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Did my heart love till now?
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Forswear it, sight,
For I ne'er saw true beauty till this night.
Next on "Great Performances," Shakespeare's classic tale
starring Josh O'Connor as Romeo and Jessie Buckley as Juliet,
two young lovers with passions
that rise above their family's feud.
Be some other name!
Star-crossed lovers.
In an original film
produced during London's performance shutdown,
stage and screen are fused as backstage rehearsals
transform into a cinematic experience...
-Let me be ta'en. -...capturing the iconic lovers
on their fateful journey to immortality.
Romeo.
This day's black fate on more days doth depend,
This but begins the woe others must end.
The National Theatre's "Romeo & Juliet" is next.
Major funding for "Great Performances"
is provided by...
...and by contributions to your PBS station
from viewers like you. Thank you.
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 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;
Here comes one of the house of Montague.
Quarrel, I will back thee.
I strike quickly, being moved.
But thou art not quickly moved to strike.
Do you quarrel, sir?
-Quarrel sir! No, sir.
But if you do, sir, I am for you.
Part, fools!
Put up your swords, you know not what you do.
What, art thou drawn among these heartless hinds?
-I do but keep the peace. Put up thy sword.
What, drawn, and talk of peace?
I hate the word,
As I hate hell, all Montagues and thee.
Have at thee, coward!
Hey, hey, hey, hey, hey!
Hold me not, let me go!
Aah!
-Hey, hey! -Stop!
-Aah! -Oh!
-Get, get. You beasts!
On pain of torture, from your bloody hands
Throw your mistempered weapon to the ground
And hear the sentence of your moved prince.
Three civil brawls bred of an airy word,
By thee, both Montague, and Capulet,
Have thrice disturbed the quiet of our streets
And made Verona's ancient citizens
Cast by their grave-beseeming ornaments,
To wield old partisans in hands as old,
Cankered with peace, to part your cankered hate.
If ever you 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 my further pleasure in this case.
Once more, on pain of death, all men depart.
Who set this quarrel new abroach?
Speak, nephew, were you by when it began?
The fiery Tybalt, with his sword prepared.
And where is Romeo?
Black and portentous must this humour prove,
Unless good counsel may the cause remove.
Do you know the cause?
I neither know it nor can learn of him.
Have you entreated him by any means?
Both by myself and many other friends;
But he, his own affections' counsellor,
Is to himself too secret and too close.
I'll know his grievance, or be much denied.
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.
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?
Farewell, my coz. -Soft, I will go along;
If you do me so, you do me wrong.
I have lost myself.
I am not here.
This is not Romeo, he's some otherwhere.
Tell me in sadness, who is that you love.
In sadness, cousin, I do love a woman.
I aimed so near when I supposed you loved.
A right good mark, and she's fair I love.
A right fair mark, fair coz, is soonest hit.
Be ruled by me, forget to think of her.
Farewell, my coz.
Thou canst not teach me to forget.
I pray, sir, can you read?
Ay, mine own fortune in my misery.
Perhaps you have learned it without book.
But, I pray, can you read anything you see?
Ay.
If I know the letters and the language.
I am sent to trudge about through fair Verona,
and find them out whose names are written here,
but can never find what names
the writing person here has writ.
I must to the learned. Rest you merry!
Stay, lady, I can read.
Signior Martino and his wife and daughters;
Mercutio and his brother Valentine;
Mine uncle Capulet, his wife and daughters;
My fair niece Rosaline, and Livia;
Signior Valentino and his cousin Tybalt;
A fair assembly. Whither should they come?
-To our house. -Whose house?
My mistress is the great Capulet,
and if you be not of the house of Montagues,
I pray come and crush a cup of wine.
But Montague is bound as well as I,
In penalty alike, and 'tis not hard, I think,
For those so old as we to keep the peace.
Of honourable reckoning are you both,
And pity 'tis you lived at odds so long.
But now, Lady, what say you to my suit?
But saying o'er what I have said before,
That too soon marred are those so quickly married:
My child is yet a stranger to this world.
