile is not death. Hathst thou no poison mixed, no sharp ground knife, no sudden mean of death, o ne'er so mean, but banished to kill me. Banished! O friar, the damned use that word in hell. Howling's attended. How hast thou the heart, being a divine, a ghostly confessor, a sin absolver, and my friend professed to mangle me with that word banishment? Thou fond madman, hear me speak a little. Oh, I will speak again of banishment. I'll give thee armor to keep off that word. Adversities, sweet milk, philosophy, to comfort thee, though thou art banished. Yet banished, hang up philosophy. Unless philosophy can make a Juliet, displant a town, reverse a prince's doom, it helps not, it prevails not, talk no more. O then, I see that madmen have no ears. How should they, when that wise men have no eyes? Let me dispute with thee of thy estate. Thou canst not speak of that, thou dost not feel. Worth thou as young as I, Juliet, thy love, an hour but married, a tippled murder, doting like me and like me banished. Then, mightst thou speak, then, mightst thou tear thy hair and fall upon the ground as I do now, taking the measure of an unmade grave? Knocking within. Arise, one knocks. Good Romeo, hide thyself. As I, unless the breath of heart-sick groans mistlike enfold me from the search of eyes. Hark! How they knock. Who's there? Romeo, arise. Thou wilt be taken. Stay awhile. Stand up. Run to my study, by and by God's will. What simpleness this is. I come! I come! Who knocks so hard? Whence come you? What's your will? Within. Let me come in, and you shall know my errand. I come from Lady Juliet. Welcome, then. Enter, nurse. Oh, holy friar, oh, tell me, holy friar, where is my lady's lord? Where's Romeo? There on the ground, with his own tears made drunk. Oh, he is even in my mistress's case, just in her case. Oh, woeful sympathy, piteous predicament. Even so lie she, blubbering and weeping, weeping and blubbering. Stand up. Stand up. Stand, and you be a man. For Juliet's sake, for her sake, rise and stand. Why should you fall into so deep an o? Nurse. Ah, sir, well, death's the end of all. Spakers thou of Juliet? How is it with her? Does not she think me an old murderer? Now I have stained the childhood of our joy with blood removed but little from her own. Where is she? And how does she? And what say's my concealed lady to our cancelled love? Oh, she says nothing, sir, but weeps and weeps, and now falls on her bed, and then starts up and tibbled calls, and then on Romeo cries, and then down falls again. As if that name shot from the deadly level of a gun did murder her, as that name's cursed hand murdered her kinsman. Oh, tell me, friar, tell me, in what vile part of this anatomy doth my name lodge tell me that I may sack the hateful mansion? Drawing his sword. Hold thy desperate hand. O thou a man, thy form cries out thou art. Thy tears are womanish, thy acts denote the unreasonable fury of a beast, unseemingly woman in a seeming man, or ill be seeming beast and seeming both. Thou hast amazed me. By my holy order I thought thy disposition better tempered. Hast thou slain tibbled? Will thy slay thyself and slay thy lady too that lives in thee? By doing damned hate upon thyself? Why relest thou on thy birth, the heaven and the earth? Since birth and heaven and earth all three do meet in thee at once, which thou at once, which thou at once wouldst love. Fie, fie, thou shamest thy shape, thy love, thy wit, which, like a usurer, aboundest in all, and uses none in that true use indeed which should bedeck thy shape, thy love, thy wit. Thy noble shape is but a form of wax, thy gressing from the valor of a man, thy dear love sworn but hollow perjury, killing that love which thou hast vowed to cherish. Thy wit, that ornament to shape and love, misshapen in the conduct of them both, like powder in a skillless soldier's flask is set afire by thine own ignorance, and thou dismembered with thine own defense. What? Rouse thee, man! Thy Juliet is alive! For whose dear sake thou wasst but lately dead? There art thou happy! Tybalt would kill thee, but thou sluice Tybalt! There art thou happy, too! The law that threatened death becomes thy friend, and turns it to exile. There art thou happy! A pack of blessings lights upon thy back. Happiness courts thee in her best array. But, like a misbehavin and sullen wench, thou poutest upon the future and thy love. Take heed, take heed, for such die miserable. Go, get thee to thy love as was decreed, ascend her chamber hence and comfort her. But look, thou stay not till the watch be set, for then thou canst not pass to Mantua, where you shall live till we can find a time to blaze your marriage, reconcile your friends, beg pardon of the prince, and call thee back with twenty-hundred thousand times more joy than thou wentst forth in lamentation. Go before, nurse, commend me to thy lady, and bid her hasten all the house to bed, which, heavy sorrow, makes them apt unto. Romeo is coming. Oh, Lord, I could have stayed here all the night to hear good counsel. Oh, what learning is! My Lord, I'll tell my lady you will come. Do so, and bid my sweet prepare to chide. Here, sir, a ring she bid me give you, sir. High you, make haste, for it grows very late. Exit. How well my comfort is revived by this. Go hence, good night. And here stands all your state. Either be gone before the watch is set, or by the break of day disguised from hence, sojourn in Mantua. I'll find out your man, and he shall signify from time to time every good hat to you that chances here. Give me your hand. Tis late. Farewell. Good night. But that a joy past joy calls out on me, it would a grief so brief depart with thee. Farewell. Exit. Scene four. A room in Capulet's house. Enter Capulet, Lady Capulet, and Paris. Things have fallen out, sir, so unluckily that we have had no time to move our daughter. Look you, she loved her kinsman, Tybalt dearly, and so did I. Well, we were born to die. Tis very late, she'll not come down to-night. I promise you, but for your company I would have been in bed an hour ago. These times of woe afford no tune to woo. Madam, good night, commend me to your daughter. I will, and know her mind early to-morrow. Tonight she's mewed up to her heaviness. Sir Paris, I will make a desperate tender of my child's love. I think she will be ruled in all respects by me. Nay more, I doubt it not. Wife, go you to her ere you go to bed. Acquaint her here of my son Paris's love, and bid her, mark you me, on Wednesday next. But soft, what day is this? Monday, my lord. Monday, ah, well, Wednesday is too soon. Thursday, let it be. A Thursday, tell her. She shall be married to this noble earl. Will you be ready? Do you like this haste? We'll keep no greater do, a friend or two. For Hark, you Tybalt being slain so late, it may be