The blog is not moderated for its content. The opinions expressed do not necessarily represent the views of either Jaablaw or its subscribers.


Disclaimer: Information posted on this web site is provided for informational purposes only. Although we do not have any obligation to monitor this board, we reserve the right at all times to check this board and to remove any information or materials that are unlawful, threatening, abusive, libelous, defamatory, obscene, vulgar, pornographic, profane, indecent or otherwise objectionable to us in our sole discretion and to disclose any information necessary to satisfy the law, regulation, or government request. We also reserve the right to permanently block any user who violates these terms and conditions. All threats to systems or site infrastructure shall be assumed genuine in nature and will be reported to the appropriate law enforcement authorities.

11 thoughts on “Disclaimer”

  1. 0


    courageous captain of compliments. He fights as
    you sing prick-song, keeps time, distance, and
    proportion; rests me his minim rest, one, two, and
    the third in your bosom: the very butcher of a silk
    button, a duellist, a duellist; a gentleman of the
    very first house, of the first and second cause:
    ah, the immortal passado! the punto reverso! the
    The what?
    The pox of such antic, lisping, affecting
    fantasticoes; these new tuners of accents! ‘By Jesu,
    a very good blade! a very tall man! a very good
    whore!’ Why, is not this a lamentable thing,
    grandsire, that we should be thus afflicted with
    these strange flies, these fashion-mongers, these
    perdona-mi’s, who stand so much on the new form,
    that they cannot at ease on the old bench? O, their
    bones, their bones!
    Enter ROMEO

    Here comes Romeo, here comes Romeo.
    Without his roe, like a dried herring: flesh, flesh,
    how art thou fishified! Now is he for the numbers
    that Petrarch flowed in: Laura to his lady was but a
    kitchen-wench; marry, she had a better love to
    be-rhyme her; Dido a dowdy; Cleopatra a gipsy;
    Helen and Hero hildings and harlots; Thisbe a grey
    eye or so, but not to the purpose. Signior
    Romeo, bon jour! there’s a French salutation
    to your French slop. You gave us the counterfeit
    fairly last night.
    Good morrow to you both. What counterfeit did I give you?
    The ship, sir, the slip; can you not conceive?
    Pardon, good Mercutio, my business was great; and in
    such a case as mine a man may strain courtesy.
    That’s as much as to say, such a case as yours
    constrains a man to bow in the hams.
    Meaning, to court’sy.
    Thou hast most kindly hit it.
    A most courteous exposition.
    Nay, I am the very pink of courtesy.
    Pink for flower.
    Why, then is my pump well flowered.
    Well said: follow me this jest now till thou hast
    worn out thy pump, that when the single sole of it
    is worn, the jest may remain after the wearing sole singular.
    O single-soled jest, solely singular for the
    Come between us, good Benvolio; my wits faint.
    Switch and spurs, switch and spurs; or I’ll cry a match.
    Nay, if thy wits run the wild-goose chase, I have
    done, for thou hast more of the wild-goose in one of
    thy wits than, I am sure, I have in my whole five:
    was I with you there for the goose?
    Thou wast never with me for any thing when thou wast
    not there for the goose.
    I will bite thee by the ear for that jest.
    Nay, good goose, bite not.
    Thy wit is a very bitter sweeting; it is a most
    sharp sauce.
    And is it not well served in to a sweet goose?
    O here’s a wit of cheveril, that stretches from an
    inch narrow to an ell broad!
    I stretch it out for that word ‘broad;’ which added
    to the goose, proves thee far and wide a broad goose.
    Why, is not this better now than groaning for love?
    now art thou sociable, now art thou Romeo; now art
    thou what thou art, by art as well as by nature:
    for this drivelling love is like a great natural,
    that runs lolling up and down to hide his bauble in a hole.
    Stop there, stop there.
    Thou desirest me to stop in my tale against the hair.
    Thou wouldst else have made thy tale large.
    O, thou art deceived; I would have made it short:
    for I was come to the whole depth of my tale; and
    meant, indeed, to occupy the argument no longer.
    Here’s goodly gear!
    Enter Nurse and PETER

    A sail, a sail!
    Two, two; a shirt and a smock.
    My fan, Peter.
    Good Peter, to hide her face; for her fan’s the
    fairer face.
    God ye good morrow, gentlemen.
    God ye good den, fair gentlewoman.
    Is it good den?
    ‘Tis no less, I tell you, for the bawdy hand of the
    dial is now upon the prick of noon.
    Out upon you! what a man are you!
    One, gentlewoman, that God hath made for himself to
    By my troth, it is well said; ‘for himself to mar,’
    quoth a’? Gentlemen, can any of you tell me where I
    may find the young Romeo?
    I can tell you; but young Romeo will be older when
    you have found him than he was when you sought him:
    I am the youngest of that name, for fault of a worse.
    You say well.
    Yea, is the worst well? very well took, i’ faith;
    wisely, wisely.
    if you be he, sir, I desire some confidence with
    She will indite him to some supper.
    A bawd, a bawd, a bawd! so ho!
    What hast thou found?
    No hare, sir; unless a hare, sir, in a lenten pie,
    that is something stale and hoar ere it be spent.

    An old hare hoar,
    And an old hare hoar,
    Is very good meat in lent
    But a hare that is hoar
    Is too much for a score,
    When it hoars ere it be spent.
    Romeo, will you come to your father’s? we’ll
    to dinner, thither.
    I will follow you.
    Farewell, ancient lady; farewell,

    ‘lady, lady, lady.’

    Marry, farewell! I pray you, sir, what saucy
    merchant was this, that was so full of his ropery?
    A gentleman, nurse, that loves to hear himself talk,
    and will speak more in a minute than he will stand
    to in a month.
    An a’ speak any thing against me, I’ll take him
    down, an a’ were lustier than he is, and twenty such
    Jacks; and if I cannot, I’ll find those that shall.
    Scurvy knave! I am none of his flirt-gills; I am
    none of his skains-mates. And thou must stand by
    too, and suffer every knave to use me at his pleasure?
    I saw no man use you a pleasure; if I had, my weapon
    should quickly have been out, I warrant you: I dare
    draw as soon as another man, if I see occasion in a
    good quarrel, and the law on my side.
    Now, afore God, I am so vexed, that every part about
    me quivers. Scurvy knave! Pray you, sir, a word:
    and as I told you, my young lady bade me inquire you
    out; what she bade me say, I will keep to myself:
    but first let me tell ye, if ye should lead her into
    a fool’s paradise, as they say, it were a very gross
    kind of behavior, as they say: for the gentlewoman
    is young; and, therefore, if you should deal double
    with her, truly it were an ill thing to be offered
    to any gentlewoman, and very weak dealing.
    Nurse, commend me to thy lady and mistress. I
    protest unto thee–
    Good heart, and, i’ faith, I will tell her as much:
    Lord, Lord, she will be a joyful woman.
    What wilt thou tell her, nurse? thou dost not mark me.
    I will tell her, sir, that you do protest; which, as
    I take it, is a gentlemanlike offer.
    Bid her devise
    Some means to come to shrift this afternoon;
    And there she shall at Friar Laurence’ cell
    Be shrived and married. Here is for thy pains.
    No truly sir; not a penny.
    Go to; I say you shall.
    This afternoon, sir? well, she shall be there.
    And stay, good nurse, behind the abbey wall:
    Within this hour my man shall be with thee
    And bring thee cords made like a tackled stair;
    Which to the high top-gallant of my joy
    Must be my convoy in the secret night.
    Farewell; be trusty, and I’ll quit thy pains:
    Farewell; commend me to thy mistress.
    Now God in heaven bless thee! Hark you, sir.
    What say’st thou, my dear nurse?
    Is your man secret? Did you ne’er hear say,
    Two may keep counsel, putting one away?
    I warrant thee, my man’s as true as steel.
    Well, sir; my mistress is the sweetest lady–Lord,
    Lord! when ’twas a little prating thing:–O, there
    is a nobleman in town, one Paris, that would fain
    lay knife aboard; but she, good soul, had as lief
    see a toad, a very toad, as see him. I anger her
    sometimes and tell her that Paris is the properer
    man; but, I’ll warrant you, when I say so, she looks
    as pale as any clout in the versal world. Doth not
    rosemary and Romeo begin both with a letter?
    Ay, nurse; what of that? both with an R.
    Ah. mocker! that’s the dog’s name; R is for
    the–No; I know it begins with some other
    letter:–and she hath the prettiest sententious of
    it, of you and rosemary, that it would do you good
    to hear it.
    Commend me to thy lady.
    Ay, a thousand times.
    Exit Romeo

    Peter, take my fan, and go before and apace.

    SCENE V. Capulet’s orchard.

    Enter JULIET
    The clock struck nine when I did send the nurse;
    In half an hour she promised to return.
    Perchance she cannot meet him: that’s not so.
    O, she is lame! love’s heralds should be thoughts,
    Which ten times faster glide than the sun’s beams,
    Driving back shadows over louring hills:
    Therefore do nimble-pinion’d doves draw love,
    And therefore hath the wind-swift Cupid wings.
    Now is the sun upon the highmost hill
    Of this day’s journey, and from nine till twelve
    Is three long hours, yet she is not come.
    Had she affections and warm youthful blood,
    She would be as swift in motion as a ball;
    My words would bandy her to my sweet love,
    And his to me:
    But old folks, many feign as they were dead;
    Unwieldy, slow, heavy and pale as lead.
    O God, she comes!
    Enter Nurse and PETER

    O honey nurse, what news?
    Hast thou met with him? Send thy man away.
    Peter, stay at the gate.
    Exit PETER

    Now, good sweet nurse,–O Lord, why look’st thou sad?
    Though news be sad, yet tell them merrily;
    If good, thou shamest the music of sweet news
    By playing it to me with so sour a face.
    I am a-weary, give me leave awhile:
    Fie, how my bones ache! what a jaunt have I had!
    I would thou hadst my bones, and I thy news:
    Nay, come, I pray thee, speak; good, good nurse, speak.
    Jesu, what haste? can you not stay awhile?
    Do you not see that I am out of breath?
    How art thou out of breath, when thou hast breath
    To say to me that thou art out of breath?
    The excuse that thou dost make in this delay
    Is longer than the tale thou dost excuse.
    Is thy news good, or bad? answer to that;
    Say either, and I’ll stay the circumstance:
    Let me be satisfied, is’t good or bad?
    Well, you have made a simple choice; you know not
    how to choose a man: Romeo! no, not he; though his
    face be better than any man’s, yet his leg excels
    all men’s; and for a hand, and a foot, and a body,
    though they be not to be talked on, yet they are
    past compare: he is not the flower of courtesy,
    but, I’ll warrant him, as gentle as a lamb. Go thy
    ways, wench; serve God. What, have you dined at home?
    No, no: but all this did I know before.
    What says he of our marriage? what of that?
    Lord, how my head aches! what a head have I!
    It beats as it would fall in twenty pieces.
    My back o’ t’ other side,–O, my back, my back!
    Beshrew your heart for sending me about,
    To catch my death with jaunting up and down!
    I’ faith, I am sorry that thou art not well.
    Sweet, sweet, sweet nurse, tell me, what says my love?
    Your love says, like an honest gentleman, and a
    courteous, and a kind, and a handsome, and, I
    warrant, a virtuous,–Where is your mother?
    Where is my mother! why, she is within;
    Where should she be? How oddly thou repliest!
    ‘Your love says, like an honest gentleman,
    Where is your mother?’
    O God’s lady dear!
    Are you so hot? marry, come up, I trow;
    Is this the poultice for my aching bones?
    Henceforward do your messages yourself.
    Here’s such a coil! come, what says Romeo?
    Have you got leave to go to shrift to-day?
    I have.
    Then hie you hence to Friar Laurence’ cell;
    There stays a husband to make you a wife:
    Now comes the wanton blood up in your cheeks,
    They’ll be in scarlet straight at any news.
    Hie you to church; I must another way,
    To fetch a ladder, by the which your love
    Must climb a bird’s nest soon when it is dark:
    I am the drudge and toil in your delight,
    But you shall bear the burden soon at night.
    Go; I’ll to dinner: hie you to the cell.
    Hie to high fortune! Honest nurse, farewell.