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,
Tonight we hold an old accustomed feast,
Whereto we have invited many a guest
Such as we love; and you among the store
One more, most welcome, makes my number more.
-How now, who calls? -Your mother.
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 remembered me, thou's hear our counsel.
Thou knowest my daughter's of a pretty age.
Faith, I can tell her age unto an hour.
That can I, marry! I remember it well.
'Tis since the earthquake now so many years,
And she was weaned, I never shall forget it,
Of all the days in the year upon that day.
Your lord and you were then at Mantua.
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,
He 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?'
Enough of this, I pray thee, hold thy peace.
And stint thou too, I pray thee, Nurse, say I.
Peace, I have done.
God mark thee to his grace,
Thou wast the prettiest babe that e'er I nursed.
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?
It is an honour that I dream not of.
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.
Oh, 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 o'er the volume of young Paris' face,
And find delight writ there with beauty's pen;
Speak briefly.
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.
-Come, knock and enter. -And no sooner in
But every man betake him to his legs.
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.
And we mean well in going to this masque,
But 'tis no wit to go.
-Why, may one ask? -I dreamt a dream to-night.
-And so did I. -Well, what was yours?
That dreamers often lie.
In bed asleep while they do dream things true.
O, then I see Queen Mab hath been with you.
She is the fairies' midwife, and she comes
In shape no bigger than an agate stone
On the forefinger of an alderman,
Drawn with a team of little atomi
Over men's noses as they lie asleep.
Her chariot is an empty hazelnut
Made by the joiner squirrel or old grub;
Her wagon-spokes have long spinners' legs,
Her wagoner a small grey-coated gnat.
And in this state she gallops night by night
Through lovers' brains, and then they dream of love;
O'er lawyers' fingers, who straight dream on fees;
O'er ladies' lips, who straight on kisses dream,
Sometime she driveth o'er a soldier's neck,
Then dreams he of cutting foreign throats,
Of breaches, ambushes, Spanish blades,
Of healths five fathoms deep; and then anon
Drums in his ear, at which he starts and wakes,
And being thus frighted, swears a prayer or two
And sleeps again.
This is that very Mab - - Peace, peace, Mercutio, peace,
Thou talk'st 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 then, being angered, puffs away from thence
And turns 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 the steerage of my course
Direct my suit.
On, lusty gentlemen.
To Rosaline.
What lady is that?
I know not, cousin.
Did my heart love till now?
Forswear it, sight,
For I ne'er saw true beauty till this night.
This by his voice should be a Montague.
What dares the slave Come hither,
covered with an antic face,
To fleer and scorn at our solemnity?
Now by the stock and honour of my kin,
To strike him dead I hold it not a sin.
Fetch me my knife.
Why, how now, kinsman, wherefore storm you so?
Dear aunt, this is a Montague, our foe,
Young Romeo is it?
'Tis he, that villain Romeo.
I would not for the wealth of all this town
Here in my house do him disparagement.
Therefore be patient, take no note of him.
It is my will.
I'll not endure him.
He shall be endured.
Am I the mistress here or you, go to!
You'll not endure him?
God shall mend my soul,
You'll make a mutiny among my guests,
Why my aunt, 'tis a shame.
Go to, go to.
You must cross me!
You are a princox, go,
Be quiet, or for shame,
I'll make you quiet.
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 pilgrims' hands do touch,
And palm to palm is holy palmers' kiss.
Have not saints lips and holy palmers too?
Ay, pilgrim,
lips that they must use in prayer.
O 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 prayers' sake.
Then move not, while my prayer's effect I take.
Thus from my lips, by yours, my sin is purged.
Then have my lips the sin that they have took.
O trespass sweetly urged!
Give me my sin again.
-Madam! Madam, Madam, Madam, Madam,
your mother craves a word.
What is her mother?
Her mother is the lady of the house.
She is a Capulet?
O dear account! My life is my foe's debt.
Away, be gone.
His name is Romeo, and a Montague,
The only son of your great enemy.
-Romeo! -Shh! Shh!
My cousin Romeo, Romeo!
Nay, I'll conjure him.
Romeo, humours, madman,
passion, lover. -Ah!