thought we held him carelessly, being our kinsmen, if we revel much. Therefore, we'll have some half a dozen friends, and they're an end. But what say you to Thursday? My lord, I would that Thursday were tomorrow. Well, get you gone, a Thursday be it then. Go you to Juliet ere you go to bed. Prepare her wife against this wedding day. Farewell, my lord. Light to my chamber, hope. For me, it is so very, very late that we may call it early, by and by. Good night. Scene five, an open gallery to Juliet's chamber, overlooking the garden. Enter Romeo and Juliet. Wilt thou be gone? It is not yet near day. It was the nightingale and not the lark that pierced the fearful hollow of thine ear. Nightly she sings on yawned pomegranate tree. Believe me, love, it was the nightingale. It was the lark, the herald of the morn, no nightingale. Look, love, what envious streaks do lace the severing clouds in yonder east. Night's candles are burnt out, and jockoned day stands tiptoe on the misty mountaintops. I must be gone and live, or stay and die. Yonder light is not daylight, I know it, I. It is some meteor that the sun exhales to be to thee this night a torchbearer, and lightly on the way to Mantua. Therefore stay yet, thou needst not to be gone. Let me be tain, let me be put to death. I am content, so thou wilt have it so. I'll say Yon Gray is not the morning's eye, it is but the pale reflex of Cynthia's brow. Nor that is not the lark whose notes do beat the faulty heavens so high above our heads. I have more care to stay than will to go. Come death and welcome! Juliet wills it so. How is my soul? Let's talk, it is not day. It is, it is. High hence be gone away. It is the lark that sings so out of tune, straining harsh discords and unpleasing sharps. Some say the lark makes sweet division. This doth not so, for she divideeth us. Some say the lark and lo the toad change eyes. O now I would they had changed voices too, since arm from arm that voice doth us affray, hunting thee hence with hunts up to the day. O now be gone, more light and light it grows. More light and light. More dark and dark our woes. Enter nurse. Madam. Nurse. Your lady mother is coming to your chamber. The day is broke. Be wary, look about. Exit. Then window let day in and let life out. Farewell, farewell. One kiss and I'll descend. Descends. Art thou gone so? My lord, my love, my friend, I must hear from thee every day of the hour. For in a minute there are many days. O by this count I shall be much in years ere I again behold my Romeo. Farewell. I will omit no opportunity that may convey my greetings love to thee. O thanks thou we shall ever meet again. I doubt it not, and all these woes shall serve for sweet discourses in our time to come. O God, I have an ill-divining soul. Methinks I see thee now thou art below as one dead in the bottom of a tomb. Either my eyesight fails or thou looks pale. And trust me, love, in my eyes so do you. Dry sorrow drinks our blood. Atture. Atture. Exit below. O fortune, fortune, all men call thee fickle. If thou art fickle, what dost thou with him that is renowned for faith? Be fickle, fortune, for then I hope thou wilt not keep him long but send him back. Within. Oh, daughter, are you up? Who is that cause? Is it my lady mother? Is she not down so late or up so early? What unaccustomed cause procures her hither? Enter, Lady Capulet. Why, how now, Juliet? Madam, I am not well. Ever more weeping for your cousin's death. What? Wilt thou wash him from his grave with tears? And if thou couldst, thou couldst not make him live. Therefore have done. Some grief shows much of love, but much of grief shows still some want of wit. Yet let me weep for such a feeling loss. So shall you feel the loss, but not the friend which you weep for. Feeling so the loss I cannot choose but ever weep the friend. Well, girl, thou weeped not so much for his death as that the villain lives which slaughtered him. What villain, madam? That same villain, Romeo. Villain and he be many miles asunder. God pardon him. I do with all my heart, and yet no man like he doth grieve my heart. That is because the traitor murderer lives. I, madam, from the reach of these my hands would none but I might avenge my cousin's death. We will have vengeance for it, fear thou not. Then weep no more. I'll send to one Imantua, where that same banished renegade doth live. Shall give him such an unaccustomed dram that he shall soon keep tibbled company. And then, I hope, thou wilt be satisfied. Indeed, I never shall be satisfied with Romeo till I behold him. Dead. Is my poor heart so for kinsmen vexed? Madam, if you could find out but a man to bear a poison, I would temper it, that Romeo should upon receipt thereof soon sleep in quiet. O how my heart abhors to hear him named, it cannot come to him. To wreck the love I bore my cousin tibbled upon his body that hath slaughtered him. Find thou the means, and I'll find such a man. But now I'll tell thee joyful tidings, girl. And joy comes well in such a needy time. What are they? I beseech your ladyship. Well, well, thou hast a careful father, child. One who, to put thee from thy heaviness, hath sorted out a sudden day of joy, that thou expectest not, nor I looked out for. Madam, in happy time, what day is that? Marry, my child, early next Thursday morning. The gallant young and noble gentleman, the county Paris at St. Peter's Church, shall happily make thee there a joyful bride. Now by St. Peter's Church and Peter too, he shall not make me there a joyful bride. I wonder at this haste that I must wed ere he that should be husband comes to woo. I pray you tell my lord and father, madam, I will not marry yet, and when I do I swear it shall be Romeo, whom you know I hate rather than Paris. These are news indeed. Here comes your father. Tell him so yourself, and see how he will take it at your hands. When the sun sets, the air doth drizzle dew, but for the sunset of my brother's sun it rains down right. How now, a cundit girl, what still in tears? Evermore showering? In one little body thou count of haste to bark, a sea, a wind. For still thy eyes, which I may call the sea, do ebb and flow with tears. The bark thy body is, sailing in this salt flood, the winds thy sighs, who, raging with thy tears, and they with them, without a sudden calm, will overset thy tempestost body. How now, wife, have you delivered to her our decree? Aye, sir, but she will none, she gives you thanks. I would the fool were married to her grave. Soft, take me with you. Take me with you, wife, how? Will she none? Does she not give us thanks? Is she not proud? Does she not count her blessed, unworthy as she is, that we have wrought so worthy a gentleman to be her bridegroom? Not proud, you have, but thankful that you have. Proud can I never be of what I hate, but