    SCENE VI. Friar Laurence’s cell.

    So smile the heavens upon this holy act,
    That after hours with sorrow chide us not!
    Amen, amen! but come what sorrow can,
    It cannot countervail the exchange of joy
    That one short minute gives me in her sight:
    Do thou but close our hands with holy words,
    Then love-devouring death do what he dare;
    It is enough I may but call her mine.

  2. 0


    ts have violent ends
    And in their triumph die, like fire and powder,
    Which as they kiss consume: the sweetest honey
    Is loathsome in his own deliciousness
    And in the taste confounds the appetite:
    Therefore love moderately; long love doth so;
    Too swift arrives as tardy as too slow.
    Enter JULIET

    Here comes the lady: O, so light a foot
    Will ne’er wear out the everlasting flint:
    A lover may bestride the gossamer
    That idles in the wanton summer air,
    And yet not fall; so light is vanity.
    Good even to my ghostly confessor.
    Romeo shall thank thee, daughter, for us both.
    As much to him, else is his thanks too much.
    Ah, Juliet, if the measure of thy joy
    Be heap’d like mine and that thy skill be more
    To blazon it, then sweeten with thy breath
    This neighbour air, and let rich music’s tongue
    Unfold the imagined happiness that both
    Receive in either by this dear encounter.
    Conceit, more rich in matter than in words,
    Brags of his substance, not of ornament:
    They are but beggars that can count their worth;
    But my true love is grown to such excess
    I cannot sum up sum of half my wealth.
    Come, come with me, and we will make short work;
    For, by your leaves, you shall not stay alone
    Till holy church incorporate two in one.


    SCENE I. A public place.

    Enter MERCUTIO, BENVOLIO, Page, and Servants
    I pray thee, good Mercutio, let’s retire:
    The day is hot, the Capulets abroad,
    And, if we meet, we shall not scape a brawl;
    For now, these hot days, is the mad blood stirring.
    Thou art like one of those fellows that when he
    enters the confines of a tavern claps me his sword
    upon the table and says ‘God send me no need of
    thee!’ and by the operation of the second cup draws
    it on the drawer, when indeed there is no need.
    Am I like such a fellow?
    Come, come, thou art as hot a Jack in thy mood as
    any in Italy, and as soon moved to be moody, and as
    soon moody to be moved.
    And what to?
    Nay, an there were two such, we should have none
    shortly, for one would kill the other. Thou! why,
    thou wilt quarrel with a man that hath a hair more,
    or a hair less, in his beard, than thou hast: thou
    wilt quarrel with a man for cracking nuts, having no
    other reason but because thou hast hazel eyes: what
    eye but such an eye would spy out such a quarrel?
    Thy head is as fun of quarrels as an egg is full of
    meat, and yet thy head hath been beaten as addle as
    an egg for quarrelling: thou hast quarrelled with a
    man for coughing in the street, because he hath
    wakened thy dog that hath lain asleep in the sun:
    didst thou not fall out with a tailor for wearing
    his new doublet before Easter? with another, for
    tying his new shoes with old riband? and yet thou
    wilt tutor me from quarrelling!
    An I were so apt to quarrel as thou art, any man
    should buy the fee-simple of my life for an hour and a quarter.
    The fee-simple! O simple!
    By my head, here come the Capulets.
    By my heel, I care not.
    Enter TYBALT and others

    Follow me close, for I will speak to them.
    Gentlemen, good den: a word with one of you.
    And but one word with one of us? couple it with
    something; make it a word and a blow.
    You shall find me apt enough to that, sir, an you
    will give me occasion.
    Could you not take some occasion without giving?
    Mercutio, thou consort’st with Romeo,–
    Consort! what, dost thou make us minstrels? an
    thou make minstrels of us, look to hear nothing but
    discords: here’s my fiddlestick; here’s that shall
    make you dance. ‘Zounds, consort!
    We talk here in the public haunt of men:
    Either withdraw unto some private place,
    And reason coldly of your grievances,
    Or else depart; here all eyes gaze on us.
    Men’s eyes were made to look, and let them gaze;
    I will not budge for no man’s pleasure, I.
    Enter ROMEO

    Well, peace be with you, sir: here comes my man.
    But I’ll be hanged, sir, if he wear your livery:
    Marry, go before to field, he’ll be your follower;
    Your worship in that sense may call him ‘man.’
    Romeo, the hate I bear thee can afford
    No better term than this,–thou art a villain.
    Tybalt, the reason that I have to love thee
    Doth much excuse the appertaining rage
    To such a greeting: villain am I none;
    Therefore farewell; I see thou know’st me not.
    Boy, this shall not excuse the injuries
    That thou hast done me; therefore turn and draw.
    I do protest, I never injured thee,
    But love thee better than thou canst devise,
    Till thou shalt know the reason of my love:
    And so, good Capulet,–which name I tender
    As dearly as my own,–be satisfied.
    O calm, dishonourable, vile submission!
    Alla stoccata carries it away.

    Tybalt, you rat-catcher, will you walk?
    What wouldst thou have with me?
    Good king of cats, nothing but one of your nine
    lives; that I mean to make bold withal, and as you
    shall use me hereafter, drybeat the rest of the
    eight. Will you pluck your sword out of his pitcher
    by the ears? make haste, lest mine be about your
    ears ere it be out.
    I am for you.

    Gentle Mercutio, put thy rapier up.
    Come, sir, your passado.
    They fight

    Draw, Benvolio; beat down their weapons.
    Gentlemen, for shame, forbear this outrage!
    Tybalt, Mercutio, the prince expressly hath
    Forbidden bandying in Verona streets:
    Hold, Tybalt! good Mercutio!
    TYBALT under ROMEO’s arm stabs MERCUTIO, and flies with his followers

    I am hurt.
    A plague o’ both your houses! I am sped.
    Is he gone, and hath nothing?
    What, art thou hurt?
    Ay, ay, a scratch, a scratch; marry, ’tis enough.
    Where is my page? Go, villain, fetch a surgeon.
    Exit Page

    Courage, man; the hurt cannot be much.
    No, ’tis not so deep as a well, nor so wide as a
    church-door; but ’tis enough,’twill serve: ask for
    me to-morrow, and you shall find me a grave man. I
    am peppered, I warrant, for this world. A plague o’
    both your houses! ‘Zounds, a dog, a rat, a mouse, a
    cat, to scratch a man to death! a braggart, a
    rogue, a villain, that fights by the book of
    arithmetic! Why the devil came you between us? I
    was hurt under your arm.
    I thought all for the best.
    Help me into some house, Benvolio,
    Or I shall faint. A plague o’ both your houses!
    They have made worms’ meat of me: I have it,
    And soundly too: your houses!

    This gentleman, the prince’s near ally,
    My very friend, hath got his mortal hurt
    In my behalf; my reputation stain’d
    With Tybalt’s slander,–Tybalt, that an hour
    Hath been my kinsman! O sweet Juliet,
    Thy beauty hath made me effeminate
    And in my temper soften’d valour’s steel!
    Re-enter BENVOLIO

    O Romeo, Romeo, brave Mercutio’s dead!
    That gallant spirit hath aspired the clouds,
    Which too untimely here did scorn the earth.
    This day’s black fate on more days doth depend;
    This but begins the woe, others must end.
    Here comes the furious Tybalt back again.
    Alive, in triumph! and Mercutio slain!
    Away to heaven, respective lenity,
    And fire-eyed fury be my conduct now!
    Re-enter TYBALT

    Now, Tybalt, take the villain back again,
    That late thou gavest me; for Mercutio’s soul
    Is but a little way above our heads,
    Staying for thine to keep him company:
    Either thou, or I, or both, must go with him.
    Thou, wretched boy, that didst consort him here,
    Shalt with him hence.
    This shall determine that.
    They fight; TYBALT falls

    Romeo, away, be gone!
    The citizens are up, and Tybalt slain.
    Stand not amazed: the prince will doom thee death,
    If thou art taken: hence, be gone, away!
    O, I am fortune’s fool!
    Why dost thou stay?
    Exit ROMEO

    Enter Citizens, & c

    First Citizen
    Which way ran he that kill’d Mercutio?
    Tybalt, that murderer, which way ran he?
    There lies that Tybalt.
    First Citizen
    Up, sir, go with me;
    I charge thee in the princes name, obey.
    Enter Prince, attended; MONTAGUE, CAPULET, their Wives, and others