Appear thou in the likeness of a sigh.
He heareth not,
he stirreth not, he moveth not.
Romeo, good night:
I'll to my truckle-bed;
Whee!
This field-bed is too cold for me.
Come, shall we go?
Can I go forward when my heart is here?
Turn back, dull earth, and find thy centre out.
Romeo, Romeo, wherefore art thou Romeo?
Deny thy father and refuse thy name,
Or if thou wilt not, be but sworn my love,
And I'll no longer be a Capulet.
'Tis but thy name that is mine 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.
O be some other name!
What's in a name?
That which we call a rose
By any other word would smell as sweet;
So Romeo would, were he not Romeo called,
Retain that dear perfection which he owes
Without that title.
Romeo, doff thy name,
And for thy name, which is no part of thee,
Take all myself.
I take thee at thy word.
Call me but love and I'll be new baptized.
Henceforth I never will be Romeo.
What man art thou?
By a name I know not how to tell thee who I am.
Art thou not Romeo and a Montague?
Neither, fair maid, if either thee dislike.
How cam'st thou hither, tell me, and wherefore?
This place is death, considering who thou art,
If any of my kinsmen find thee here.
With love's light wings did I o'erperch these walls,
For stony limits cannot hold love out.
And what love can do that dares love attempt;
Therefore thy kinsmen are no stop to me.
If they do see thee, they will murder thee.
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.
Thou knowest the mask of night is on my face,
Else would a maiden blush bepaint my cheek
For that which thou hast heard me speak tonight.
Dost thou love me?
I know thou wilt say 'Ay,'
And I will take thy word; yet if thou swear'st,
Thou mayst prove false.
Gentle Romeo,
If thou dost love, pronounce it faithfully.
By yonder blessed moon I vow,
That tips with silver all the fruit-tree tops --
O swear not by the moon, th'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,
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.
O, wilt 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.
-Wouldst thou withdraw it? For 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 love, adieu!
Anon, good Nurse! Sweet Montague, be true,
Stay but a little, I will come again.
I am afeard.
Being in night, all this is but a dream,
Too flattering-sweet to be substantial.
If that thy bent of love be honourable,
Thy purpose marriage, send word for me tomorrow
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.
-Madam! -A-A-Anon, I come!
Romeo! -My dear?
At what o'clock to-morrow Shall I send to thee?
-By the hour of nine. -I will not fail.
Within the infant rind of this small flower
Poison hath residence and medicine power,
For this, being smelled, with that part cheers each part,
Being tasted, slays all senses with the heart.
Two such opposed 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.
-Good morrow, father. -Benedicite.
What early tongue so sweet saluteth me?
My friend, it argues a distempered head
So soon to bid good morrow to thy bed.
Therefore thy earliness doth me assure
Thou art uproused by some distemperature.
Or if not so, then here I hit it right,
Our Romeo hath not been in bed tonight.
That last is true, the sweeter rest was mine.
God pardon sin!
Wast thou with Rosaline?
With Rosaline, 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 have been feasting with mine enemy,
Where on a sudden one hath wounded me
That's by me wounded.
Both our remedies
Within thy help and holy physic lies.
Be plain, good son, and homely 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.
Holy Saint Francis, what a change is here!
Is Rosaline, that thou didst love so dear,
So soon forsaken?
Thou chid'st me oft for loving Rosaline.
Her I love now
Doth grace for grace and love for love allow;
The other did not so.
O, she knew well Thy love did read by rote,
that could not spell.
But come, young waverer, come, go with me.
In one respect I'll thy assistant be,
For this alliance may so happy prove,
To turn your households' rancour to pure love.
Where the devil should this Romeo be?
Came he not home tonight?
Not to his father's; I spoke with his man.
Tybalt, the kinsman to the Capulets,
Hath sent a letter to his father's house.
A challenge.
Romeo will answer it.
And is he a man to encounter Tybalt?
-Why, what is Tybalt? -More than Prince of Cats.
O, he's the courageous captain of compliments:
he fights as you sing, keeps time, distance, proportion.
One, two, and the third in your bosom.
-Uh -- -Oh. Signior Romeo.