thankful even for hate that is meant love. How now, how now, chop, lodging, what is this? Proud, and I thank you, and I thank you not, and yet not proud. Mistress Minion, you thank me no thankings, nor proud me no prouds, but fettle your fine joints against Thursday next, to go with Paris to St Peter's Church, or I will drag thee on a hurdle, dither. Out you green sickness-carrier, out you baggage, you tallow face. Fi, Fi, what are you mad? Good Father, I beseech you on my knees, hear me with patience, but to speak a word. Hang thee, young baggage, disobedient wretch, I tell thee what, get thee to church a Thursday, or never after, look me in the face. Speak not, reply not, do not answer me, my fingers each. Wife, we scarce, thought as blessed that God had lent us but this only child, but now I see this one is one too much, and that we have a curse in having her, out on her, hilting. God in heaven bless her, you are to blame my lord, to rate her so. And why, my lady wisdom, hold your tongue. Good prudent, smatter with your gossips, go. I speak no treason. Oh, God ye good. May not one speak? Peace, you mumbling fool, utter your gravity or a gossips bowl, for here we need it not. You are too hot. God's bread, it makes me mad. Day, night, hour, time, tide, work, play, alone, in company, still my care hath been to have her matched. And having now provided a gentleman of noble parentage, of fair demeans, youthful, and nobly trained, stuffed as they say with honourable parts, proportioned as one's heart would wish a man. And then to have a wretched, pooling fool, whining mammots in her fortunes tender, to answer, I'll not wed, I cannot love, I am too young. I pray you pardon me, but anew will not wed. I'll pardon you, raise where you will, you shall not house with me. Look toot, think on't, I do not use to jest. Thursday is near, lay hand on heart, advise anew be mine. I'll give you to my friend. Anew be not hang, beg, starve, dire the streets, for by my soul I'll never acknowledge thee, nor what is mine shall never do thee good. Trust toot, bethink you, I'll not be foresworn. Exit. Is there no pity sitting in the clouds that sees into the bottom of my grief? O sweet my mother, cast me not away, delay this marriage for a month, a week, or if you do not make the bridal bed in that dim monument where tiblet lies. Talk not to me, for I'll not speak a word. Do as thou wilt, for I have done with thee. Exit. O God! O nurse, how shall this be prevented? My husband is on earth my faith in heaven. How shall that faith return again to earth unless that husband sendeth me from heaven by leaving earth? Comfort me, counsel me. Alack, alack that heaven should practice stratagems upon so soft a subject as myself. What says thou? Hast thou not a word of joy? Some comfort, nurse! Faith, here it is. Romeo is banished, and all the world to nothing that he dares near come back to challenge you, or if he do it needs must be by stealth. Then, since the case so stands as now it doth, I think it best you married with the county. Oh, he is a lovely gentleman. Romeo's a dish-clout to him. An eagle, madam, hath not so green, so quick, so fair an eye as Paris hath. Be shrew my very heart. I think you are happy in this second match, for it excels your first. Or if it did not, your first is dead, or to as good he were as living here, would you know use of him? Speaks thou this from thy heart. And from my soul, too, or else be shrew them both. Amen. What? Well, thou hast comforted me marvellous much. Go in, and tell my lady I am gone, having displeased my father to Lawrence's cell to make confession and to be absolved. Mary, I will, and this is wisely done. Exit. Damnation! Almost wicked feet! Is it more sin to wish me thus forsworn or to dispraise my lord with that same tongue which she hath praised him with above compare so many thousand times? Go, counsellor, thou and my bosom henceforth shall be twain. I'll to the friar to know his remedy if all else fail myself have power to die. Exit. End of Act 3, Act 4 of Romeo and Juliet by William Shakespeare. This is the LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit the LibriVox.org. Act 4, Scene 1. Friar Lawrence's cell. Enter Friar Lawrence and Paris. On Thursday, sir, the time is very short. My father Capulet will have it so, and I am nothing slow to slack his haste. You say you do not know the lady's mind? Uneven is the course. I like it not. Immoderately she weeps for Tybalt's death, and therefore have I little talk of love for Venus smiles not in a house of tears. Now, sir, her father counts it dangerous that she do give her sorrow so much sway, and in his wisdom haste our marriage to stop the inundation of her tears, which too much minded by herself alone may be put from her by society. Now do you know the reason of this haste? Aside. I would I knew not why it should be slowed. Look, sir, here comes the lady towards my cell. Enter Juliet. Happily met, my lady and my wife. That may be, sir, when I may be a wife. That may must be, love, on Thursday next. What must be shall be? That's a certain text. Come you to make a confession to this father? To answer that I should confess to you. Do not deny to him that you love me. I will confess to you that I love him. So, will ye, I am sure that you love me. If I do so, it will be of more price being spoke behind your back than to your face. Poor soul, thy face is much abused with tears. The tears have got small victory by that, for it was bad enough before their spite. Thou ronked it more than tears with that report. That is no slander, sir, which is a truth. And what I spake, I spake it to my face. Thy face is mine, and thou hast slandered it. It may be so, for it is not mine own. Are you at leisure, holy father, now, or shall I come to you at evening mass? My leisure serves me, pence of daughter, now. My lord, we must entreat the time alone. God shield, I should disturb devotion. Juliet, on Thursday early will I rouse you. Till then, adieu, and keep this holy kiss. Exit. Oh, shut the door. And when thou hast done so, come weep with me. Past hope, past cure, past help. Ah, Juliet, I already know thy grief. It strains me past the compass of my wits. I hear thou must, and nothing may prorogate. On Thursday next, be married to this county. Tell me not, fire, that thou hearest of this, unless thou tell me how I may prevent it. If in thy wisdom thou canst give no help, do thou, but call my resolution wise, and with this knife I'll help it presently. God joined my heart and Romeo's, thou are hands. And ere this hand by thee to Romeo's sealed shall be the label to another deed, or my true heart with treacherous revolt, turn to another, this shall slay them both. Therefore out of thy long-experienced time give me some present counsel, or