    Where are the vile beginners of this fray?
    O noble prince, I can discover all
    The unlucky manage of this fatal brawl:
    There lies the man, slain by young Romeo,
    That slew thy kinsman, brave Mercutio.
    Tybalt, my cousin! O my brother’s child!
    O prince! O cousin! husband! O, the blood is spilt
    O my dear kinsman! Prince, as thou art true,
    For blood of ours, shed blood of Montague.
    O cousin, cousin!
    Benvolio, who began this bloody fray?
    Tybalt, here slain, whom Romeo’s hand did slay;
    Romeo that spoke him fair, bade him bethink
    How nice the quarrel was, and urged withal
    Your high displeasure: all this uttered
    With gentle breath, calm look, knees humbly bow’d,
    Could not take truce with the unruly spleen
    Of Tybalt deaf to peace, but that he tilts
    With piercing steel at bold Mercutio’s breast,
    Who all as hot, turns deadly point to point,
    And, with a martial scorn, with one hand beats
    Cold death aside, and with the other sends
    It back to Tybalt, whose dexterity,
    Retorts it: Romeo he cries aloud,
    ‘Hold, friends! friends, part!’ and, swifter than
    his tongue,
    His agile arm beats down their fatal points,
    And ‘twixt them rushes; underneath whose arm
    An envious thrust from Tybalt hit the life
    Of stout Mercutio, and then Tybalt fled;
    But by and by comes back to Romeo,
    Who had but newly entertain’d revenge,
    And to ‘t they go like lightning, for, ere I
    Could draw to part them, was stout Tybalt slain.
    And, as he fell, did Romeo turn and fly.
    This is the truth, or let Benvolio die.
    He is a kinsman to the Montague;
    Affection makes him false; he speaks not true:
    Some twenty of them fought in this black strife,
    And all those twenty could but kill one life.
    I beg for justice, which thou, prince, must give;
    Romeo slew Tybalt, Romeo must not live.
    Romeo slew him, he slew Mercutio;
    Who now the price of his dear blood doth owe?
    Not Romeo, prince, he was Mercutio’s friend;
    His fault concludes but what the law should end,
    The life of Tybalt.
    And for that offence
    Immediately we do exile him hence:
    I have an interest in your hate’s proceeding,
    My blood for your rude brawls doth lie a-bleeding;
    But I’ll amerce you with so strong a fine
    That you shall all repent the loss of mine:
    I will be deaf to pleading and excuses;
    Nor tears nor prayers shall purchase out abuses:
    Therefore use none: let Romeo hence in haste,
    Else, when he’s found, that hour is his last.
    Bear hence this body and attend our will:
    Mercy but murders, pardoning those that kill.

    SCENE II. Capulet’s orchard.

    Enter JULIET
    Gallop apace, you fiery-footed steeds,
    Towards Phoebus’ lodging: such a wagoner
    As Phaethon would whip you to the west,
    And bring in cloudy night immediately.
    Spread thy close curtain, love-performing night,
    That runaway’s eyes may wink and Romeo
    Leap to these arms, untalk’d of and unseen.
    Lovers can see to do their amorous rites
    By their own beauties; or, if love be blind,
    It best agrees with night. Come, civil night,
    Thou sober-suited matron, all in black,
    And learn me how to lose a winning match,
    Play’d for a pair of stainless maidenhoods:
    Hood my unmann’d blood, bating in my cheeks,
    With thy black mantle; till strange love, grown bold,
    Think true love acted simple modesty.
    Come, night; come, Romeo; come, thou day in night;
    For thou wilt lie upon the wings of night
    Whiter than new snow on a raven’s back.

  3. 0


    e night, come, loving, black-brow’d night,
    Give me my Romeo; and, when he shall die,
    Take him and cut him out in little stars,
    And he will make the face of heaven so fine
    That all the world will be in love with night
    And pay no worship to the garish sun.
    O, I have bought the mansion of a love,
    But not possess’d it, and, though I am sold,
    Not yet enjoy’d: so tedious is this day
    As is the night before some festival
    To an impatient child that hath new robes
    And may not wear them. O, here comes my nurse,
    And she brings news; and every tongue that speaks
    But Romeo’s name speaks heavenly eloquence.
    Enter Nurse, with cords

    Now, nurse, what news? What hast thou there? the cords
    That Romeo bid thee fetch?
    Ay, ay, the cords.
    Throws them down

    Ay me! what news? why dost thou wring thy hands?
    Ah, well-a-day! he’s dead, he’s dead, he’s dead!
    We are undone, lady, we are undone!
    Alack the day! he’s gone, he’s kill’d, he’s dead!
    Can heaven be so envious?
    Romeo can,
    Though heaven cannot: O Romeo, Romeo!
    Who ever would have thought it? Romeo!
    What devil art thou, that dost torment me thus?
    This torture should be roar’d in dismal hell.
    Hath Romeo slain himself? say thou but ‘I,’
    And that bare vowel ‘I’ shall poison more
    Than the death-darting eye of cockatrice:
    I am not I, if there be such an I;
    Or those eyes shut, that make thee answer ‘I.’
    If he be slain, say ‘I’; or if not, no:
    Brief sounds determine of my weal or woe.
    I saw the wound, I saw it with mine eyes,–
    God save the mark!–here on his manly breast:
    A piteous corse, a bloody piteous corse;
    Pale, pale as ashes, all bedaub’d in blood,
    All in gore-blood; I swounded at the sight.
    O, break, my heart! poor bankrupt, break at once!
    To prison, eyes, ne’er look on liberty!
    Vile earth, to earth resign; end motion here;
    And thou and Romeo press one heavy bier!
    O Tybalt, Tybalt, the best friend I had!
    O courteous Tybalt! honest gentleman!
    That ever I should live to see thee dead!
    What storm is this that blows so contrary?
    Is Romeo slaughter’d, and is Tybalt dead?
    My dear-loved cousin, and my dearer lord?
    Then, dreadful trumpet, sound the general doom!
    For who is living, if those two are gone?
    Tybalt is gone, and Romeo banished;
    Romeo that kill’d him, he is banished.
    O God! did Romeo’s hand shed Tybalt’s blood?
    It did, it did; alas the day, it did!
    O serpent heart, hid with a flowering face!
    Did ever dragon keep so fair a cave?
    Beautiful tyrant! fiend angelical!
    Dove-feather’d raven! wolvish-ravening lamb!
    Despised substance of divinest show!
    Just opposite to what thou justly seem’st,
    A damned saint, an honourable villain!
    O nature, what hadst thou to do in hell,
    When thou didst bower the spirit of a fiend
    In moral paradise of such sweet flesh?
    Was ever book containing such vile matter
    So fairly bound? O that deceit should dwell
    In such a gorgeous palace!
    There’s no trust,
    No faith, no honesty in men; all perjured,
    All forsworn, all naught, all dissemblers.
    Ah, where’s my man? give me some aqua vitae:
    These griefs, these woes, these sorrows make me old.
    Shame come to Romeo!
    Blister’d be thy tongue
    For such a wish! he was not born to shame:
    Upon his brow shame is ashamed to sit;
    For ’tis a throne where honour may be crown’d
    Sole monarch of the universal earth.
    O, what a beast was I to chide at him!
    Will you speak well of him that kill’d your cousin?
    Shall I speak ill of him that is my husband?
    Ah, poor my lord, what tongue shall smooth thy name,
    When I, thy three-hours wife, have mangled it?
    But, wherefore, villain, didst thou kill my cousin?
    That villain cousin would have kill’d my husband:
    Back, foolish tears, back to your native spring;
    Your tributary drops belong to woe,
    Which you, mistaking, offer up to joy.
    My husband lives, that Tybalt would have slain;
    And Tybalt’s dead, that would have slain my husband:
    All this is comfort; wherefore weep I then?
    Some word there was, worser than Tybalt’s death,
    That murder’d me: I would forget it fain;
    But, O, it presses to my memory,
    Like damned guilty deeds to sinners’ minds:
    ‘Tybalt is dead, and Romeo–banished;’
    That ‘banished,’ that one word ‘banished,’
    Hath slain ten thousand Tybalts. Tybalt’s death
    Was woe enough, if it had ended there:
    Or, if sour woe delights in fellowship
    And needly will be rank’d with other griefs,
    Why follow’d not, when she said ‘Tybalt’s dead,’
    Thy father, or thy mother, nay, or both,
    Which modern lamentations might have moved?
    But with a rear-ward following Tybalt’s death,
    ‘Romeo is banished,’ to speak that word,
    Is father, mother, Tybalt, Romeo, Juliet,
    All slain, all dead. ‘Romeo is banished!’
    There is no end, no limit, measure, bound,
    In that word’s death; no words can that woe sound.
    Where is my father, and my mother, nurse?
    Weeping and wailing over Tybalt’s corse:
    Will you go to them? I will bring you thither.
    Wash they his wounds with tears: mine shall be spent,
    When theirs are dry, for Romeo’s banishment.
    Take up those cords: poor ropes, you are beguiled,
    Both you and I; for Romeo is exiled:
    He made you for a highway to my bed;
    But I, a maid, die maiden-widowed.
    Come, cords, come, nurse; I’ll to my wedding-bed;
    And death, not Romeo, take my maidenhead!
    Hie to your chamber: I’ll find Romeo
    To comfort you: I wot well where he is.
    Hark ye, your Romeo will be here at night:
    I’ll to him; he is hid at Laurence’ cell.
    O, find him! give this ring to my true knight,
    And bid him come to take his last farewell.

    SCENE III. Friar Laurence’s cell.

    Romeo, come forth; come forth, thou fearful man:
    Affliction is enamour’d of thy parts,
    And thou art wedded to calamity.
    Enter ROMEO

    Father, what news? what is the prince’s doom?
    What sorrow craves acquaintance at my hand,
    That I yet know not?
    Too familiar
    Is my dear son with such sour company:
    I bring thee tidings of the prince’s doom.
    What less than dooms-day is the prince’s doom?
    A gentler judgment vanish’d from his lips,
    Not body’s death, but body’s banishment.
    Ha, banishment! be merciful, say ‘death;’
    For exile hath more terror in his look,
    Much more than death: do not say ‘banishment.’
    Hence from Verona art thou banished:
    Be patient, for the world is broad and wide.
    There is no world without Verona walls,
    But purgatory, torture, hell itself.
    Hence-banished is banish’d from the world,
    And world’s exile is death: then banished,
    Is death mis-term’d: calling death banishment,
    Thou cutt’st my head off with a golden axe,
    And smilest upon the stroke that murders me.
    O deadly sin! O rude unthankfulness!
    Thy fault our law calls death; but the kind prince,
    Taking thy part, hath rush’d aside the law,
    And turn’d that black word death to banishment:
    This is dear mercy, and thou seest it not.
    ‘Tis torture, and not mercy: heaven is here,
    Where Juliet lives; and every cat and dog
    And little mouse, every unworthy thing,
    Live here in heaven and may look on her;
    But Romeo may not: more validity,
    More honourable state, more courtship lives
    In carrion-flies than Romeo: they my seize
    On the white wonder of dear Juliet’s hand
    And steal immortal blessing from her lips,
    Who even in pure and vestal modesty,
    Still blush, as thinking their own kisses sin;
    But Romeo may not; he is banished:
    Flies may do this, but I from this must fly:
    They are free men, but I am banished.
    And say’st thou yet that exile is not death?
    Hadst thou no poison mix’d, no sharp-ground knife,
    No sudden mean of death, though ne’er so mean,
    But ‘banished’ to kill me?–‘banished’?
    O friar, the damned use that word in hell;
    Howlings attend it: how hast thou the heart,
    Being a divine, a ghostly confessor,
    A sin-absolver, and my friend profess’d,
    To mangle me with that word ‘banished’?
    Thou fond mad man, hear me but speak a word.
    O, thou wilt speak again of banishment.
    I’ll give thee armour to keep off that word:
    Adversity’s sweet milk, philosophy,
    To comfort thee, though thou art banished.
    Yet ‘banished’? Hang up philosophy!
    Unless philosophy can make a Juliet,
    Displant a town, reverse a prince’s doom,
    It helps not, it prevails not: talk no more.
    O, then I see that madmen have no ears.
    How should they, when that wise men have no eyes?
    Let me dispute with thee of thy estate.
    Thou canst not speak of that thou dost not feel:
    Wert thou as young as I, Juliet thy love,
    An hour but married, Tybalt murdered,
    Doting like me and like me banished,
    Then mightst thou speak, then mightst thou tear thy hair,
    And fall upon the ground, as I do now,
    Taking the measure of an unmade grave.
    Knocking within

    Arise; one knocks; good Romeo, hide thyself.
    Not I; unless the breath of heartsick groans,
    Mist-like, infold me from the search of eyes.