You gave us the counterfeit fairly last night.
-Good morrow to you both. What counterfeit did I give you?
The slip, sir, the slip!
Pardon, good Mercutio, my business was great,
and in such a case as mine a man may strain courtesy.
That's as much as to say, such a case
as yours constrains a man to bow in the hams.
-Peta! -Anon.
My fan, Peta.
Good Peta, 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 bawdy hand of the dial is now upon the prick of noon.
Out upon you!
Can either of you tell me
where I may find the young Romeo?
She will indite him to some supper.
-So ho! Romeo, will you come?
-I will follow you. -Farewell, ancient lady,
farewell lady, lady.
Scurvy Knaves!
Pray you, sir, a word;
my young lady bid me inquire you out.
What she bid 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.
Nurse, commend me to thy lady and mistress.
I protest unto thee --
Good heart, and, i'faith I will tell her as much.
Lord, Lord, she will be a joyful woman.
-What wilt thou tell her, nurse? Thou dost not mark me.
I will tell her, sir, that you do protest,
which, as I take it, is a gentlemanlike offer.
Bid her devise some means to come to shrift this afternoon,
And there she shall at Friar Laurence' cell
Be shrived and married.
This afternoon, sir?
Well, she shall be there.
Farewell, commend me to thy mistress.
-Now God in heaven bless thee! Hark you, sir.
-Commend me to thy lady. -Ay, a thousand times.
Peta! -Anon.
My fan, Peta.
-O honey Nurse, what news? Hast thou met with him?
Now, good sweet nurse --
O Lord, why lookest thou sad?
I'm aweary, give me leave awhile.
Nay, come, I pray thee, speak, good, good Nurse, speak.
-Jesu, what haste? Can you not stay awhile?
Do you not see 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?
Is thy news good or bad?
Answer to that.
Well, you have made a simple choice.
You know not how to choose a man.
Romeo? No, not he.
What says he of our marriage, what of that?
O Lord, how my head aches!
What a head have I!
Beshrew your heart for sending me about
To catch my death with jaunting up and down!
Come, what says Romeo?
Have you got leave to go to shrift today?
I have.
Then hie you hence to Friar Laurence' cell.
There stays a husband to make you a wife.
Good even to my ghostly confessor.
Come, come, and we'll make short work,
For, by your leaves, you shall not stay alone
Till holy church incorporate two in one.
Mercutio, thou consortest with Romeo.
'Consort'!
What, dost thou make us minstrels?
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.
But I'll be hanged, sir, if he wear your livery.
Romeo, the love I bear thee can afford
No better term than this: thou art a villain.
Tybalt, the reason I have to love thee
Doth much excuse the appertaining rage
To such a greeting.
Villain am I none,
Therefore farewell; I see thou knowest me not.
This shall not excuse the injuries
That thou hast done me; therefore turn and draw.
I protest I never injured thee,
But love thee more than thou canst devise
Till thou shalt know the reason of my love.
And so, good Capulet, which name I tender
As dearly as my own...
...be satisfied.
O calm, dishonourable, vile submission!
Peace!
Tybalt, you rat-catcher, will you walk?
-What wouldst thou have with me? -Good king of cats,
nothing but one of your nine lives.
I am for you.
Come, sir, your passado.
Oh!
Away, Tybalt!
I am hurt.
Why the devil came you between us?
A plague on both your houses.
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,
That runaways' eyes may wink and Romeo
Leap to these arms, untalked of and unseen.
O sweet Juliet,
Thy beauty hath made me effeminate
And in my temper softened valour's steel!
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,
Come.
Thou sober-suited matron, all in black,
Hood my unmanned blood, bating in my cheeks,
With thy black mantle, till strange love grow bold,
Think true love acted simple modesty.
This day's black fate on more days doth depend,
This but begins the woe others must end.
Alive, in triumph, and Mercutio slain!
Away to heaven, respective lenity,
And fire-eyed fury be my conduct now.
Now, Tybalt.
Romeo, the prince will doom thee death,
If thou art taken:
Hence, be gone, away!
Come, gentle night, come, loving black-browed night,
Give me my Romeo.
