Shakespeare's Tragedy of Romeo and Juliet. William Shakespeare
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her natural bosom find,
Many for many virtues excellent,
None but for some, and yet all different.
O, mickle is the powerful grace that lies
In herbs, plants, stones, and their true qualities!
For nought so vile that on the earth doth live
But to the earth some special good doth give;
Nor aught so good but, strain'd from that fair use,
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Revolts from true birth, stumbling on abuse.
Virtue itself turns vice, being misapplied,
And vice sometime's by action dignified.
Within the infant rind of this weak 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 opposed kings encamp them still
In man as well as herbs—grace and rude will;
And where the worser is predominant,
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Full soon the canker death eats up that plant.
Enter Romeo
Romeo. Good morrow, father.
Friar Laurence. Benedicite!
What early tongue so sweet saluteth me?—
Young son, it argues a distemper'd 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 unbruised youth with unstuff'd brain
Doth couch his limbs, there golden sleep doth reign.
Therefore thy earliness doth me assure
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Thou art up-rous'd with some distemperature;
Or if not so, then here I hit it right,
Our Romeo hath not been in bed to-night.
Romeo. That last is true; the sweeter rest was mine.
Friar Laurence. God pardon sin! wast thou with Rosaline?
Romeo. With Rosaline, my ghostly father? no;
I have forgot that name and that name's woe.
Friar Laurence. That's my good son; but where
hast thou been, then?
Romeo. I 'll tell thee, ere thou ask it me again.
I have been feasting with mine enemy,
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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.
Friar Laurence. Be plain, good son, and homely in thy drift;
Riddling confession finds but riddling shrift.
Romeo. 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;
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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 to-day.
Friar Laurence. 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
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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 ring yet in my ancient ears;
Lo, here upon thy cheek the stain doth sit
Of an old tear that is not wash'd off yet.
If e'er thou wast thyself and these woes thine,
Thou and these woes were all for Rosaline;
And art thou chang'd? pronounce this sentence then:
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Women may fall when there's no strength in men.
Romeo. Thou chidd'st me oft for loving Rosaline.
Friar Laurence. For doting, not for loving, pupil mine.
Romeo. And bad'st me bury love.
Friar Laurence. Not in a grave,
To lay one in, another out to have.
Romeo. I pray thee, chide not; she whom I love now
Doth grace for grace and love for love allow,
The other did not so.
Friar Laurence. O, she knew well
Thy love did read by rote and could not spell.
But come, young waverer, come, go with me,
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In one respect I'll thy assistant be;
For this alliance may so happy prove
To turn your households' rancour to pure love.
Romeo. O, let us hence! I stand on sudden haste.
Friar Laurence. Wisely and slow; they stumble that run fast. [Exeunt.
Scene IV.
A Street
Enter Benvolio and Mercutio
Mercutio. Where the devil should this Romeo be?
Came he not home to-night?
Benvolio. Not to his father's; I spoke with his man.
Mercutio. Why, that same pale hard-hearted wench, that Rosaline,
Torments him so that he will sure run mad.
Benvolio. Tybalt, the kinsman of old Capulet,
Hath sent a letter to his father's house.
Mercutio. A challenge, on my life.
Benvolio.