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Speak briefly, can you like of Paris’ love?

       Juliet.

       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.

       [Enter a Servant.]

       Servant. Madam, the guests are come, supper served up, you called, my young lady asked for, the nurse cursed in the pantry, and everything in extremity. I must hence to wait; I beseech you, follow straight.

       Lady Capulet.

       We follow thee. [Exit Servant.]—

       Juliet, the county stays.

       Nurse.

       Go, girl, seek happy nights to happy days.

       [Exeunt.]

       SCENE IV. A Street.

       [Enter Romeo, Mercutio, Benvolio, with five or six Maskers;

       Torch-bearers, and others.]

       Romeo.

       What, shall this speech be spoke for our excuse?

       Or shall we on without apology?

       Benvolio.

       The date is out of such prolixity:

       We’ll have no Cupid hoodwink’d with a scarf,

       Bearing a Tartar’s painted bow of lath,

       Scaring the ladies like a crow-keeper;

       Nor no without-book prologue, faintly spoke

       After the prompter, for our entrance:

       But, let them measure us by what they will,

       We’ll measure them a measure, and be gone.

       Romeo.

       Give me a torch,—I am not for this ambling;

       Being but heavy, I will bear the light.

       Mercutio.

       Nay, gentle Romeo, we must have you dance.

       Romeo.

       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.

       Mercutio.

       You are a lover; borrow Cupid’s wings,

       And soar with them above a common bound.

       Romeo.

       I am too sore enpierced with his shaft

       To soar with his light feathers; and so bound,

       I cannot bound a pitch above dull woe:

       Under love’s heavy burden do I sink.

       Mercutio.

       And, to sink in it, should you burden love;

       Too great oppression for a tender thing.

       Romeo.

       Is love a tender thing? it is too rough,

       Too rude, too boisterous; and it pricks like thorn.

       Mercutio.

       If love be rough with you, be rough with love;

       Prick love for pricking, and you beat love down.—

       Give me a case to put my visage in: [Putting on a mask.]

       A visard for a visard! what care I

       What curious eye doth quote deformities?

       Here are the beetle-brows shall blush for me.

       Benvolio.

       Come, knock and enter; and no sooner in

       But every man betake him to his legs.

       Romeo.

       A torch for me: let wantons, light of heart,

       Tickle the senseless rushes with their heels;

       For I am proverb’d with a grandsire phrase,—

       I’ll be a candle-holder and look on,—

       The game was ne’er so fair, and I am done.

       Mercutio.

       Tut, dun’s the mouse, the constable’s own word:

       If thou art dun, we’ll draw thee from the mire

       Of this—sir-reverence—love, wherein thou stick’st

       Up to the ears.—Come, we burn daylight, ho.

       Romeo.

       Nay, that’s not so.

       Mercutio.

       I mean, sir, in delay

       We waste our lights in vain, like lamps by day.

       Take our good meaning, for our judgment sits

       Five times in that ere once in our five wits.

       Romeo.

       And we mean well, in going to this mask;

       But ‘tis no wit to go.

       Mercutio.

       Why, may one ask?

       Romeo.

       I dreamt a dream tonight.

       Mercutio.

       And so did I.

       Romeo.

       Well, what was yours?

       Mercutio.

       That dreamers often lie.

       Romeo.

       In bed asleep, while they do dream things true.

       Mercutio.

       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 atomies

       Athwart men’s noses as they lie asleep:

       Her waggon-spokes made of long spinners’ legs;

       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.

       And in this state she gallops night by night

       Through lovers’ 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,

       Tickling a parson’s nose as ‘a lies asleep,

       Then dreams he of another benefice:

       Sometime she driveth o’er a soldier’s neck,

      

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