  4. 0


    hou wilt be taken. Stay awhile! Stand up;

    Run to my study. By and by! God’s will,
    What simpleness is this! I come, I come!

    Who knocks so hard? whence come you? what’s your will?
    [Within] Let me come in, and you shall know
    my errand;
    I come from Lady Juliet.
    Welcome, then.
    Enter Nurse

    O holy friar, O, tell me, holy friar,
    Where is my lady’s lord, where’s Romeo?
    There on the ground, with his own tears made drunk.
    O, he is even in my mistress’ case,
    Just in her case! O woful sympathy!
    Piteous predicament! Even so lies she,
    Blubbering and weeping, weeping and blubbering.
    Stand up, stand up; stand, and you be a man:
    For Juliet’s sake, for her sake, rise and stand;
    Why should you fall into so deep an O?
    Ah sir! ah sir! Well, death’s the end of all.
    Spakest thou of Juliet? how is it with her?
    Doth she not think me an old murderer,
    Now I have stain’d the childhood of our joy
    With blood removed but little from her own?
    Where is she? and how doth she? and what says
    My conceal’d lady to our cancell’d love?
    O, she says nothing, sir, but weeps and weeps;
    And now falls on her bed; and then starts up,
    And Tybalt calls; and then on Romeo cries,
    And then down falls again.
    As if that name,
    Shot from the deadly level of a gun,
    Did murder her; as that name’s cursed hand
    Murder’d her kinsman. O, tell me, friar, tell me,
    In what vile part of this anatomy
    Doth my name lodge? tell me, that I may sack
    The hateful mansion.
    Drawing his sword

    Hold thy desperate hand:
    Art thou a man? thy form cries out thou art:
    Thy tears are womanish; thy wild acts denote
    The unreasonable fury of a beast:
    Unseemly woman in a seeming man!
    Or ill-beseeming beast in seeming both!
    Thou hast amazed me: by my holy order,
    I thought thy disposition better temper’d.
    Hast thou slain Tybalt? wilt thou slay thyself?
    And stay thy lady too that lives in thee,
    By doing damned hate upon thyself?
    Why rail’st thou on thy birth, the heaven, and earth?
    Since birth, and heaven, and earth, all three do meet
    In thee at once; which thou at once wouldst lose.
    Fie, fie, thou shamest thy shape, thy love, thy wit;
    Which, like a usurer, abound’st in all,
    And usest none in that true use indeed
    Which should bedeck thy shape, thy love, thy wit:
    Thy noble shape is but a form of wax,
    Digressing from the valour of a man;
    Thy dear love sworn but hollow perjury,
    Killing that love which thou hast vow’d to cherish;
    Thy wit, that ornament to shape and love,
    Misshapen in the conduct of them both,
    Like powder in a skitless soldier’s flask,
    Is set afire by thine own ignorance,
    And thou dismember’d with thine own defence.
    What, rouse thee, man! thy Juliet is alive,
    For whose dear sake thou wast but lately dead;
    There art thou happy: Tybalt would kill thee,
    But thou slew’st Tybalt; there are thou happy too:
    The law that threaten’d death becomes thy friend
    And turns it to exile; there art thou happy:
    A pack of blessings lights up upon thy back;
    Happiness courts thee in her best array;
    But, like a misbehaved and sullen wench,
    Thou pout’st upon thy fortune and thy love:
    Take heed, take heed, for such die miserable.
    Go, get thee to thy love, as was decreed,
    Ascend her chamber, hence and comfort her:
    But look thou stay not till the watch be set,
    For then thou canst not pass to Mantua;
    Where thou shalt live, till we can find a time
    To blaze your marriage, reconcile your friends,
    Beg pardon of the prince, and call thee back
    With twenty hundred thousand times more joy
    Than thou went’st forth in lamentation.
    Go before, nurse: commend me to thy lady;
    And bid her hasten all the house to bed,
    Which heavy sorrow makes them apt unto:
    Romeo is coming.
    O Lord, I could have stay’d here all the night
    To hear good counsel: O, what learning is!
    My lord, I’ll tell my lady you will come.
    Do so, and bid my sweet prepare to chide.
    Here, sir, a ring she bid me give you, sir:
    Hie you, make haste, for it grows very late.

    How well my comfort is revived by this!
    Go hence; good night; and here stands all your state:
    Either be gone before the watch be set,
    Or by the break of day disguised from hence:
    Sojourn in Mantua; I’ll find out your man,
    And he shall signify from time to time
    Every good hap to you that chances here:
    Give me thy hand; ’tis late: farewell; good night.
    But that a joy past joy calls out on me,
    It were a grief, so brief to part with thee: Farewell.

    SCENE IV. A room in Capulet’s house.

    Things have fall’n out, sir, so unluckily,
    That we have had no time to move our daughter:
    Look you, she loved her kinsman Tybalt dearly,
    And so did I:–Well, we were born to die.
    ‘Tis very late, she’ll not come down to-night:
    I promise you, but for your company,
    I would have been a-bed an hour ago.
    These times of woe afford no time to woo.
    Madam, good night: commend me to your daughter.
    I will, and know her mind early to-morrow;
    To-night she is mew’d up to her heaviness.
    Sir Paris, I will make a desperate tender
    Of my child’s love: I think she will be ruled
    In all respects by me; nay, more, I doubt it not.
    Wife, go you to her ere you go to bed;
    Acquaint her here of my son Paris’ love;
    And bid her, mark you me, on Wednesday next–
    But, soft! what day is this?
    Monday, my lord,
    Monday! ha, ha! Well, Wednesday is too soon,
    O’ Thursday let it be: o’ Thursday, tell her,
    She shall be married to this noble earl.
    Will you be ready? do you like this haste?
    We’ll keep no great ado,–a friend or two;
    For, hark you, Tybalt being slain so late,
    It may be thought we held him carelessly,
    Being our kinsman, if we revel much:
    Therefore we’ll have some half a dozen friends,
    And there an end. But what say you to Thursday?
    My lord, I would that Thursday were to-morrow.
    Well get you gone: o’ Thursday be it, then.
    Go you to Juliet ere you go to bed,
    Prepare her, wife, against this wedding-day.
    Farewell, my lord. Light to my chamber, ho!
    Afore me! it is so very very late,
    That we may call it early by and by.
    Good night.

    SCENE V. Capulet’s orchard.

    Enter ROMEO and JULIET above, at the window
    Wilt thou be gone? it is not yet near day:
    It was the nightingale, and not the lark,
    That pierced the fearful hollow of thine ear;
    Nightly she sings on yon pomegranate-tree:
    Believe me, love, it was the nightingale.
    It was the lark, the herald of the morn,
    No nightingale: look, love, what envious streaks
    Do lace the severing clouds in yonder east:
    Night’s candles are burnt out, and jocund day
    Stands tiptoe on the misty mountain tops.
    I must be gone and live, or stay and die.
    Yon light is not day-light, I know it, I:
    It is some meteor that the sun exhales,
    To be to thee this night a torch-bearer,
    And light thee on thy way to Mantua:
    Therefore stay yet; thou need’st not to be gone.
    Let me be ta’en, let me be put to death;

  5. 0


    to pry
    In what I further shall intend to do,
    By heaven, I will tear thee joint by joint
    And strew this hungry churchyard with thy limbs:
    The time and my intents are savage-wild,
    More fierce and more inexorable far
    Than empty tigers or the roaring sea.
    I will be gone, sir, and not trouble you.
    So shalt thou show me friendship. Take thou that:
    Live, and be prosperous: and farewell, good fellow.
    [Aside] For all this same, I’ll hide me hereabout:
    His looks I fear, and his intents I doubt.

    Thou detestable maw, thou womb of death,
    Gorged with the dearest morsel of the earth,
    Thus I enforce thy rotten jaws to open,
    And, in despite, I’ll cram thee with more food!
    Opens the tomb

    This is that banish’d haughty Montague,
    That murder’d my love’s cousin, with which grief,
    It is supposed, the fair creature died;
    And here is come to do some villanous shame
    To the dead bodies: I will apprehend him.
    Comes forward

    Stop thy unhallow’d toil, vile Montague!
    Can vengeance be pursued further than death?
    Condemned villain, I do apprehend thee:
    Obey, and go with me; for thou must die.
    I must indeed; and therefore came I hither.
    Good gentle youth, tempt not a desperate man;
    Fly hence, and leave me: think upon these gone;
    Let them affright thee. I beseech thee, youth,
    Put not another sin upon my head,
    By urging me to fury: O, be gone!
    By heaven, I love thee better than myself;
    For I come hither arm’d against myself:
    Stay not, be gone; live, and hereafter say,
    A madman’s mercy bade thee run away.
    I do defy thy conjurations,
    And apprehend thee for a felon here.
    Wilt thou provoke me? then have at thee, boy!
    They fight

    O Lord, they fight! I will go call the watch.

    O, I am slain!

    If thou be merciful,
    Open the tomb, lay me with Juliet.