And when I 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.
Where are the vile beginners of this fray?
-There lies the man. Slain by young Romeo.
That slew thy kinsman, brave Mercutio.
Prince, as thou art true,
For blood of ours shed blood of Montague.
Yes!
Benvolio, who began this bloody fray?
Tybalt, here slain, whom Romeo's hand did slay,
Romeo, that spoke him fair, bade him bethink
How slight the quarrel was, and urged withal
Your high displeasure. All this, uttered
With calm breath, gentle look, knees humbly bowed,
Could not take truce with the unruly spleen
Of Tybalt deaf to peace, but that he tilts
With piercing steel at bold Mercutio's breast.
An envious thrust from Tybalt hit the life
Of stout Mercutio, and then Tybalt fled;
He is a kinsman to the Montague.
Affection makes him false; he speaks not true.
I beg for justice, which thou, prince, must give:
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 compels with what the law doth end,
The life of Tybalt.
And for that offence
Immediately we do exile him hence.
Prince, no --
I will be deaf to pleading and excuses,
Nor tears, nor prayers shall purchase out abuses,
Therefore use none.
Let Romeo hence in haste,
Else, when he is found, that hour is his last.
Why dost thou wring thy hands?
Ah weraday, he's dead, he's dead, he's dead!
We are undone, lady, we are undone.
O courteous Tybalt, honest gentleman,
That ever I should live to see thee dead!
What storm is this that blows so contrary?
Tybalt is gone and Romeo banished,
Romeo that killed him, he is banished.
O God.
Did Romeo's ha-- hand shed Tybalt's blood?
Serpent heart, hid with a flowering face!
O nature, what hadst thou to do in hell
When thou didst bower the spirit of a fiend
In moral paradise of such sweet flesh?
Was ever book containing such vile matter
So fairly bound?
Shame come to Romeo!
Blistered be thy tongue For such a wish!
He was not born to shame.
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-hours 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 Tybalt would have slain,
And Tybalt's dead that would have slain my husband.
All this is comfort.
Wherefore weep I then?
Some word there was, worser than Tybalt's death,
That murdered me.
I would forget it fain, But O, it presses to my memory
Like damned guilty deeds to sinner's minds.
Tybalt is dead and Romeo is banished;
That 'banished', that one word 'banished'
Hath slain ten thousand Tybalts.
Tybalt's death
Was woe enough, if it had ended there;
But with a rearward following Tybalt's death,
'Romeo is banished.'
Stay here in your chamber.
I'll find Romeo
To comfort you. I'll keep.
I wot well where he is.
Hark ye, your Romeo will be here at night.
I'll to him.
Hence from Verona art thou banished.
There is no world without Verona 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 'banished',
Thou cutt'st my head off with a golden axe
And smilest upon the stroke that murders me.
This is dear mercy, and thou seest it not.
Tis torture and not mercy.
Heaven is here where Juliet lives.
O thou fond mad man, hear me a little speak.
Thou wilt speak again of banishment.
Who is it that knocks so hard?
Whence come you? What is your will?
Let me come in and I will tell my errand.
I come from Lady Juliet.
-Comest thou from Juliet? -Oh.
Where is she, and how doth she, and what says
My concealed lady to our cancelled love?
O, she says nothing, sir, but weeps and weeps,
And now falls on her bed, and then starts up,
And Tybalt calls, and then gainst Romeo cries.
As if that name,
Shot from the deadly level of a gun,
Did murder her, as that name's cursed hand
Murdered her kinsman.
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.
Hold thy desperate hand!
Hast thou slain Tybalt?
Wilt thou slay thyself,
And slay thy lady that in thy life lives,
By doing damned hate upon thyself?
What, rouse thee, man!
Thy Juliet is alive,
For whose dear sake thou wast but lately dead:
There art thou happy.
Tybalt would kill thee,
But thou slew'st Tybalt; there art thou happy:
The law that threatened death becomes thy friend
Turns it to exile: there art thou happy.
Happiness courts thee in her best array,
A pack of blessings lights up upon thy back,
But like a misbehaved and sullen wench
Thou pouts upon thy fortune 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 thou shalt 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 went'st forth in lamentation.