behold, twist my extremes, and me this bloody knife shall play the empire. Arbitrating that which the commission of thy years and art could to no issue of true honour bring. Be not so long to speak. I long to die, if what thou speak'st speak not of remedy. Hold, daughter. I do spy a kind of hope. Which craves as desperate an execution as that is desperate which we would prevent. If, rather than to marry county Paris, thou hast the strength of will to slay thyself, then it is likely thou wilt undertake a thing like death to chide away the shame that copst with death himself to scrape from it. And if thou darest, I'll give thee remedy. O bid me leap rather than marry Paris from off the battlements of Yonder Tower, or walk in theevish ways, or bid me lurk where serpents are, chain me with roaring bears, or shut me nightly in a charnel-house, or covered quite with dead men's rattling bones, with reeky shanks and yellow chapless skulls, or bid me go into a new-made grave and hide me with a dead man his shroud. Things that, to hear them told, have made me tremble, and I will do it without fear or doubt to live in unstained wife to my sweet love. Hold, then. Go home. Be merry. Give consent to marry Paris. Wednesday is tomorrow. Tomorrow night. Look that thou lie alone. Let not thy nurse lie with thee and thy chamber. Take thou this vile. Be then in bed, and this distilled liquor drink thou off, when, presently, through all thy veins shall run a cold and drowsy humor, for no pulse shall keep his native progress but surcease. No warmth, no breath, shall testify thou livest. The roses in thy lips and cheeks shall fade to pale-y ashes. Thy eyes, windows, fall like death when he shuts up the day of life. Each part, deprived of subtle government, shall stiff and stark and cold appear like death. And in this borrowed likeness of shrunk death thou shalt continue two and forty hours, and then awake as from a pleasant sleep. Now, when the bridegroom in the morning comes to rise thee from thy bed, there ought thou dead. Then, as the manner of our country is, in thy best robes, uncovered on the beer, thou shalt be born to the same ancient vault where all the kindreds of the capulets lie. In the meantime, against thou should awake, shall Romeo by my letters know our drift, and hither shall he come. And he and I will watch thy waking, and that very night shall Romeo bear thee hence to Mantua. And this shall free thee from this present shame, if no inconstant toy nor womanish fear abate thy valor in the acting it. Give me! Give me! Oh, tell me not of fear! Hold! Get you gone! Be strong and prosperous in this resolve. I'll send a fryer with speed to Mantua, with my letters to thy lord. Love! Give me strength, and strength shall help afford. Farewell, dear father. Exit. Scene 2. Hall in Capulet's house. Enter Capulet, Lady Capulet, nurse, and servants. So many guests invite as here are it. Exit. Scene 1. Servant. Sir, go hire me twenty cunning cooks. You shall have none ill, sir, for I'll try if they can lick their fingers. How can thou try them so? Marry, sir, it is an ill cook that cannot lick his own fingers. Therefore he that cannot lick his fingers goes not with me. Go! Be gone. Exit. Scene 2. Servant. We shall be much unfurnished for this time. Well, is my daughter gone to fryer Lawrence? I forsooth. Well, be made chance to do some good on her. A peevish, self-willed harlotry it is. See where she comes from shrift with merry look. Enter Juliet. How now, my headstrong, where have you been gadding? Where I have learned me to repent the sin of disobedient opposition to you and your behests, and am enjoined by holy Lawrence to fall prostrate here, to beg your pardon. Pardon, I beseech you. Henceforward I am ever ruled by you. Send for the county. Go tell him of this. I'll have this knot knit up to-morrow morning. I met the youthful lord at Lawrence's cell, and gave him what become'd love I might, not stepping o'er the bounds of modesty. Why, I am glad on't. This is well. Stand up. This is us should be. Let me see the county. I—Marry, go, I say, and fetch him hither. Now, for God this reverend holy friar, all our whole city is much bound to him. Nurse, will you go with me into my closet to help me sort such needful ornaments as you think fit to furnish me to-morrow? No, not till Thursday. There is time enough. Go, nurse, go with her. We'll to church to-morrow. Excellent, Juliet, and nurse. We shall be short in our provision. It is now near night. Tash, I will stir about. And all things shall be well, I warrant thee, wife. Go thou to Juliet. Help to deck up her. I'll not to bed to-night. Let me alone. I'll play the housewife for this once. What! Ho! They are all forth. Well, I will walk myself to County Paris to prepare him up. Against to-morrow my heart is wondrous light, since this same wayward girl is so reclaimed. Excellent. Scene three, Juliet's chamber. Enter Juliet and nurse. I, those attires, are best. But, gentle nurse, I pray thee, leave me to myself to-night, for I have need of many horizons to move the heavens to smile upon my state, which, while thou knowest, is cross and full of sin. Enter Lady Capulet. What! Are you busy, ho? Need you my help? No, madam. We have called such necessaries, and be hopeful for our state to-morrow. So please, you, let me now be left alone, and let the nurse this night sit up with you, for I am sure you have your hands full all in this so sudden business. Good-night. Get thee to bed and rest, for thou hast need. Excellent, Lady Capulet, and nurse. Farewell. God knows when we shall meet again. I have a faint cold fear thrills through my veins as it freezes up the heat of life. I'll call them back again to comfort me, nurse! What should she do here? My dismal scene I need must act alone. Come, vile. What if this mixture do not work at all? Shall I be married then to-morrow morning? No. No, this shall forbid it. Lie thou there. Laying down, her dagger. If it be a poison which the friar subtly hath ministered to have me dead, lest in this marriage he should be dishonored, because he married me before to Romeo. I fear it is. And yet me thinks it should not, for he hath still been tried a holy man. I will not entertain so bad a thought. How if, when I am laid into the tomb, I wake before the time that Romeo come to redeem me? There's a fearful point. Shall I not then be stifled in the vault to whose foul mouth no healthsome air breathes in, and there I strangle where my Romeo comes? Or if I live, is it not very like the horrible conceit of death and night, together with the terror of the place, as in a vault, an ancient receptacle, where for this many hundred years the bones of all my buried ancestors are packed, where bloody tibbled yet but green in earth lies festering in his shroud, whereas they