    In faith, I will. Let me peruse this face.
    Mercutio’s kinsman, noble County Paris!
    What said my man, when my betossed soul
    Did not attend him as we rode? I think
    He told me Paris should have married Juliet:
    Said he not so? or did I dream it so?
    Or am I mad, hearing him talk of Juliet,
    To think it was so? O, give me thy hand,
    One writ with me in sour misfortune’s book!
    I’ll bury thee in a triumphant grave;
    A grave? O no! a lantern, slaughter’d youth,
    For here lies Juliet, and her beauty makes
    This vault a feasting presence full of light.
    Death, lie thou there, by a dead man interr’d.
    Laying PARIS in the tomb

    How oft when men are at the point of death
    Have they been merry! which their keepers call
    A lightning before death: O, how may I
    Call this a lightning? O my love! my wife!
    Death, that hath suck’d the honey of thy breath,
    Hath had no power yet upon thy beauty:
    Thou art not conquer’d; beauty’s ensign yet
    Is crimson in thy lips and in thy cheeks,
    And death’s pale flag is not advanced there.
    Tybalt, liest thou there in thy bloody sheet?
    O, what more favour can I do to thee,
    Than with that hand that cut thy youth in twain
    To sunder his that was thine enemy?
    Forgive me, cousin! Ah, dear Juliet,
    Why art thou yet so fair? shall I believe
    That unsubstantial death is amorous,
    And that the lean abhorred monster keeps
    Thee here in dark to be his paramour?
    For fear of that, I still will stay with thee;
    And never from this palace of dim night
    Depart again: here, here will I remain
    With worms that are thy chamber-maids; O, here
    Will I set up my everlasting rest,
    And shake the yoke of inauspicious stars
    From this world-wearied flesh. Eyes, look your last!
    Arms, take your last embrace! and, lips, O you
    The doors of breath, seal with a righteous kiss
    A dateless bargain to engrossing death!
    Come, bitter conduct, come, unsavoury guide!
    Thou desperate pilot, now at once run on
    The dashing rocks thy sea-sick weary bark!
    Here’s to my love!

    O true apothecary!
    Thy drugs are quick. Thus with a kiss I die.

    Enter, at the other end of the churchyard, FRIAR LAURENCE, with a lantern, crow, and spade

    Saint Francis be my speed! how oft to-night
    Have my old feet stumbled at graves! Who’s there?
    Here’s one, a friend, and one that knows you well.
    Bliss be upon you! Tell me, good my friend,
    What torch is yond, that vainly lends his light
    To grubs and eyeless skulls? as I discern,
    It burneth in the Capel’s monument.
    It doth so, holy sir; and there’s my master,
    One that you love.
    Who is it?
    How long hath he been there?
    Full half an hour.
    Go with me to the vault.
    I dare not, sir
    My master knows not but I am gone hence;
    And fearfully did menace me with death,
    If I did stay to look on his intents.
    Stay, then; I’ll go alone. Fear comes upon me:
    O, much I fear some ill unlucky thing.
    As I did sleep under this yew-tree here,
    I dreamt my master and another fought,
    And that my master slew him.

    Alack, alack, what blood is this, which stains
    The stony entrance of this sepulchre?
    What mean these masterless and gory swords
    To lie discolour’d by this place of peace?
    Enters the tomb

    Romeo! O, pale! Who else? what, Paris too?
    And steep’d in blood? Ah, what an unkind hour
    Is guilty of this lamentable chance!
    The lady stirs.
    JULIET wakes

    O comfortable friar! where is my lord?
    I do remember well where I should be,
    And there I am. Where is my Romeo?
    Noise within

    I hear some noise. Lady, come from that nest
    Of death, contagion, and unnatural sleep:
    A greater power than we can contradict
    Hath thwarted our intents. Come, come away.
    Thy husband in thy bosom there lies dead;
    And Paris too. Come, I’ll dispose of thee
    Among a sisterhood of holy nuns:
    Stay not to question, for the watch is coming;
    Come, go, good Juliet,
    Noise again

    I dare no longer stay.
    Go, get thee hence, for I will not away.

    What’s here? a cup, closed in my true love’s hand?
    Poison, I see, hath been his timeless end:
    O churl! drunk all, and left no friendly drop
    To help me after? I will kiss thy lips;
    Haply some poison yet doth hang on them,
    To make die with a restorative.
    Kisses him

    Thy lips are warm.
    First Watchman
    [Within] Lead, boy: which way?
    Yea, noise? then I’ll be brief. O happy dagger!
    Snatching ROMEO’s dagger

    This is thy sheath;
    Stabs herself

    there rust, and let me die.
    Falls on ROMEO’s body, and dies

    Enter Watch, with the Page of PARIS

    This is the place; there, where the torch doth burn.
    First Watchman
    The ground is bloody; search about the churchyard:
    Go, some of you, whoe’er you find attach.
    Pitiful sight! here lies the county slain,
    And Juliet bleeding, warm, and newly dead,
    Who here hath lain these two days buried.
    Go, tell the prince: run to the Capulets:
    Raise up the Montagues: some others search:
    We see the ground whereon these woes do lie;
    But the true ground of all these piteous woes
    We cannot without circumstance descry.
    Re-enter some of the Watch, with BALTHASAR

    Second Watchman
    Here’s Romeo’s man; we found him in the churchyard.
    First Watchman
    Hold him in safety, till the prince come hither.
    Re-enter others of the Watch, with FRIAR LAURENCE

    Third Watchman
    Here is a friar, that trembles, sighs and weeps:
    We took this mattock and this spade from him,
    As he was coming from this churchyard side.
    First Watchman
    A great suspicion: stay the friar too.
    Enter the PRINCE and Attendants

    What misadventure is so early up,
    That calls our person from our morning’s rest?
    Enter CAPULET, LADY CAPULET, and others

    What should it be, that they so shriek abroad?
    The people in the street cry Romeo,
    Some Juliet, and some Paris; and all run,
    With open outcry toward our monument.
    What fear is this which startles in our ears?
    First Watchman
    Sovereign, here lies the County Paris slain;
    And Romeo dead; and Juliet, dead before,
    Warm and new kill’d.
    Search, seek, and know how this foul murder comes.
    First Watchman
    Here is a friar, and slaughter’d Romeo’s man;
    With instruments upon them, fit to open
    These dead men’s tombs.
    O heavens! O wife, look how our daughter bleeds!
    This dagger hath mista’en–for, lo, his house
    Is empty on the back of Montague,–
    And it mis-sheathed in my daughter’s bosom!
    O me! this sight of death is as a bell,
    That warns my old age to a sepulchre.
    Enter MONTAGUE and others

    Come, Montague; for thou art early up,
    To see thy son and heir more early down.
    Alas, my liege, my wife is dead to-night;
    Grief of my son’s exile hath stopp’d her breath:
    What further woe conspires against mine age?
    Look, and thou shalt see.
    O thou untaught! what manners is in this?
    To press before thy father to a grave?
    Seal up the mouth of outrage for a while,
    Till we can clear these ambiguities,
    And know their spring, their head, their
    true descent;
    And then will I be general of your woes,
    And lead you even to death: meantime forbear,
    And let mischance be slave to patience.
    Bring forth the parties of suspicion.
    I am the greatest, able to do least,
    Yet most suspected, as the time and place
    Doth make against me of this direful murder;
    And here I stand, both to impeach and purge
    Myself condemned and myself excused.
    Then say at once what thou dost know in this.
    I will be brief, for my short date of breath
    Is not so long as is a tedious tale.
    Romeo, there dead, was husband to that Juliet;
    And she, there dead, that Romeo’s faithful wife:
    I married them; and their stol’n marriage-day
    Was Tybalt’s dooms-day, whose untimely death
    Banish’d the new-made bridegroom from the city,
    For whom, and not for Tybalt, Juliet pined.
    You, to remove that siege of grief from her,
    Betroth’d and would have married her perforce
    To County Paris: then comes she to me,
    And, with wild looks, bid me devise some mean
    To rid her from this second marriage,
    Or in my cell there would she kill herself.
    Then gave I her, so tutor’d by my art,
    A sleeping potion; which so took effect
    As I intended, for it wrought on her
    The form of death: meantime I writ to Romeo,
    That he should hither come as this dire night,
    To help to take her from her borrow’d grave,
    Being the time the potion’s force should cease.
    But he which bore my letter, Friar John,
    Was stay’d by accident, and yesternight
    Return’d my letter back. Then all alone
    At the prefixed hour of her waking,
    Came I to take her from her kindred’s vault;
    Meaning to keep her closely at my cell,
    Till I conveniently could send to Romeo:
    But when I came, some minute ere the time
    Of her awaking, here untimely lay
    The noble Paris and true Romeo dead.
    She wakes; and I entreated her come forth,
    And bear this work of heaven with patience:
    But then a noise did scare me from the tomb;
    And she, too desperate, would not go with me,
    But, as it seems, did violence on herself.
    All this I know; and to the marriage
    Her nurse is privy: and, if aught in this
    Miscarried by my fault, let my old life
    Be sacrificed, some hour before his time,
    Unto the rigour of severest law.
    We still have known thee for a holy man.
    Where’s Romeo’s man? what can he say in this?
    I brought my master news of Juliet’s death;
    And then in post he came from Mantua
    To this same place, to this same monument.
    This letter he early bid me give his father,
    And threatened me with death, going in the vault,
    I departed not and left him there.
    Give me the letter; I will look on it.
    Where is the county’s page, that raised the watch?
    Sirrah, what made your master in this place?
    He came with flowers to strew his lady’s grave;
    And bid me stand aloof, and so I did:
    Anon comes one with light to ope the tomb;
    And by and by my master drew on him;
    And then I ran away to call the watch.
    This letter doth make good the friar’s words,
    Their course of love, the tidings of her death:
    And here he writes that he did buy a poison
    Of a poor ‘pothecary, and therewithal
    Came to this vault to die, and lie with Juliet.
    Where be these enemies? Capulet! Montague!
    See, what a scourge is laid upon your hate,
    That heaven finds means to kill your joys with love.
    And I for winking at your discords too
    Have lost a brace of kinsmen: all are punish’d.
    O brother Montague, give me thy hand:
    This is my daughter’s jointure, for no more
    Can I demand.
    But I can give thee more:
    For I will raise her statue in pure gold;
    That while Verona by that name is known,
    There shall no figure at such rate be set
    As that of true and faithful Juliet.
    As rich shall Romeo’s by his lady’s lie;
    Poor sacrifices of our enmity!
    A glooming peace this morning with it brings;
    The sun, for sorrow, will not show his head:
    Go hence, to have more talk of these sad things;
    Some shall be pardon’d, and some punished:
    For never was a story of more woe
    Than this of Juliet and her Romeo.

  6. 0


    CT I

    SCENE I. Rome. A street.