Go before, Nurse.
Commend me to thy lady
Bid her hasten all the house to bed,
Which heavy sorrow makes them apt unto.
Romeo is coming.
Either be gone before the watch be set,
Or by the break of day disguised from hence.
Sojourn in Mantua.
Meanwhile, I'll seek your man, Benvolio,
And he shall signify from time to time
Every good hap to you that chances here.
Give me your hand.
'Tis late. Farewell.
Things have fallen out, sir, so unluckily,
That we have had no time to move our daughter
'Tis very late; she'll not come down tonight.
I promise you, but for your company,
I would have been abed an hour ago.
These times of woe afford no time to woo.
Commend me to your daughter.
We will, and know her mind early tomorrow.
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.
I shall speak with her ere I go to bed;
Acquaint her here of valiant Paris' love,
And bid her, mark you me, on Wednesday next --
But, soft, what day is this?
-Monday, my lady. -Monday! Ha, ha.
Well, Wednesday is too soon.
A Thursday let it be, a Thursday, I say,
She shall be married to this noble earl.
Will you be ready?
Do you like this haste?
Lady, I would that Thursday were tomorrow.
Well get you gone, a' Thursday be it then.
Farewell, my lord. It is so late that we
May call it early by and by.
I must be gone and live, or stay and die.
Yond 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 light thee on thy way to Mantua.
Therefore stay yet; thou need'st not to be gone.
Let me be ta'en, let me be put to death.
I am content so thou wilt have it so.
I have more care to stay than will to go.
Come, death, and welcome!
Juliet wills it so.
How is't, my soul?
Let's talk; it is not day.
It is, it is!
Hie hence, be gone, away!
It is the lark that sings so out of tune,
Straining harsh discords and unpleasing sharps.
O, now be gone!
More light and light it grows.
More light and light, more dark and dark our woes!
Farewell.
One kiss, and I'll descend.
-Why, how now, Juliet? -Father, I am not well.
Evermore weeping for your cousin's death?
What, wilt thou wash him from his grave with tears?
An 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.
Well girl, thou weep'st not so much for his death
As that the villain lives which slaughtered him.
But now I'll tell thee joyful tidings, girl.
What are they, beseech your lordship?
Well, well, thou hast a careful mother, child,
One who, to put thee from thy heaviness,
Hath sorted out a sudden day of joy.
Marry, my child, early next Thursday morn,
The gallant, young and noble gentleman,
The County Paris, at Saint Peter's Church
Shall happily make thee there a joyful bride.
Now by Saint Peter's Church and Peter too,
He shall not make me there a joyful bride!
I wonder at this haste, that I must marry
Ere he that should be husband comes to woo.
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!
How now, a conduit, girl?
What, still in tears,
Evermore showering?
How now, my Lord,
Have you delivered to her my decree?
Ay, Ma'am, but she will none, she gives you thanks.
Are you not proud?
Do you not count yourself blessed,
Unworthy as you are, that I have wrought
So worthy a gentleman to be your bride?
Not proud you have, but thankful that you have.
Proud can I never be of what I hate.
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 'gainst Thursday next
To go with Paris to Saint Peter's Church,
Or I will drag thee on a hurdle thither.
Good mother, I beseech you on my knees,
Hear me with patience but to speak a word.
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.
Shh!
Lord, we scarce thought us blessed
That God had lent us but this only child,
But now I see this one is one too much.
God in heaven bless her!
You are to blame, Lady, to rate her so.
-Hold thy tongue! -I speak no treason.
-O, God! -Can not one speak?
Peace!
You mumbling fool!
Day, night, hour, tide, time, work, play,
Alone, in company, still my care has been
To have thee matched; and having now provided,
To answer 'I'll not wed, I cannot love,
I am too young, I pray you pardon me.'
But, as you will not wed, I'll pardon you.
Graze where you will, you shall not house with me.
Thursday is near.
Lay hand on heart, advise.
An you be mine, I'll give you to my friend;
And you be not, hang, beg, starve, die in the streets,
For, by my soul, I'll ne'er acknowledge thee.
