Romeo and Juliet

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-cross'd lovers take their life;

Whose misadventured piteous overthrows Do

with their death bury their parents' strife.

The fearful passage of their death-mark'd love,

And the continuance of their parents' rage,

Which, but their children's end,

nought could remove, Is now the two hours'

traffic of our stage; The which if you with

patient ears attend, What here shall miss,

our toil shall strive to mend.

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 runn'st 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.

Tis true; And therefore women,

being the weaker vessels, are ever

thrust to the wall:

Here comes two

of the house of the Montagues.

Quarrel, quarrel,

I will back thee.

How! Turn thy back and run?

I will bite my thumb at them;

which is a disgrace to them, if they bear it.

Do you bite your thumb at us, sir?

I do bite my thumb, sir.

Do you bite your thumb at us, sir?

Come, come, come, come.

Come! RUN!

Abraham.

Open there.

Open, Open.

Open!

What, art thou drawn among these

heartless hinds?

Turn thee, Benvolio, look upon thy death.

A servant of the Capulets has killed

Abraham. Abraham has benn killed

at the hands of a Capulet!

What's this?

Abraham! Abraham! Abraham!

Where's my man? Where's my man!

What noise is this?

Abraham is dead.

Give me my sword!

Give me my long sword, ho!

Rebellious subjects,

enemies to peace,

Profaners of this neighbour-stained steel,

Will they not hear?

What, ho!

You men, you beasts, That quench the fire of

your pernicious rage With purple fountains

issuing from your veins,

Three civil brawls, bred of an airy word,

By thee, old Capulet, and Montague,

Have thrice disturb'd the quiet of our streets,

On pain of torture, from those bloody hands.

Throw your mistemper'd weapons to the ground,

And hear the sentence of your moved prince.

If ever you disturb our streets again,

Your lives shall pay the forfeit of the peace.

Good-morrow, cousin.

Is the day so young?

But new struck nine.

Ay me!

Sad hours seem long.

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!

Why, then, O brawling love!

O loving hate!

O any thing, of nothing first create!

O heavy lightness!

Serious vanity!

Dost thou not laugh?

No, coz, I rather weep.

Good heart, at what?

At thy good heart's oppression.

Why, such is love's transgression.

This love that thou hast shown.

Doth add more grief to

too much of mine own.

Farewell, my coz.

Soft!

I will go along;

An 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.

Bid a sick man in sadness make his will:

Ah, word ill urged to one that is so ill!

Juliet!

How now! Who calls?

Your mother.

Come now, quick, quick!

Madam, I am here.

What is your will?

This is the matter:

nurse, give leave awhile,

We must talk in secret:

nurse, come back again;

I have remember'd me, thou's hear

our counsel.

Thou know'st my daughter's of

a pretty age.

Faith, I can tell her age

unto an hour.

How long is it now To Lammas-tide?

Even or odd, of all days in the year,

Come Lammas-eve at night shall she be fourteen.

Susan and she... God rest all Christian souls!

Were of an age: Well, Susan is with God;

She was too good for me: But, as I said,

On Lammas-eve at night shall she be fourteen;

That shall she, marry; I remember it well.

'Tis since the earthquake now eleven

years; And she was wean'd,

I never shall forget it,

For then she could stand alone;

nay, by the rood, 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: 'Yea,

' quoth he, 'dost thou fall upon thy face?

Thou wilt fall backward when thou hast more wit;

Wilt thou not, Jule?'

and, by my holidame, The pretty wretch left

crying and said 'Ay.'

I warrant, an I should live a thousand years,

I never should forget it: 'Wilt thou not,

Jule?' quoth he;

And, pretty fool, it stinted and said 'Ay.'

And stint thou too, I pray thee, nurse,

say I.

Peace, I have done.

God mark thee to his grace!

An I might live to see thee married once,

I have my wish.

Marry, that 'marry' is the very

theme I came to talk of.

Tell me, daughter Juliet, How

stands your disposition to be married?

To marry?

It is an honour that I dream not of.

An honour!

Were not I thine only nurse,

I would say thou hadst suck'd wisdom

from thy teat.

Well, think of marriage now;

younger than you, Here in Verona,

ladies of esteem, Are made already mothers.

Thus then in brief:

The valiant Paris seeks you for his love.

But saying o'er 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, Ere we may

think her ripe to be a bride.

Younger than she are happy

mothers made.

And too soon marr'd are those

so early made.

The earth hath swallow'd all my

hopes but she, But woo her, gentle

Paris, get her heart, This night

I hold an old accustom'd feast,

Whereto I have invited many a

guest, Such as I love; And you, among

the store, One more, most welcome, makes