    Enter FLAVIUS, MARULLUS, and certain Commoners
    Hence! home, you idle creatures get you home:
    Is this a holiday? what! know you not,
    Being mechanical, you ought not walk
    Upon a labouring day without the sign
    Of your profession? Speak, what trade art thou?
    First Commoner
    Why, sir, a carpenter.
    Where is thy leather apron and thy rule?
    What dost thou with thy best apparel on?
    You, sir, what trade are you?
    Second Commoner
    Truly, sir, in respect of a fine workman, I am but,
    as you would say, a cobbler.
    But what trade art thou? answer me directly.
    Second Commoner
    A trade, sir, that, I hope, I may use with a safe
    conscience; which is, indeed, sir, a mender of bad soles.
    What trade, thou knave? thou naughty knave, what trade?
    Second Commoner
    Nay, I beseech you, sir, be not out with me: yet,
    if you be out, sir, I can mend you.
    What meanest thou by that? mend me, thou saucy fellow!
    Second Commoner
    Why, sir, cobble you.
    Thou art a cobbler, art thou?
    Second Commoner
    Truly, sir, all that I live by is with the awl: I
    meddle with no tradesman’s matters, nor women’s
    matters, but with awl. I am, indeed, sir, a surgeon
    to old shoes; when they are in great danger, I
    recover them. As proper men as ever trod upon
    neat’s leather have gone upon my handiwork.
    But wherefore art not in thy shop today?
    Why dost thou lead these men about the streets?
    Second Commoner
    Truly, sir, to wear out their shoes, to get myself
    into more work. But, indeed, sir, we make holiday,
    to see Caesar and to rejoice in his triumph.
    Wherefore rejoice? What conquest brings he home?
    What tributaries follow him to Rome,
    To grace in captive bonds his chariot-wheels?
    You blocks, you stones, you worse than senseless things!
    O you hard hearts, you cruel men of Rome,
    Knew you not Pompey? Many a time and oft
    Have you climb’d up to walls and battlements,
    To towers and windows, yea, to chimney-tops,
    Your infants in your arms, and there have sat
    The livelong day, with patient expectation,
    To see great Pompey pass the streets of Rome:
    And when you saw his chariot but appear,
    Have you not made an universal shout,
    That Tiber trembled underneath her banks,
    To hear the replication of your sounds
    Made in her concave shores?
    And do you now put on your best attire?
    And do you now cull out a holiday?
    And do you now strew flowers in his way
    That comes in triumph over Pompey’s blood? Be gone!
    Run to your houses, fall upon your knees,
    Pray to the gods to intermit the plague
    That needs must light on this ingratitude.
    Go, go, good countrymen, and, for this fault,
    Assemble all the poor men of your sort;
    Draw them to Tiber banks, and weep your tears
    Into the channel, till the lowest stream
    Do kiss the most exalted shores of all.
    Exeunt all the Commoners

    See whether their basest metal be not moved;
    They vanish tongue-tied in their guiltiness.
    Go you down that way towards the Capitol;
    This way will I
    disrobe the images,
    If you do find them deck’d with ceremonies.
    May we do so?
    You know it is the feast of Lupercal.
    It is no matter; let no images
    Be hung with Caesar’s trophies. I’ll about,
    And drive away the vulgar from the streets:
    So do you too, where you perceive them thick.
    These growing feathers pluck’d from Caesar’s wing
    Will make him fly an ordinary pitch,
    Who else would soar above the view of men
    And keep us all in servile fearfulness.

    SCENE II. A public place.

    Flourish. Enter CAESAR; ANTONY, for the course; CALPURNIA, PORTIA, DECIUS BRUTUS, CICERO, BRUTUS, CASSIUS, and CASCA; a great crowd following, among them a Soothsayer
    Peace, ho! Caesar speaks.
    Here, my lord.
    Stand you directly in Antonius’ way,
    When he doth run his course. Antonius!
    Caesar, my lord?
    Forget not, in your speed, Antonius,
    To touch Calpurnia; for our elders say,
    The barren, touched in this holy chase,
    Shake off their sterile curse.
    I shall remember:
    When Caesar says ‘do this,’ it is perform’d.
    Set on; and leave no ceremony out.

    Ha! who calls?
    Bid every noise be still: peace yet again!
    Who is it in the press that calls on me?
    I hear a tongue, shriller than all the music,
    Cry ‘Caesar!’ Speak; Caesar is turn’d to hear.
    Beware the ides of March.
    What man is that?
    A soothsayer bids you beware the ides of March.
    Set him before me; let me see his face.
    Fellow, come from the throng; look upon Caesar.
    What say’st thou to me now? speak once again.
    Beware the ides of March.
    He is a dreamer; let us leave him: pass.
    Sennet. Exeunt all except BRUTUS and CASSIUS

    Will you go see the order of the course?
    Not I.
    I pray you, do.
    I am not gamesome: I do lack some part
    Of that quick spirit that is in Antony.
    Let me not hinder, Cassius, your desires;
    I’ll leave you.
    Brutus, I do observe you now of late:
    I have not from your eyes that gentleness
    And show of love as I was wont to have:
    You bear too stubborn and too strange a hand
    Over your friend that loves you.
    Be not deceived: if I have veil’d my look,
    I turn the trouble of my countenance
    Merely upon myself. Vexed I am
    Of late with passions of some difference,
    Conceptions only proper to myself,
    Which give some soil perhaps to my behaviors;
    But let not therefore my good friends be grieved–
    Among which number, Cassius, be you one–
    Nor construe any further my neglect,
    Than that poor Brutus, with himself at war,
    Forgets the shows of love to other men.
    Then, Brutus, I have much mistook your passion;
    By means whereof this breast of mine hath buried
    Thoughts of great value, worthy cogitations.
    Tell me, good Brutus, can you see your face?
    No, Cassius; for the eye sees not itself,
    But by reflection, by some other things.
    ‘Tis just:
    And it is very much lamented, Brutus,
    That you have no such mirrors as will turn
    Your hidden worthiness into your eye,
    That you might see your shadow. I have heard,
    Where many of the best respect in Rome,
    Except immortal Caesar, speaking of Brutus
    And groaning underneath this age’s yoke,
    Have wish’d that noble Brutus had his eyes.
    Into what dangers would you lead me, Cassius,
    That you would have me seek into myself
    For that which is not in me?
    Therefore, good Brutus, be prepared to hear:
    And since you know you cannot see yourself
    So well as by reflection, I, your glass,
    Will modestly discover to yourself
    That of yourself which you yet know not of.

  7. 0


    nary oaths my love
    To every new protester; if you know
    That I do fawn on men and hug them hard
    And after scandal them, or if you know
    That I profess myself in banqueting
    To all the rout, then hold me dangerous.
    Flourish, and shout

    What means this shouting? I do fear, the people
    Choose Caesar for their king.
    Ay, do you fear it?
    Then must I think you would not have it so.
    I would not, Cassius; yet I love him well.
    But wherefore do you hold me here so long?
    What is it that you would impart to me?
    If it be aught toward the general good,
    Set honour in one eye and death i’ the other,
    And I will look on both indifferently,
    For let the gods so speed me as I love
    The name of honour more than I fear death.
    I know that virtue to be in you, Brutus,
    As well as I do know your outward favour.
    Well, honour is the subject of my story.
    I cannot tell what you and other men
    Think of this life; but, for my single self,
    I had as lief not be as live to be
    In awe of such a thing as I myself.
    I was born free as Caesar; so were you:
    We both have fed as well, and we can both
    Endure the winter’s cold as well as he:
    For once, upon a raw and gusty day,
    The troubled Tiber chafing with her shores,
    Caesar said to me ‘Darest thou, Cassius, now
    Leap in with me into this angry flood,
    And swim to yonder point?’ Upon the word,
    Accoutred as I was, I plunged in
    And bade him follow; so indeed he did.
    The torrent roar’d, and we did buffet it
    With lusty sinews, throwing it aside
    And stemming it with hearts of controversy;
    But ere we could arrive the point proposed,
    Caesar cried ‘Help me, Cassius, or I sink!’
    I, as Aeneas, our great ancestor,
    Did from the flames of Troy upon his shoulder
    The old Anchises bear, so from the waves of Tiber
    Did I the tired Caesar. And this man
    Is now become a god, and Cassius is
    A wretched creature and must bend his body,
    If Caesar carelessly but nod on him.
    He had a fever when he was in Spain,
    And when the fit was on him, I did mark
    How he did shake: ’tis true, this god did shake;
    His coward lips did from their colour fly,
    And that same eye whose bend doth awe the world
    Did lose his lustre: I did hear him groan:
    Ay, and that tongue of his that bade the Romans
    Mark him and write his speeches in their books,
    Alas, it cried ‘Give me some drink, Titinius,’
    As a sick girl. Ye gods, it doth amaze me
    A man of such a feeble temper should
    So get the start of the majestic world
    And bear the palm alone.
    Shout. Flourish

    Another general shout!
    I do believe that these applauses are
    For some new honours that are heap’d on Caesar.
    Why, man, he doth bestride the narrow world
    Like a Colossus, and we petty men
    Walk under his huge legs and peep about
    To find ourselves dishonourable graves.
    Men at some time are masters of their fates:
    The fault, dear Brutus, is not in our stars,
    But in ourselves, that we are underlings.
    Brutus and Caesar: what should be in that ‘Caesar’?
    Why should that name be sounded more than yours?
    Write them together, yours is as fair a name;
    Sound them, it doth become the mouth as well;
    Weigh them, it is as heavy; conjure with ’em,
    Brutus will start a spirit as soon as Caesar.
    Now, in the names of all the gods at once,
    Upon what meat doth this our Caesar feed,
    That he is grown so great? Age, thou art shamed!
    Rome, thou hast lost the breed of noble bloods!
    When went there by an age, since the great flood,
    But it was famed with more than with one man?
    When could they say till now, that talk’d of Rome,
    That her wide walls encompass’d but one man?
    Now is it Rome indeed and room enough,
    When there is in it but one only man.
    O, you and I have heard our fathers say,
    There was a Brutus once that would have brook’d
    The eternal devil to keep his state in Rome
    As easily as a king.
    That you do love me, I am nothing jealous;
    What you would work me to, I have some aim:
    How I have thought of this and of these times,
    I shall recount hereafter; for this present,
    I would not, so with love I might entreat you,
    Be any further moved. What you have said
    I will consider; what you have to say
    I will with patience hear, and find a time
    Both meet to hear and answer such high things.
    Till then, my noble friend, chew upon this:
    Brutus had rather be a villager
    Than to repute himself a son of Rome
    Under these hard conditions as this time
    Is like to lay upon us.
    I am glad that my weak words
    Have struck but thus much show of fire from Brutus.
    The games are done and Caesar is returning.
    As they pass by, pluck Casca by the sleeve;
    And he will, after his sour fashion, tell you
    What hath proceeded worthy note to-day.
    Re-enter CAESAR and his Train