Is there no pity sitting in the clouds
That can see into the bottom of my grief?
O sweet my mother, cast me not away!
Delay this marriage by a month, a week;
Or if thou do not, make my bridal bed
In that dim monument where Tybalt lies.
Talk not to me, for I'll not speak a word.
Romeo is banished, and all the world to nothing
He dares ne'er come back to challenge you;
Or if he do, it must be done by stealth.
Then, since the case so stands as now it doth,
I think it best you married with the County.
O, he's a lovely gentleman!
I think you happy in this second match,
For it excels your first; or if it did not,
Your first is dead, or 'twere as good he were.
Speakest thou from thy heart?
And from my soul too, or else beshrew them both.
Amen.
What?
Well, you have comforted me marvellous much.
Go in, and tell my lady I am gone,
Having displeased my mother, to Laurence' cell,
To make confession and to be absolved.
Marry, that I will, and this is wisely done.
-On Thursday, sir? The time is very short.
The lady Capulet will have it so,
And I am nothing slow to slack her haste.
You say you do not know Juliet's mind?
Uneven is the course; I like it not.
Now, sir, her mother counts it dangerous
That she do give her sorrow so much sway,
And in her wisdom hastes 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 for this haste.
Happily met, my lady and my wife!
That may be, sir, when I may be a wife.
That may be must be, love, on Thursday next.
What must be shall be.
That's a certain text.
Come you to make 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.
Thy face is mine, and thou hast slandered it.
That 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, pensive daughter, now.
My lord, we must entreat the time alone.
God shield I should disturb devotion!
Juliet, on Thursday early will I rouse ye;
Till then, adieu, and keep this holy kiss.
Past hope, past cure, past help.
O Juliet, I already know thy grief;
I hear thou must, and nothing may prorogue it,
On Thursday next be married to young Paris.
Tell me not, Friar, 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 our hands;
And ere this hand, by thee to Romeo sealed,
Shall become the label to another deed,
Or my true heart with treacherous revolt
Turn to another, this shall slay them both.
Therefore,
Give me some present counsel, or behold, 'Twixt my extremes
and me this bloody knife
Shall play the umpire.
O, I long to die,
If what thou speak'st speak not of remedy.
Hold, daughter, I do spy a kind of hope.
If rather than to marry County Paris
Thou hast the strength of will to slay thyself,
Then is it likely thou wilt undertake
A thing like death to chide away this shame;
And, if thou dar'st, I'll give thee remedy.
O, bid me leap, rather than marry Paris.
Hold then:
go home, be merry, give consent
To marry Paris.
Wednesday is tomorrow.
Tomorrow night look that thou lie alone.
Let not the Nurse lie with thee in thy chamber.
Take thou this vial, being then in bed,
And this distilling liquor drink thou off,
When presently through all thy veins shall run
A cold and drowsy humour, for no pulse
Shall keep his native progress, but surcease.
And in this borrowed likeness of shrunk death
Thou shalt continue two-and-twenty hours,
And then awake as from a pleasant sleep.
Now, when the bridegroom in the morning comes
To rouse thee from thy bed, there art thou dead.
Then, as the manner of our country is,
Thou shalt be borne to that same ancient vault
Where all the kindred of the Capulets lie.
In the meantime, again thou shalt awake,
Shall Romeo by my visit 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 childish fear
Abate thy valour in the acting it.
O, tell not me of fear!
Hold!
Be gone, be strong and prosperous
In this resolve: Tomorrow morning I will speed
To Mantua, with this message to thy lord.
Love will give me strength,
and strength will help afford.
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 Laurence to fall prostrate here
And beg your pardon.
Pardon, I beseech you;
Henceforward I am ever ruled by you.
Call for young Paris, go tell him of this.
I'll have this knot knit up tomorrow morning.
No, not till Thursday; there is time enough.
Ay, marry, go, I say, and fetch him hither.
We shall be short in our provision:
'Tis now near night.
Tush, I will stir about,
And all things shall be well, I warrant thee.
My heart is wondrous light against tomorrow.