say at some hours in the night spirits resort, Alack! Alack! is it not like that I so early waking, what with loathsome smells and shrieks like mandrakes torn out of the earth that living mortals hearing them run mad? Or if I wake, shall I not be distraught and virant with all these hideous fears? And madly play with my forefathers' joints and pluck the mangled tibbled from his shroud, and in this rage with some great kinsman's bone, as with the club dash out my desperate brains. Oh, look, he thinks I see my cousin's ghost seeking out Romeo, that did spit his body upon a rapier's point. Stay, tibbled, stay! Romeo, I come. This do I drink to thee. Throws herself on the bed. Scene four, hall in Capulet's house. Enter Lady Capulet and nurse. Hold, take these keys and fetch more spices, nurse. They call for dates and quinces in the pastry. Enter Capulet. Come, stir, stir, stir, the second cock hath groan, the curfew bell hath rung. Tis three o'clock. Look to the baked meats, good Angelica. Spare not for cost. Go, you cart queen, go. Get you to bed. Faith, you'll be sick tomorrow for this night's watching. No, not a whit, what. I have watched ere now all night for lesser cause, and ere been sick. Aye, you have been a mouse hunt in your time, but I will watch you from such watching now. Exit, Lady Capulet and nurse. A jealous hood, a jealous hood. Now, fellow. Enter servants, with spits, logs, and baskets. What's there? Things for the cook, sir, but I know not what. Make haste, make haste. Exit, first servant. Sirup, fetch drier logs. Call Peter, he will show thee where they are. I have ahead, sir, that'll find out logs. I never trouble Peter for the matter. Exit. Masson, well said, a many whoreson. Thou shalt be long ahead, good faith. Tis day, the county will be here with music straight, for so he said he would. I hear him near. Music within. Nurse, wife, what ho, what nurse, I say. Re-enter nurse. Go wake and Juliet, go and trim her up. I'll go and chat with Paris. Aye, make haste, make haste. The bridegroom, he has come already. Make haste, I say. Exit. Scene five. Juliet's chamber. Juliet on the bed. Enter nurse. Mistress, what mistress? Juliet. Fast, I warrant her, she. Why, lamb? Why, lady? Thou, you slug-a-bed? Why, love, I say. Madam, sweetheart? Why, bride? What, not a word? You take your penny-worths now. Sleep for a week. For the next night, I warrant. The county Paris hath set up his rest, that you shall rest but little. God forgive me. Mary and amen. How sound is she asleep? I needs must wake her. Madam, madam, madam. Aye, let the county take you in your bed. He'll fright you up, if faith. Will it not be? What, dressed? And in your clothes? And down again? I must needs wake you. Lady, lady, lady. Alas, alas. Help, help, my lady's dead. Oh, well a day that ever I was born. Some aqua vitae. Oh, my lord, my lady. Enter, Lady Capulet. What noise is here? Oh, lamentable day. What is the matter? Look, look, oh, heavy day. Oh, me, oh, me, my child, my only life. Revive, look up, or I will die with thee. Help, help, call help. Enter, Capulet. For shame, bring Juliet forth. Her lord is come. She's dead, deceased. She's dead, alak the day. Alak the day. She's dead, she's dead, she's dead. Ha, let me see her. Out, alas. She's cold. Her blood is settled. And her joints are stiff. Life and these lips have long been separated. Death lies on her like an untimely frost upon the sweetest flower of all the field. A cursed time. Unfortunate old man. Oh, lamentable day. Oh, woeful time. Death that hath tain her hence to make me well ties up my tongue, will not let me speak. Enter Friar Lawrence and Paris with musicians. Come, is the bride ready to go to church? Ready to go, but never to return. Oh, son, the night before thy wedding day hath death lain with thy bride. Ha, she lies, flower as she was, deflowered by him. Death is my son-in-law. Death is my heir. My daughter hath wedded. I will die and leave him all. Life, living, all his deaths. Have I thought long to see this morning's face? And doth it give me such a sight as this? A cursed, unhappy, wretched, hateful day. Most miserable hour that airtime saw in lasting labour of his pilgrimage. But one, poor one, one poor and loving child, but one thing to rejoice and solace in, and cruel death hath catched it from my sight. Oh, woe, oh, woeful, woeful, woeful day. Most lamentable day, most woeful day that ever, ever I did yet behold. Oh, day, oh, day, oh, day, oh, hateful day. Never was seen so black a day as this. A woeful day, a woeful day. Beguiled, divorced, wronged, spited, slain. Most detestable death by thee, Beguiled, by cruel, cruel thee, quite overthrown. Oh, life, not life, but loving death. Despised, distressed, hated, martyred, killed. Uncomfortable time. Why comes now now to murder, murder our solemnity? Oh, child, oh, child, my soul and not my child. Dead art thou dead. Lack my child is dead, and with my child joys are buried. Peace, ho, for shame. Confusion's cure lives not in these confusions. Heaven and yourself had part in this fair maid, now heaven hath all. And all the better it is for the maid. Your part in her you could not keep from death. But heaven keeps his part in eternal life. And most you sought was her promotion. For twas your heaven she should be advanced. And weepy now, seeing she is advanced above the clouds, as high as heaven itself. Oh, in this love you love your child so ill that you run mad, seeing that she is well. She's not well married that lives married long, but she's best married that dies married young. Dry up your tears and stick your rosemary on this fair course. And, as the custom is, in all her best array bear her to church. For though fond nature bids us all lament, yet nature's tears are reason's merriment. All things that we ordain festival turn from their office to black funeral. Our instruments to melancholy bells, our wedding cheer to a sad burial feast. Our solemn hymns to sullen dirges change. Our bridal flowers serve for a buried course. And all things change them to the contrary. Sir, go you in. And madam, go with him. And go, sir Paris. Everyone prepare to follow his fair course into her grave. The heavens do lower upon you for some ill. Move them no more by crossing their high will. Exit, Capulet, Lady Capulet, Paris and Friar. Faith, we may put up our pipes and be gone. Honest good fellows, ah, put up, put up. For well you know this is a pitiful case. Exit. Aye, by my troth the case may be amended. Enter, Peter. Musicians, oh musicians, hearts ease, hearts ease. Oh, and you will have me live play hearts ease. Why hearts ease? Oh, musicians, because my heart itself plays, my heart is full of woe. Oh, play me some merry dump to comfort me. Not a dump, we, it is no time to play now. You will not, then? No. I