    I will do so. But, look you, Cassius,
    The angry spot doth glow on Caesar’s brow,
    And all the rest look like a chidden train:
    Calpurnia’s cheek is pale; and Cicero
    Looks with such ferret and such fiery eyes
    As we have seen him in the Capitol,
    Being cross’d in conference by some senators.
    Casca will tell us what the matter is.
    Let me have men about me that are fat;
    Sleek-headed men and such as sleep o’ nights:
    Yond Cassius has a lean and hungry look;
    He thinks too much: such men are dangerous.
    Fear him not, Caesar; he’s not dangerous;
    He is a noble Roman and well given.
    Would he were fatter! But I fear him not:
    Yet if my name were liable to fear,
    I do not know the man I should avoid
    So soon as that spare Cassius. He reads much;
    He is a great observer and he looks
    Quite through the deeds of men: he loves no plays,
    As thou dost, Antony; he hears no music;
    Seldom he smiles, and smiles in such a sort
    As if he mock’d himself and scorn’d his spirit
    That could be moved to smile at any thing.
    Such men as he be never at heart’s ease
    Whiles they behold a greater than themselves,
    And therefore are they very dangerous.
    I rather tell thee what is to be fear’d
    Than what I fear; for always I am Caesar.
    Come on my right hand, for this ear is deaf,
    And tell me truly what thou think’st of him.
    Sennet. Exeunt CAESAR and all his Train, but CASCA

    You pull’d me by the cloak; would you speak with me?
    Ay, Casca; tell us what hath chanced to-day,
    That Caesar looks so sad.
    Why, you were with him, were you not?
    I should not then ask Casca what had chanced.
    Why, there was a crown offered him: and being
    offered him, he put it by with the back of his hand,
    thus; and then the people fell a-shouting.
    What was the second noise for?
    Why, for that too.
    They shouted thrice: what was the last cry for?
    Why, for that too.
    Was the crown offered him thrice?
    Ay, marry, was’t, and he put it by thrice, every
    time gentler than other, and at every putting-by
    mine honest neighbours shouted.
    Who offered him the crown?
    Why, Antony.
    Tell us the manner of it, gentle Casca.
    I can as well be hanged as tell the manner of it:
    it was mere foolery; I did not mark it. I saw Mark
    Antony offer him a crown;–yet ’twas not a crown
    neither, ’twas one of these coronets;–and, as I told
    you, he put it by once: but, for all that, to my
    thinking, he would fain have had it. Then he
    offered it to him again; then he put it by again:
    but, to my thinking, he was very loath to lay his
    fingers off it. And then he offered it the third
    time; he put it the third time by: and still as he
    refused it, the rabblement hooted and clapped their
    chapped hands and threw up their sweaty night-caps
    and uttered such a deal of stinking breath because
    Caesar refused the crown that it had almost choked
    Caesar; for he swounded and fell down at it: and
    for mine own part, I durst not laugh, for fear of
    opening my lips and receiving the bad air.
    But, soft, I pray you: what, did Caesar swound?
    He fell down in the market-place, and foamed at
    mouth, and was speechless.
    ‘Tis very like: he hath the failing sickness.
    No, Caesar hath it not; but you and I,
    And honest Casca, we have the falling sickness.
    I know not what you mean by that; but, I am sure,
    Caesar fell down. If the tag-rag people did not
    clap him and hiss him, according as he pleased and
    displeased them, as they use to do the players in
    the theatre, I am no true man.
    What said he when he came unto himself?
    Marry, before he fell down, when he perceived the
    common herd was glad he refused the crown, he
    plucked me ope his doublet and offered them his
    throat to cut. An I had been a man of any
    occupation, if I would not have taken him at a word,
    I would I might go to hell among the rogues. And so
    he fell. When he came to himself again, he said,
    If he had done or said any thing amiss, he desired
    their worships to think it was his infirmity. Three
    or four wenches, where I stood, cried ‘Alas, good
    soul!’ and forgave him with all their hearts: but
    there’s no heed to be taken of them; if Caesar had
    stabbed their mothers, they would have done no less.
    And after that, he came, thus sad, away?
    Did Cicero say any thing?
    Ay, he spoke Greek.
    To what effect?
    Nay, an I tell you that, Ill ne’er look you i’ the
    face again: but those that understood him smiled at
    one another and shook their heads; but, for mine own
    part, it was Greek to me. I could tell you more
    news too: Marullus and Flavius, for pulling scarfs
    off Caesar’s images, are put to silence. Fare you
    well. There was more foolery yet, if I could
    remember it.
    Will you sup with me to-night, Casca?
    No, I am promised forth.
    Will you dine with me to-morrow?
    Ay, if I be alive and your mind hold and your dinner
    worth the eating.
    Good: I will expect you.

  8. 0


    Three times nine girls, but one girl rode ahead,
    white-skinned under her helmet;
    the horses were trembling, from their manes
    dew fell into the deep valleys,
    hail in the high woods;
    good fortune comes to men from there;
    all that I saw was hateful to me.

    Flying through the sky, helmeted valkyries appear. Their waist-length mail armour is drenched in blood; their spears shine brightly:

    Then light shone from Logafell,
    and from that radiance there came bolts of lightning;
    wearing helmets at Himingvani [came the valkyries].
    Their byrnies were drenched in blood;
    and rays shone from their spears.

    There I perceive valkyries and ravens,
    accompanying the wise victory-tree [Odin]
    to the drink of the holy offering [Baldr’s funeral feast]
    Within have appeared these motifs

    The valkyrie considers herself wise, understands the speech of birds, is further described as having a white-throat and sparkling eyes, and she takes no pleasure in men:

    Wise thought her the valkyrie; were welcome never
    men to the bright-eyed one, her who the birds’ speech knew well.
    Greeted the light-lashed maiden, the lily-throated woman,
    The hymir’s-skull-cleaver as on cliff he was perching.

    The valkyrie, previously described as fair and beautiful, then speaks to the gore-drenched and corpse-reeking raven:

    “How is it, ye ravens—whence are ye come now
    with beaks all gory, at break of morning?
    Carrion-reek ye carry, and your claws are bloody.
    Were ye near, at night-time, where ye knew of corpses?

  9. 0


    CENE I. Before PROSPERO’S cell.

    Enter PROSPERO in his magic robes, and ARIEL
    Now does my project gather to a head:
    My charms crack not; my spirits obey; and time
    Goes upright with his carriage. How’s the day?
    On the sixth hour; at which time, my lord,
    You said our work should cease.
    I did say so,
    When first I raised the tempest. Say, my spirit,
    How fares the king and’s followers?
    Confined together
    In the same fashion as you gave in charge,
    Just as you left them; all prisoners, sir,
    In the line-grove which weather-fends your cell;
    They cannot budge till your release. The king,
    His brother and yours, abide all three distracted
    And the remainder mourning over them,
    Brimful of sorrow and dismay; but chiefly
    Him that you term’d, sir, ‘The good old lord Gonzalo;’
    His tears run down his beard, like winter’s drops
    From eaves of reeds. Your charm so strongly works ’em
    That if you now beheld them, your affections
    Would become tender.
    Dost thou think so, spirit?
    Mine would, sir, were I human.
    And mine shall.
    Hast thou, which art but air, a touch, a feeling
    Of their afflictions, and shall not myself,
    One of their kind, that relish all as sharply,
    Passion as they, be kindlier moved than thou art?
    Though with their high wrongs I am struck to the quick,
    Yet with my nobler reason ‘gaitist my fury
    Do I take part: the rarer action is
    In virtue than in vengeance: they being penitent,
    The sole drift of my purpose doth extend
    Not a frown further. Go release them, Ariel:
    My charms I’ll break, their senses I’ll restore,
    And they shall be themselves.
    I’ll fetch them, sir.

    Ye elves of hills, brooks, standing lakes and groves,
    And ye that on the sands with printless foot
    Do chase the ebbing Neptune and do fly him
    When he comes back; you demi-puppets that
    By moonshine do the green sour ringlets make,
    Whereof the ewe not bites, and you whose pastime
    Is to make midnight mushrooms, that rejoice
    To hear the solemn curfew; by whose aid,
    Weak masters though ye be, I have bedimm’d
    The noontide sun, call’d forth the mutinous winds,
    And ‘twixt the green sea and the azured vault
    Set roaring war: to the dread rattling thunder
    Have I given fire and rifted Jove’s stout oak
    With his own bolt; the strong-based promontory
    Have I made shake and by the spurs pluck’d up
    The pine and cedar: graves at my command
    Have waked their sleepers, oped, and let ’em forth
    By my so potent art. But this rough magic
    I here abjure, and, when I have required
    Some heavenly music, which even now I do,
    To work mine end upon their senses that
    This airy charm is for, I’ll break my staff,
    Bury it certain fathoms in the earth,
    And deeper than did ever plummet sound
    I’ll drown my book.
    Solemn music

    Re-enter ARIEL before: then ALONSO, with a frantic gesture, attended by GONZALO; SEBASTIAN and ANTONIO in like manner, attended by ADRIAN and FRANCISCO they all enter the circle which PROSPERO had made, and there stand charmed; which PROSPERO observing, speaks:

    A solemn air and the best comforter
    To an unsettled fancy cure thy brains,
    Now useless, boil’d within thy skull! There stand,
    For you are spell-stopp’d.
    Holy Gonzalo, honourable man,
    Mine eyes, even sociable to the show of thine,
    Fall fellowly drops. The charm dissolves apace,
    And as the morning steals upon the night,
    Melting the darkness, so their rising senses
    Begin to chase the ignorant fumes that mantle
    Their clearer reason. O good Gonzalo,
    My true preserver, and a loyal sir
    To him you follow’st! I will pay thy graces
    Home both in word and deed. Most cruelly
    Didst thou, Alonso, use me and my daughter:
    Thy brother was a furtherer in the act.
    Thou art pinch’d fort now, Sebastian. Flesh and blood,
    You, brother mine, that entertain’d ambition,
    Expell’d remorse and nature; who, with Sebastian,
    Whose inward pinches therefore are most strong,
    Would here have kill’d your king; I do forgive thee,
    Unnatural though thou art. Their understanding
    Begins to swell, and the approaching tide
    Will shortly fill the reasonable shore
    That now lies foul and muddy. Not one of them
    That yet looks on me, or would know me Ariel,
    Fetch me the hat and rapier in my cell:
    I will discase me, and myself present
    As I was sometime Milan: quickly, spirit;
    Thou shalt ere long be free.
    ARIEL sings and helps to attire him

    Where the bee sucks. there suck I:
    In a cowslip’s bell I lie;
    There I couch when owls do cry.
    On the bat’s back I do fly
    After summer merrily.
    Merrily, merrily shall I live now
    Under the blossom that hangs on the bough.
    Why, that’s my dainty Ariel! I shall miss thee:
    But yet thou shalt have freedom: so, so, so.
    To the king’s ship, invisible as thou art:
    There shalt thou find the mariners asleep
    Under the hatches; the master and the boatswain
    Being awake, enforce them to this place,
    And presently, I prithee.
    I drink the air before me, and return
    Or ere your pulse twice beat.

