Romeo and Juliet / Ромео и Джульетта. Уильям Шекспир
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Rosaline, 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 it me again.
I have been feasting with mine enemy,
Where on a sudden one hath wounded me
That’s by me wounded. Both our remedies
Within thy help and holy physic lies.
I bear no hatred, blessed man; for lo,
My intercession likewise steads my foe.
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 combin’d, save what thou must combine
By holy marriage. When, and where, and how
We met, we woo’d, and made exchange of vow,
I’ll tell thee as we pass; but this I pray,
That thou consent to marry us today.
Holy Saint Francis! What a change is here!
Is Rosaline, that thou didst love so dear,
So soon forsaken? Young men’s love then lies
Not truly in their hearts, but in their eyes.
Jesu Maria, what a deal of brine
Hath wash’d thy sallow cheeks for Rosaline!
How much salt water thrown away in waste,
To season love, that of it doth not taste.
The sun not yet thy sighs from heaven clears,
Thy old groans yet ring in mine ancient ears.
Lo here upon thy cheek the stain doth sit
Of an old tear that is not wash’d off yet.
If ere thou wast thyself, and these woes thine,
Thou and these woes were all for Rosaline,
And art thou chang’d? Pronounce this sentence then,
Women may fall, when there’s no strength in men.
Thou chidd’st me oft for loving Rosaline.
For doting, not for loving, pupil mine.
And bad’st me bury love.
Not in a grave
To lay one in, another out to have.
I pray thee chide me not, 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.
O let us hence; I stand on sudden haste.
Wisely and slow; they stumble that run fast.
[Exeunt.]
Scene IV
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.
Why, that same pale hard-hearted wench, that Rosaline, torments him so that he will sure run mad.
Tybalt, the kinsman to 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 dared.
Alas poor Romeo, he is already dead, stabbed with a white wench’s black eye; run through the ear with a love song, the very pin of his heart cleft with the blind bow-boy’s butt-shaft. And is he a man to encounter Tybalt?
Why, what is Tybalt?
More than Prince of cats. O, he’s the courageous captain of compliments. He fights as you sing prick-song, keeps time, distance, and proportion. He rests his minim rest, one, two, and the third in your bosom: the very butcher of a silk button, a duellist, a duellist; a gentleman of the very first house, of the first and second cause. Ah, the immortal passado, the punto reverso, the hay.
The what?
The pox of such antic lisping, affecting phantasies; these new tuners of accent. By Jesu, a very good blade, a very tall man, a very good whore. Why, is not this a lamentable thing, grandsire, that we should be thus afflicted with these strange flies, these fashion-mongers, these pardon-me’s, who stand so much on the new form that they cannot sit at ease on the old bench? O their bones, their bones!
Enter Romeo.
Here comes Romeo, here comes Romeo!
Without his roe, like a dried herring. O 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, – marry, she had a better love to berhyme her: Dido a dowdy; Cleopatra a gypsy; Helen and Hero hildings and harlots; Thisbe a grey eye or so, but not to the purpose. Signior Romeo, bonjour! There’s 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 as to say, such a case as yours constrains a man to bow in the hams.
Meaning, to curtsy.
Thou hast most kindly hit it.
A most courteous exposition.
Nay, I am the very pink of courtesy.
Pink for flower.
Right.
Why, then is my pump well flowered.
Sure wit, follow me this jest now, till thou hast worn out thy pump, that when the single sole of it is worn, the jest may remain after the wearing, solely singular.
O single-soled jest, solely singular for the singleness!
Come between us, good Benvolio; my wits faint.
Swits