will then give it you soundly. What will you give us? No money on my face, but the gleek. I will give you the minstrel. Then will I give you the serving creature? Then will I lay the serving creature's dagger on your paint. I will carry no crotches. I'll ray you, I'll fire you. Do you note me? And you ray us and fire us, you note us. Pray you, put up your dagger and put out your wreath. Then have at you with my wit. I will dry-beat you with an iron wit, and put up my iron dagger. Answer me like men. When griping grief the heart dos round, and doleful dumps the mind oppress, then music with her silver sound. Why silver sound? Why music with her silver sound? What say you, Simon Catling? Why, sir, because silver hath a sweet sound. Pretty. What say you, Hugh Rebeck? I say silver sound, because music in sound for silver. Pretty, too. What say you, James Sound Post? Say, if I know not what to say. Oh, I cry you, Mercy. You are the singer. I will say for you. It is music with her silver sound, because musicians have no gold for sounding. Then music with her silver sound, with speedy help dos lend redress. Exit. What a pestilent nape is this same. Hang him, Jack. Come. We will in here. Terry for the mourners, and stay tenor. Exit. End of Act Four. Act Five of Romeo and Juliet by William Shakespeare. This is the LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Act Five. Scene One. Mantua. A Street. Enter Romeo. If I may trust the flattering eye of sleep, my dreams presage some joyful news at hand. My bosom's lord sits lightly in his throne, and all this day an unaccustomed spirit lifts me above the ground with cheerful thoughts. I dreamt my lady came and found me dead. Strange dream that gives a dead man leave to think, and breathed such life with kisses in my lips, that I revived and was an emperor. Ah, me! How sweet is love itself possessed and but love's shadows are so rich in joy. Enter Balthazar. News from Verona. How now Balthazar? Does thou not bring me letters from the friar? How doth my lady? Is my father well? How fares my Juliet? That, I ask again, for nothing can be ill if she be well. Then she is well, and nothing can be ill. Her body sleeps in Capel's monument, and her immortal part with angels lives. I saw her laid low in her kindred's vault, and presently took post to tell it you. Oh, pardon me for bringing these ill news, since you did leave it for my office, sir. Is it even so? Then I defy you, stars. Thou knowest my lodging. Let me ink and paper and hire post-horses. I will hence tonight. I do beseech you, sir, have patience. Your looks are pale and wild, and do import some misadventure. Tush, thou art deceived. Leave me, and do the thing I bid thee do. Hast thou no letters to me from the friar? No, my good lord. No matter. Get thee gone, and hire those horses. I'll be with thee straight. Exit Balthazar. Well, Juliet, I will lie with thee tonight. Let's see for means. Oh, mischief, thou art swift to enter in the thoughts of desperate men. I do remember an apothecary. And hereabouts he dwells, which late I noted in tattered weeds with overwhelming brows, culling of simples, meager with his looks. Sharp misery had worn him to the bones, and in his needy shop a tortoise hung, an alligator stuffed, and other skins of ill-shaped fishes, and about his shelves, a beggarly account of empty boxes, green earthen pots, bladders, and musty seeds, remnants of pack-thread, and old cakes of roses, were thinly scattered to make up a show. Noting this penury, to myself I said, and if a man did need a poison now, whose sale is present death in Mantua, here lives a cater for wretch would sell at him. Oh, this same thought did but fall run my need, and this same needy man must sell at me. As I remember, this should be the house. Being holiday, the beggar's shop is shut. What-ho, apothecary! Enter, apothecary. Who calls so loud? Come here, the man. I see that thou art poor. Hold, there is forty duckets. Let me have a dram of poison. Such soon-speeding gear as will disperse itself through all the veins that the life weary taker may fall dead, and that the trunk may be discharged of breath as violently as hasty powder fired to hurry from the fatal cannon's womb. Such mortal drugs I have, but Mantua's law is death to any he that utters them. Art thou so bare and full of wretchedness and fierce to die? Famine is in thy cheeks, need an oppression starved in thine eyes, contempt and beggary hangs upon my back, the world is not thy friend nor the world's law, the world affords no law to make thee rich. Then be not poor, but break it and take this. My poverty, but not my will, consents. I pay thy poverty and not thy will. Put this in any liquid thing you will and drink it off. And if you had the strength of twenty men it would dispatch you straight. There is thy gold. Worse poison to men's souls, doing more murders in this loathsome world than these poor compounds that thou makes not sell. I sell thee poison. Thou hast sold me none. Farewell. Buy food and get thyself in flesh. Come, cordial and not poison. Go with me to Juliet's grave. For there must I use thee. Exit. Scene two. Friar Lawrence's cell. Enter Friar John. Holy Franciscan Friar. Brother Ho. Enter Friar Lawrence. The same voice be the voice of Friar John. Welcome from Mantua. What says Romeo? Or if his mind be writ, give me his letter. Going to find a barefoot brother out, one of our order to associate me, here in the city visiting the sick, and finding him, the searchers of the town, suspecting that we both were in a house where the infectious pestilence did reign, sealed up the doors, and would not let us forth, so that my speed to Mantua was there stayed. Who bear my letter then to Romeo? I could not send it. Here it is again. Nor get a messenger to bring it thee, so fearful were they of infection. Unhappy fortune. By my brotherhood the letter was not nice, but full of charge of dear import, and the neglecting it may do much danger. Friar John, go hence get me an iron crow and bring it straight unto my cell. Brother, I'll go and bring it thee. Exit. Now must I to the monument alone. Within this three hours will fair Juliet wake. She will be shroomy much that Romeo hath had no notice of these accidents. But I will write again to Mantua and keep her at my cell till Romeo come. Poor living course, closed in a dead man's tomb. Exit. Seen three, a churchyard, in it a monument belonging to the Capulets. Enter Paris and his page, bearing flowers and a torch. Give me thy torch, boy. Hence, and stand aloof, yet put it out for I would not be seen. Under yon'd yew tree, lay thee all along, holding thine ear close to the hollow ground. So shall no foot upon the churchyard tread, being loose, unfirm with digging up of graves, but thou shalt hear it. Whistle then