Rom. Then move not, while my prayer's effect I take. Thus from my lips, by thine, my sin is purg'd. [Kissing her. Jul. Then have my lips the sin that they have took. Rom. Sin from my lips? O, trespass sweetly urg'd! Give me my sin again. Jul. You kiss by the book. Nurse. Madam, your mother craves a word with you. Nurse. Marry, bachelor, Her mother is the lady of the house, And a good lady, and a wise, and virtuous. Rom. Is she a Capulet? O, dear account! my life is my foe's debt. Ben. Away, begone: the sport is at the best. I'll to my rest. [Exeunt all but JULIET and NURSE. Jul. Come hither, nurse. What is yond' gentleman? Jul. What's he, that now is going out of door? Nurse. Marry, that, I think, be young Petruchio. Jul. What's he, that follows here, that would not dance? Jul. Go, ask his name. If he be married, My grave is like to be my wedding bed. Nurse. His name is Romeo, and a Montague; The only son of your great enemy. Jul. My only love sprung from my only hate! Too early seen unknown, and known too late! Prodigious birth of love it is to me, Of one I danc'd withal. Nurse. Anon, anon: A rhyme I learn'd even now [One calls within, JULIET! Come, let's away; the strangers all are gone. Enter CHORUS. Now old desire doth in his death-bed lie, And young affection gapes to be his heir: That fair, for which love groan'd for, and would die, Now Romeo is belov'd, and loves again, Alike bewitched by the charm of looks; But to his foe suppos'd he must complain, And she steal love's sweet bait from fearful hooks: Being held a foe, he may not have access To breathe such vows as lovers use to swear; And she as much in love, her means much less But passion lends them power, time means to meet, ACT II. SCENE I. An open Place, adjoining CAPULET's Garden. Enter ROMEO. Rom. Can I go forward, when my heart is here? Turn back, dull earth, and find thy centre out. [Exeunt. [Exit. [He climbs the Wall, and leaps down within it. Enter BENVOLIO, and MERCUTIO.] Ben. Romeo! my cousin Romeo! Romeo! He is wise; Ben. He ran this way, and leap'd this orchard wall. Call, good Mercutio. Mer. Nay, I'll conjure too. Romeo, humours, madman, passion, lover! Appear thou in the likeness of a sigh: Speak but one rhyme, and I am satisfied; Cry but Ah me! pronounce but love and dove; One nick-name for her purblind son and heir, By her fine foot, straight leg, and quivering thigh, That in thy likeness thou appear to us. Ben. An if he hear thee, thou wilt anger him. Mer. This cannot anger him: 't would anger him To raise a spirit in his mistress' circle Of some strange nature, letting it there stand Till she had laid it, and conjur'd it down; That were some spite. My invocation Is fair and honest, and, in his mistress' name, I conjure only but to raise up him. Ben. Come, he hath hid himself among these trees, To be consorted with the humorous night: Blind is his love, and best befits the dark. Mer. If love be blind, love cannot hit the mark. Now will he sit under a medlar tree, And wish his mistress were that kind of fruit, Romeo, good night: - I'll to my truckle-bed; This field-bed is too cold for me to sleep. Come, shall we go? Ben. SCENE II. [Exeunt. CAPULET'S Garden. Enter ROMEO. Rom. He jests at scars, that never felt a wound. [JULIET appears above, at a window. But, soft! what light through yonder window breaks? Arise, fair sun, and kill the envious moon, Who is already sick and pale with grief, That thou, her maid, art far more fair than she: Be not her maid, since she is envious; Her vestal livery is but sick and green, And none but fools do wear it; cast it off. It is my lady; O! it is my love: O, that she knew she were! She speaks, yet she says nothing: what of that? I am too bold, 't is not to me she speaks: Rom. She speaks: O, speak again, bright angel! for thou art Unto the white-upturned wond'ring eyes Jul. O Romeo, Romeo! wherefore art thou Romeo? Or, if thou wilt not, be but sworn my love, And I'll no longer be a Capulet. Rom. Shall I hear more, or shall I speak at this? Jul. 'Tis but thy name, that is my enemy: Rom. I take thee at thy word. Call me but love, and I'll be new baptiz'd; Henceforth I never will be Romeo. Jul. What man art thou, that, thus bescreen'd in night, So stumblest on my counsel? I know not how to tell thee who I am: My name, dear saint, is hateful to myself, Had I it written, I would tear the word. Jul. My ears have yet not drunk a hundred words |