Shakespeare's Tragedy of Romeo and Juliet. William Shakespeare
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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 waggoner a small grey-coated gnat,
Not half so big as a round little worm
Prick'd from the lazy finger of a maid;
Her chariot is an empty hazel-nut
Made by the joiner squirrel or old grub,
Time out o' mind the fairies' coachmakers.
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And in this state she gallops night by night
Through lover's brains, and then they dream of love;
O'er courtiers' knees, that dream on court'sies straight;
O'er lawyers' fingers, who straight dream on fees;
O'er ladies' lips, who straight on kisses dream,
Which oft the angry Mab with blisters plagues,
Because their breaths with sweetmeats tainted are.
Sometime she gallops o'er a courtier's nose,
And then dreams he of smelling out a suit;
And sometime comes she with a tithe-pig's tail
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Tickling a parson's nose as a' lies asleep,
Then dreams he of another benefice.
Sometime she driveth o'er a soldier's neck,
And then dreams he of cutting foreign throats,
Of breaches, ambuscadoes, Spanish blades,
Of healths five-fathom 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
That plats the manes of horses in the night,
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And bakes the elf-locks in foul sluttish hairs,
Which once untangled much misfortune bodes.
This is she—
Romeo.Peace, peace, Mercutio, peace!
Thou talk'st of nothing.
Mercutio.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 wooes
Even now the frozen bosom of the North,
And, being anger'd, puffs away from thence,
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Turning his face to the dew-dropping South.
Benvolio. This wind you talk of blows us from ourselves;
Supper is done, and we shall come too late.
Romeo. 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 clos'd in my breast
By some vile forfeit of untimely death,
But He that hath the steerage of my course
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Direct my sail!—On, lusty gentlemen.
Benvolio. Strike, drum. [Exeunt.
Scene V.
A Hall in Capulet's House
Musicians waiting. Enter Servingmen with napkins
1 Servingman. Where's Potpan, that he helps not to take away? He shift a trencher! he scrape a trencher!
2 Servingman. When good manners shall lie all in one or two men's hands and they unwashed too, 'tis a foul thing.
1 Servingman. Away with the joint-stools, remove the court-cupboard, look to the plate.—Good thou, save me a piece of marchpane; and, as thou lovest 10me, let the porter let in Susan Grindstone and Nell.—Antony!—and Potpan!
2 Servingman. Ay, boy, ready.
1 Servingman. You are looked for and called for, asked for and sought for, in the great chamber.
2 Servingman. We cannot be here and there too. —Cheerly, boys; be brisk a while, and the longer liver take all.
Enter Capulet, with Juliet and others of his house, meeting the Guests and Maskers
Capulet. Welcome, gentlemen! ladies that have their toes
Unplagu'd with corns will have a bout with you.—
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Ah ha, my mistresses! which of you all
Will now deny to dance? she that makes dainty,
She, I'll swear, hath corns; am I come near ye now?—
Welcome, gentlemen! I have seen the day
That I have worn a visor and could tell
A whispering tale in a fair lady's ear,
Such as would please; 'tis gone, 'tis gone, 'tis gone.—
You are welcome, gentlemen!—Come, musicians, play.—
A hall, a hall! give room! and foot it, girls.— [Music plays, and they dance.
More light, you knaves; and turn the tables up,
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And quench the fire, the room is grown too hot.—
Ah, sirrah, this unlook'd-for sport comes well.—
Nay, sit, nay, sit, good cousin Capulet,
For you and I are past our dancing days.
How long is 't now since last yourself and I
Were in a mask?
2 Capulet. By 'r lady, thirty years.
Capulet. What, man! 'tis not so much, 'tis not so much!
'Tis since the nuptial of Lucentio,
Come Pentecost as quickly as it will,
Some five and twenty years; and then we mask'd.
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2 Capulet. 'Tis more, 'tis more! His son is elder, sir;
His son is thirty.
Capulet. Will you tell me that?
His son was but a ward two years ago.
Romeo. [To a Servingman] What lady is that, which doth enrich the hand
Of