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Juliet.

       By-and-by I come:—

       To cease thy suit and leave me to my grief:

       Tomorrow will I send.

       Romeo.

       So thrive my soul,—

       Juliet.

       A thousand times good night!

       [Exit.]

       Romeo.

       A thousand times the worse, to want thy light!—

       Love goes toward love as schoolboys from their books;

       But love from love, towards school with heavy looks.

       [Retirong slowly.]

       [Re-enter Juliet, above.]

       Juliet.

       Hist! Romeo, hist!—O for a falconer’s voice

       To lure this tassel-gentle back again!

       Bondage is hoarse and may not speak aloud;

       Else would I tear the cave where Echo lies,

       And make her airy tongue more hoarse than mine

       With repetition of my Romeo’s name.

       Romeo.

       It is my soul that calls upon my name:

       How silver-sweet sound lovers’ tongues by night,

       Like softest music to attending ears!

       Juliet.

       Romeo!

       Romeo.

       My dear?

       Juliet.

       At what o’clock tomorrow

       Shall I send to thee?

       Romeo.

       At the hour of nine.

       Juliet.

       I will not fail: ‘tis twenty years till then.

       I have forgot why I did call thee back.

       Romeo.

       Let me stand here till thou remember it.

       Juliet.

       I shall forget, to have thee still stand there,

       Remembering how I love thy company.

       Romeo.

       And I’ll still stay, to have thee still forget,

       Forgetting any other home but this.

       Juliet.

       ‘Tis almost morning; I would have thee gone:

       And yet no farther than a wanton’s bird;

       That lets it hop a little from her hand,

       Like a poor prisoner in his twisted gyves,

       And with a silk thread plucks it back again,

       So loving-jealous of his liberty.

       Romeo.

       I would I were thy bird.

       Juliet.

       Sweet, so would I:

       Yet I should kill thee with much cherishing.

       Good night, good night! parting is such sweet sorrow

       That I shall say good night till it be morrow.

       [Exit.]

       Romeo.

       Sleep dwell upon thine eyes, peace in thy breast!—

       Would I were sleep and peace, so sweet to rest!

       Hence will I to my ghostly father’s cell,

       His help to crave and my dear hap to tell.

       [Exit.]

       SCENE III. Friar Lawrence’s Cell.

       [Enter Friar Lawrence with a basket.]

       Friar.

       The grey-ey’d morn smiles on the frowning night,

       Chequering the eastern clouds with streaks of light;

       And flecked darkness like a drunkard reels

       From forth day’s path and Titan’s fiery wheels:

       Non, ere the sun advance his burning eye,

       The day to cheer and night’s dank dew to dry,

       I must up-fill this osier cage of ours

       With baleful weeds and precious-juiced flowers.

       The earth, that’s nature’s mother, is her tomb;

       What is her burying gave, that is her womb:

       And from her womb children of divers kind

       We sucking on 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 plants, herbs, stones, and their true qualities:

       For naught 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,

       Revolts from true birth, stumbling on abuse:

       Virtue itself turns vice, being misapplied;

       And vice sometimes by action dignified.

       Within the infant rind of this small 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,

       Full soon the canker death eats up that plant.

       [Enter Romeo.]

       Romeo.

       Good morrow, father!

       Friar.

       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

       Thou art uprous’d with some distemperature;

       Or if not so, then here I hit it right,—

       Our Romeo hath not been in bed tonight.

       Romeo.

       That last is true; the sweeter rest was mine.

       Friar.

       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.

       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;

       Where, on a sudden, one hath wounded me

       That’s by me wounded. Both our remedies

      

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