to me, as signal that thou hearst something approach. Give me those flowers. Do as I bid thee, go. Aside. I am almost afraid to stand alone here in the churchyard, yet I will adventure. Retires. Sweet flower, with flowers thy bridle bed I strew. O woe, thy canopy is dust and stones, with which sweet water nightly will I do. Or wanting that, with tears distilled by moans, the obsequies that I for thee will keep, nightly shall be to strew thy grave and weep. The page whistles. The boy gives warning something doth approach. What christened foot wanders this way tonight to cross my obsequies and true love's right. What, with a torch? Muffle me night a while. Retires. Enter Romeo and Balthazar, with a torch, Matic and Crobar. Give me that mattock and the wrenching iron. Hold, take this letter. Early in the morning see thou delivered it to my lord and father. Give me the light. Upon thy life I charge thee. What ere thou heast or ceased, stand all aloof and do not interrupt me in my course. Why, I descend into this bed of death, is partly to behold my lady's face, but chiefly to take thence from her dead finger a precious ring, a ring that I must use in dear employment. Therefore hence be gone. But if thou jealous dost return to pry in what I further shall intend to do, by heaven I will tear thee joint by joint and strew this hungry churchyard with thy limbs. The time and my intents are savage wild, more fierce and more inexorable far than empty tigers or the roaring sea. I will be gone, sir, and not trouble you. So shall thou show me friendship. Take thou that, live and be prosperous and farewell, good fellow. For all this the same I'll hide me here about. His looks I fear, and his intents I doubt. Retires thou detestable moor, thou womb of death, gorged with the dearest morsel of the earth. Thus I enforce thy rotten jaws to open. Breaking open the door of the monument. And in spite I'll cram thee with more food. That is that banished haughty Montague that murdered my love's cousin, with which grief it is supposed the fair creature died. And here is come to do some villainous shame to the dead bodies. I will apprehend him. Advances. Stop thy unhallowed toil, vile Montague! Can vengeance be pursued further than death? Condemned villain I do apprehend thee! Obey and go with me, for thou must die! I must indeed, and therefore came I hither. Good, gentle youth, tempt not a desperate man. Fly hence and leave me. Think upon these gone. Let them affright thee. I beseech thee, youth, put not another sin upon my head by urging me to fury. I'll be gone! By heaven I love thee better than myself. For I come hither armed against myself. Stay not, be gone, live, and hear after say a madman's mercy bid thee run away. I do defy thy conjurations and apprehend thee for a felon here. Will thou provoke me? Then have at thee, boy! They fight. O Lord, they fight. I will go call the watch. Exit. Oh! I am slain. False. If thou be merciful, open the tomb. Lay me with Juliet. Dies. In faith I will. Let me peruse this face. Mercutio's kinsman. Noble County Paris. What said my man, when my betost soul did not attend him as we rode? I think he told me Paris should have married Juliet. Said he not so? Or did I dream it so? Or am I mad, hearing him talk of Juliet, to think it was so? Oh, give me thy hand. One writ with me in sour misfortune's book. I'll bury thee in a triumphant grave. A grave? Oh, no. A lanthorn slaughtered youth. For here lies Juliet, and her beauty makes this vault a feasting presence full of light. Death. Lie thou there by a dead man in turn. Laying Paris in the monument. How oft, when man are at the point of death, have they been merry? Which their keepers call a lightning before death. Oh, how may I call this a lightning? Oh, my love. My wife, death, that hath sucked the honey of thy breath, hath had no power yet upon thy beauty. Thou art not conquered. Beauty's ensign yet is crimson in thy lips and in thy cheeks, and death's pale flag is not advanced there. Tibbled. Lieest thou there in thy bloody sheet? Oh, what more favour can I do to thee than with that hand that cut thy youth in twain? The sunder hears that was thine enemy. Forgive me, cousin. Ah, dear Juliet, why art thou yet so fair? Shall I believe that unsubstantial death is amorous and that the lean, abhorred monster keeps thee here in dark to be his paramour? For fear of that I still will stay with thee and never from this palace of dim night depart again. Here. Here will I remain with worms that I thy chambermaids. Oh, here will I set up my everlasting rest and shake the yoke of inauspicious stars from this world-weird flesh. Eyes, look your last. Arms, take your last embrace and lips. Oh, you the doors of breath, seal with a righteous kiss a dateless bargain to engrossing death. Come, bitter conduct, come unsavoury guide, a desperate pilot now at once run on the dashing rocks I see sick, weary bar. Here's to my love. Drinks. Oh, true apothecary. My drugs are quick. Thus, with a kiss, I die. Dies. Enter at the other end of the churchyard fire Lawrence with a lantern, crow, and spade. St. Francis be my speed. How often I'd have my old feet stumbled at graves. Who there? Who is it that consorts so late the dead? Here's one, a friend, and one that knows you well. Bliss be upon you. Tell me, good friend, what torch is yawn that vainly lends its light through grubs and eyeless skulls? As I discern, it burneth in the chapel's monument. It doth so, holy sir, and there's my master. One that you love. Who is it? Romeo. How long hath he been there? Full half an hour. Go with me to the vault. I dare not, sir. My master knows not, but I am gone hence, and fearfully did menace me with death if I did stay to look on his intents. Stay, then. I'll go alone. Fear comes upon me. Oh, much I fear some ill, unlucky thing. As I did sleep under this yew-tree here, I dreamt my master and another fought, and that my master slew him. Romeo. Advances. Alack, alack! What blood is this which stains the stony entrance of this sepulcher? What mean these masterless and gory swords to lie discolored by this palace of peace? Enter's the monument. Romeo. O pale. Who else? What? Paris too? And steeped in blood. Ah, what an unkind hour is guilty of this lamentable chance. The Lady stirs. Juliet wakes and stirs. O comfortable friar. Where is my lord? I do remember well where I should be, and there I am. Where is my Romeo? Noise within. I hear some noise. Lady, come from that nest of death, contagion, and unnatural sleep. A greater power than we can contradict hath thwarted our intents. Come, come away. Thy husband in thy bosom, there lies dead. And Paris too. Come, I'll dispose of thee among a sisterhood of holy nuns. Stay not to question, for the watch is coming. Come. Go, good Juliet. Noise