    All torment, trouble, wonder and amazement
    Inhabits here: some heavenly power guide us
    Out of this fearful country!
    Behold, sir king,
    The wronged Duke of Milan, Prospero:
    For more assurance that a living prince
    Does now speak to thee, I embrace thy body;
    And to thee and thy company I bid
    A hearty welcome.
    Whether thou best he or no,
    Or some enchanted trifle to abuse me,
    As late I have been, I not know: thy pulse
    Beats as of flesh and blood; and, since I saw thee,
    The affliction of my mind amends, with which,
    I fear, a madness held me: this must crave,
    An if this be at all, a most strange story.
    Thy dukedom I resign and do entreat
    Thou pardon me my wrongs. But how should Prospero
    Be living and be here?
    First, noble friend,
    Let me embrace thine age, whose honour cannot
    Be measured or confined.
    Whether this be
    Or be not, I’ll not swear.
    You do yet taste
    Some subtilties o’ the isle, that will not let you
    Believe things certain. Welcome, my friends all!
    Aside to SEBASTIAN and ANTONIO

    But you, my brace of lords, were I so minded,
    I here could pluck his highness’ frown upon you
    And justify you traitors: at this time
    I will tell no tales.
    [Aside] The devil speaks in him.
    For you, most wicked sir, whom to call brother
    Would even infect my mouth, I do forgive
    Thy rankest fault; all of them; and require
    My dukedom of thee, which perforce, I know,
    Thou must restore.
    If thou be’st Prospero,
    Give us particulars of thy preservation;
    How thou hast met us here, who three hours since
    Were wreck’d upon this shore; where I have lost–
    How sharp the point of this remembrance is!–
    My dear son Ferdinand.
    I am woe for’t, sir.
    Irreparable is the loss, and patience
    Says it is past her cure.
    I rather think
    You have not sought her help, of whose soft grace
    For the like loss I have her sovereign aid
    And rest myself content.
    You the like loss!
    As great to me as late; and, supportable
    To make the dear loss, have I means much weaker
    Than you may call to comfort you, for I
    Have lost my daughter.
    A daughter?
    O heavens, that they were living both in Naples,
    The king and queen there! that they were, I wish
    Myself were mudded in that oozy bed
    Where my son lies. When did you lose your daughter?
    In this last tempest. I perceive these lords
    At this encounter do so much admire
    That they devour their reason and scarce think
    Their eyes do offices of truth, their words
    Are natural breath: but, howsoe’er you have
    Been justled from your senses, know for certain
    That I am Prospero and that very duke
    Which was thrust forth of Milan, who most strangely
    Upon this shore, where you were wreck’d, was landed,
    To be the lord on’t. No more yet of this;
    For ’tis a chronicle of day by day,
    Not a relation for a breakfast nor
    Befitting this first meeting. Welcome, sir;
    This cell’s my court: here have I few attendants
    And subjects none abroad: pray you, look in.
    My dukedom since you have given me again,
    I will requite you with as good a thing;
    At least bring forth a wonder, to content ye
    As much as me my dukedom.
    Here PROSPERO discovers FERDINAND and MIRANDA playing at chess

    Sweet lord, you play me false.
    No, my dear’st love,
    I would not for the world.
    Yes, for a score of kingdoms you should wrangle,
    And I would call it, fair play.
    If this prove
    A vision of the Island, one dear son
    Shall I twice lose.
    A most high miracle!
    Though the seas threaten, they are merciful;
    I have cursed them without cause.

    Now all the blessings
    Of a glad father compass thee about!
    Arise, and say how thou camest here.
    O, wonder!
    How many goodly creatures are there here!
    How beauteous mankind is! O brave new world,
    That has such people in’t!
    ‘Tis new to thee.
    What is this maid with whom thou wast at play?
    Your eld’st acquaintance cannot be three hours:
    Is she the goddess that hath sever’d us,
    And brought us thus together?
    Sir, she is mortal;
    But by immortal Providence she’s mine:
    I chose her when I could not ask my father
    For his advice, nor thought I had one. She
    Is daughter to this famous Duke of Milan,
    Of whom so often I have heard renown,
    But never saw before; of whom I have
    Received a second life; and second father
    This lady makes him to me.
    I am hers:
    But, O, how oddly will it sound that I
    Must ask my child forgiveness!
    There, sir, stop:
    Let us not burthen our remembrance with
    A heaviness that’s gone.
    I have inly wept,
    Or should have spoke ere this. Look down, you god,
    And on this couple drop a blessed crown!
    For it is you that have chalk’d forth the way
    Which brought us hither.
    I say, Amen, Gonzalo!
    Was Milan thrust from Milan, that his issue
    Should become kings of Naples? O, rejoice
    Beyond a common joy, and set it down
    With gold on lasting pillars: In one voyage
    Did Claribel her husband find at Tunis,
    And Ferdinand, her brother, found a wife
    Where he himself was lost, Prospero his dukedom
    In a poor isle and all of us ourselves
    When no man was his own.
    [To FERDINAND and MIRANDA] Give me your hands:
    Let grief and sorrow still embrace his heart
    That doth not wish you joy!
    Be it so! Amen!
    Re-enter ARIEL, with the Master and Boatswain amazedly following

    O, look, sir, look, sir! here is more of us:
    I prophesied, if a gallows were on land,
    This fellow could not drown. Now, blasphemy,
    That swear’st grace o’erboard, not an oath on shore?
    Hast thou no mouth by land? What is the news?
    The best news is, that we have safely found
    Our king and company; the next, our ship–
    Which, but three glasses since, we gave out split–
    Is tight and yare and bravely rigg’d as when
    We first put out to sea.
    [Aside to PROSPERO] Sir, all this service
    Have I done since I went.
    [Aside to ARIEL] My tricksy spirit!
    These are not natural events; they strengthen
    From strange to stranger. Say, how came you hither?
    If I did think, sir, I were well awake,
    I’ld strive to tell you. We were dead of sleep,
    And–how we know not–all clapp’d under hatches;
    Where but even now with strange and several noises
    Of roaring, shrieking, howling, jingling chains,
    And more diversity of sounds, all horrible,
    We were awaked; straightway, at liberty;
    Where we, in all her trim, freshly beheld
    Our royal, good and gallant ship, our master
    Capering to eye her: on a trice, so please you,
    Even in a dream, were we divided from them
    And were brought moping hither.
    [Aside to PROSPERO] Was’t well done?
    [Aside to ARIEL] Bravely, my diligence. Thou shalt be free.
    This is as strange a maze as e’er men trod
    And there is in this business more than nature
    Was ever conduct of: some oracle
    Must rectify our knowledge.
    Sir, my liege,
    Do not infest your mind with beating on
    The strangeness of this business; at pick’d leisure
    Which shall be shortly, single I’ll resolve you,
    Which to you shall seem probable, of every
    These happen’d accidents; till when, be cheerful
    And think of each thing well.
    Aside to ARIEL

    Come hither, spirit:
    Set Caliban and his companions free;
    Untie the spell.
    Exit ARIEL

    How fares my gracious sir?
    There are yet missing of your company
    Some few odd lads that you remember not.
    Re-enter ARIEL, driving in CALIBAN, STEPHANO and TRINCULO, in their stolen apparel

    Every man shift for all the rest, and
    let no man take care for himself; for all is
    but fortune. Coragio, bully-monster, coragio!
    If these be true spies which I wear in my head,
    here’s a goodly sight.
    O Setebos, these be brave spirits indeed!
    How fine my master is! I am afraid
    He will chastise me.
    Ha, ha!
    What things are these, my lord Antonio?
    Will money buy ’em?
    Very like; one of them
    Is a plain fish, and, no doubt, marketable.
    Mark but the badges of these men, my lords,
    Then say if they be true. This mis-shapen knave,
    His mother was a witch, and one so strong
    That could control the moon, make flows and ebbs,
    And deal in her command without her power.
    These three have robb’d me; and this demi-devil–
    For he’s a bastard one–had plotted with them
    To take my life. Two of these fellows you
    Must know and own; this thing of darkness!
    Acknowledge mine.
    I shall be pinch’d to death.
    Is not this Stephano, my drunken butler?
    He is drunk now: where had he wine?
    And Trinculo is reeling ripe: where should they
    Find this grand liquor that hath gilded ’em?
    How camest thou in this pickle?
    I have been in such a pickle since I
    saw you last that, I fear me, will never out of
    my bones: I shall not fear fly-blowing.
    Why, how now, Stephano!
    O, touch me not; I am not Stephano, but a cramp.
    You’ld be king o’ the isle, sirrah?
    I should have been a sore one then.
    This is a strange thing as e’er I look’d on.
    Pointing to Caliban

    He is as disproportion’d in his manners
    As in his shape. Go, sirrah, to my cell;
    Take with you your companions; as you look
    To have my pardon, trim it handsomely.
    Ay, that I will; and I’ll be wise hereafter
    And seek for grace. What a thrice-double ass
    Was I, to take this drunkard for a god
    And worship this dull fool!
    Go to; away!
    Hence, and bestow your luggage where you found it.
    Or stole it, rather.

    Sir, I invite your highness and your train
    To my poor cell, where you shall take your rest
    For this one night; which, part of it, I’ll waste
    With such discourse as, I not doubt, shall make it
    Go quick away; the story of my life
    And the particular accidents gone by
    Since I came to this isle: and in the morn
    I’ll bring you to your ship and so to Naples,
    Where I have hope to see the nuptial
    Of these our dear-beloved solemnized;
    And thence retire me to my Milan, where
    Every third thought shall be my grave.
    I long
    To hear the story of your life, which must
    Take the ear strangely.
    I’ll deliver all;
    And promise you calm seas, auspicious gales
    And sail so expeditious that shall catch
    Your royal fleet far off.
    Aside to ARIEL

    My Ariel, chick,
    That is thy charge: then to the elements
    Be free, and fare thou well! Please you, draw near.

    Now my charms are all o’erthrown,
    And what strength I have’s mine own,
    Which is most faint: now, ’tis true,
    I must be here confined by you,
    Or sent to Naples. Let me not,
    Since I have my dukedom got
    And pardon’d the deceiver, dwell
    In this bare island by your spell;
    But release me from my bands
    With the help of your good hands:
    Gentle breath of yours my sails
    Must fill, or else my project fails,
    Which was to please. Now I want
    Spirits to enforce, art to enchant,
    And my ending is despair,
    Unless I be relieved by prayer,
    Which pierces so that it assaults
    Mercy itself and frees all faults.
    As you from crimes would pardon’d be,
    Let your indulgence set me free.

  10. 0


    Wow dude, did you recognize this, we told you a long time ago about this.
    Your blog, should disable comments on this page.

  11. 1


    Wow dude, did you recognize this, we told you a long time ago about this.
    Your blog, should not disable comments on this page.

Leave a Reply to Teresa -n- Carolyn's Poetic Motto Cancel reply

Your email address will not be published.