That this same wayward girl is so reclaimed.
Go, Nurse, go with her; we'll to church tomorrow.
No, gentle Nurse, I pray thee leave me to myself tonight.
So please you, let me now be left alone,
And let the Nurse this night sit up with you,
For I am sure your hands are full, all,
In this so sudden business.
Good night.
Get thee to bed and rest, for thou hast need.
Farewell.
God knows when we shall meet again.
I have a faint cold fear thrills through my veins,
That almost freezes up the heat of life.
I'll call them back again to comfort me.
Nurse!
My dismal scene I needs must act alone.
Come, vial.
What if this mixture do not work at all?
Shall I be married then tomorrow morning?
What if it be a poison which the Friar
Subtly hath ministered to have me dead,
Lest in this marriage he should be dishonoured,
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.
How if, when I am laid into the tomb,
I wake before the time that Romeo
Comes to redeem me?
There's a fearful point.
Shall I not then be stifled in the vault,
And there die strangled ere 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 these many hundred years, the bones
Of all my buried ancestors are packed:
where bloody Tybalt, yet but green in earth,
Lies festering in his shroud, where, as they say,
At some hours in the night spirits resort,
And shriek like mandrakes torn out of the earth
That living mortals, hearing them, run mad:
Romeo.
Here's drink.
I drink to thee.
Mistress.
My bride.
Fie, you slug-a-bed! Oh.
What, dressed, and in your clothes, and down again?
I needs must wake you.
Lady.
Lady?
She's dead!
- Help, help. My lady's dead!
Juliet is dead.
My son, the night before thy wedding day
Hath death lain with thy wife.
There she lies.
Have I thought long to see this morning's face,
And doth it give me such a sight as this?
Ha, let me see her.
Out, alas.
O child.
My child is dead,
And with my child my 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 is it for the maid.
Dry up your tears, and place your rosemary
Upon this fair corpse, and, as the custom is,
In all her best array, bear her to church;
Every one prepare
To follow this fair corpse unto her grave.
How now, Benvolio.
News from Verona!
If I may trust the flattering truth of sleep,
My dreams presage some joyful news at hand.
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.
Tell me, how doth my lady?
Is my father well?
How doth my Juliet?
That I ask again,
For nothing can be ill if she be well.
Juliet's body sleeps in Capel's monument,
And her immortal part with angels lives.
O, pardon me for bringing these ill news.
Is it even so?
Then I defy you, stars!
Cousin, have patience!
Tush.
Thou art deceived.
Dost thou bring no message from the Friar?
No, my good coz.
No matter:
Get thee gone.
O mischief, thou art swift
To enter in the thoughts of desperate men.
Romeo!
Stop thy unhallowed toil, vile Montague!
Condemned villain, I do apprehend thee.
Obey and go with me, for thou must die.
I must indeed.
I'll bury thee in a triumphant grave.
A grave --
O, no, a lantern, slaughtered youth.
For here lies Juliet, and her beauty makes
This vault a feasting presence full of light.
O my love...
my wife.
Why art thou yet so fair?
Shall I believe
That unsubstantial death is amorous.
And that the lean abhorred monster keeps
Thee here in the 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.
O, here
Will I set up my everlasting rest,
And shake the yoke of inauspicious stars
From this world-wearied flesh.
Eyes, look your last;
Arms...
take your last embrace...
...and lips, O you
The doors of breath,
seal with a righteous kiss
A dateless bargain to engrossing death.
Here's to my love.
Thus with a kiss I die.
What's here?
A cup, closed in my true love's hand?
Oh.
No, no. No, no. No.
Poison, I see, hath been his timeless end.
O churl, drank all, and left no friendly drop
To help me after?
I will kiss thy lips.
Haply some poison yet doth hang on them
To make me die with a restorative.
Thy lips are warm!
Romeo!
No!!!
O happy dagger!
This is thy sheath.
There rust...
and let me die.
See what a scourge is laid upon your hate,
That heaven finds means to kill your joys with love.
Seal up the mouth of outrage for awhile
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 slave to patience.
For never was a story of more woe
Than this of Juliet and her Romeo.
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