within. I dare no longer stay. Go. Get thee hence, for I will not away. Exit, friar Lawrence. What's here? A cup closed in my true love's hand. Poison, I see, hath been his timeless end. O churl, drunk all and left no friendly drop to help me after. I will kiss thy lips. Happily some poison yet hath hang on them to make me die with a restorative. Kisses him. Thy lips are warm. Within. Lead boy, which way? Yay, noise. Then I'll be brief. O happy dagger. Snatching Romeo's dagger. This is thy sheath. Stabs herself. There rest. And let me die. Falls on Romeo's body and dies. Enter watch with the page of Paris. This is the place. There, where the torch descends. The ground is bloody. Search about the churchyard. Go, some of you, where you find a touch. Exit, some of the watch. A pitiful sight. Here lies the county slain. And Juliet, bleeding. Warm and newly dead, who here hath laid these two days buried. Go, tell the prince. Run to the Capulets. Raise up the Montagues. Some others search. Exit, others of the watch. We see the ground where all these woes do lie, but the true ground of all these piteous woes we cannot without circumstance to cry. Re-enter some of the watch with Balthazar. Here's Romeo's man. We found him in the churchyard. Hold him in safety till the prince come hither. Re-enter others of the watch with Friar Lawrence. Here is a Friar that trembles, sighs, and weeps. We took this mattock and this spade from him, as he was coming from this churchyard side. A great suspicion. Stay the prior, too. Enter Prince and Attendance. What misadventure is so early up that cause our person from our morning's rest? Enter Capulet, Lady Capulet, and others. What should it be that they so shriek abroad? The people in the street cry Romeo, some Juliet, and some Paris, and all run with open-out cry toward our monument. What fear is this which startles in our ears? Sovereign, here lies a county Paris slain, and Romeo dead, and Juliet dead before warm and new killed. Search, seek, and know how this foul murder comes. Here is a Friar, and slaughtered Romeo's men, which instruments upon them fit to open these dead men's tombs. Oh, Heaven! Oh, Wife! Look how our daughter bleeds. This dagger hath misstained for, though his house is empty on the back of Montague. And it mischeased in my daughter's bosom. O me, this sight of death is as a bell that warns my old age to a sepulchre. Enter Montague and others. Come, Montague, for thou art early up to see thy son and heir more early down. Alas, my liege, my Wife is dead tonight. Grief of my son's exile hath stopped her breath. What further woe conspires against mine age? Look, and thou shalt see. O thou untaught. What manners is in this to press before thy father to a grave? Seal up the marathon of outrage for a while, till we can clear these ambiguities and know their spring, their head, their true descent. And then will I be general of your woes and lead you even to death. Meantime, forbear, and let mischance be slaved to patience. Bring forth the parties of suspicion. I am the greatest, able to do least, yet most suspected, as the time and place doth make against me of this direful murder. And here I stand, both to impeach and purge myself condemned and myself excused. Then say at once what thou dost know in this. I will be brief, for my short date of breath is not so long as is a tedious tale. Romeo, there dead, was husband to that Juliet, and she there dead, that Romeo's fateful wife. I married them, and their stolen marriage day was Tybalt's doomsday, whose ultimate death banished the new-made bridegroom from this city, for whom and not for Tybalt Juliet pined. You, to remove that siege of grief from her, betrothed, and would have married her perforce to County Paris, then she comes to me, and with wild looks bid me devise some means to rid her of this second marriage, or in myself there would she kill herself. Then gave her eye so tutored by my art, a sleeping potion, which so took effect as I intended, for it wrought on her the form of death. Meantime I writ to Romeo that he should hither come as this dire night to help to take her from her borrowed grave, being the time the potion's force should cease. But he who bore my letter, friar John, was stayed by accident, and yesterday night returned my letter back. Then all alone, at the prefixed hour of her waking, came I to take her from her kindred's vault, meaning to keep her closely at my cell till I conveniently could send to Romeo. And when I came, some minute ere the time of her waking, here untimely lay the noble Paris and true Romeo dead. She awakes, and I entreat her come forth and bear this work of heaven with patience. And then a noise did scare me from the tomb, and she too desperate would not go with me, but as it seems did violence on herself. All this I know, and to the marriage her nurses privy. And if ought in this miscarried by my fault, let my own life be sacrificed some hour before his time unto the rigor of severest law. We still have known thee for a holy man. Where's Romeo's man? What can he say in this? I brought my master news of Juliet's death, and then in post he came from Mantua to this same place, to this same monument. This letter he early bid me give his father, and threatened me with death going in the vault. I departed not, and left him there. Give me the letter. I will look on it. Where is the county's page that raised the watch? Syrah, what made your master in this place? He came with flowers to stir his lady's grave, and bid me stand aloof, and so I did. Anon comes run with light to open the tomb, and by and by my master drew on him. And then I ran away to call the watch. This letter doth make good the friar's words. Their course of love, the tidings of her death. And here he writes, that he did buy a poison, of a poor pothickery, and there with all. Come to this vault to die, and lie with Juliet. Where be these enemies? Capulet, Montague. See what scourge is laid upon your hate, that heaven finds means to kill your joys with love, and I, for winking at your discords too, have lost a brace of kinsmen, all are punished. O brother Montague, give me thy hand. This is my daughter's jointure, for no more can I demand. But I can give thee more, for I will raise her statue in pure gold, that while Verona by that name is known, there shall no figure at such rate be set, as that of true and faithful Juliet. As rich shall Romeo's by his lady's lie, for sacrifices of our enmity. A glooming peace this morning with it brings, the sun for sorrow will not show its head. Go hence, to have more talk of these such things, some shall be pardoned and some punished, whether was a story of more woe than this of Juliet and her Romeo. Excellent. End of Act Five. End of Romeo and Juliet by William Shakespeare.