Nur. I am a weary, give me leave a while ;
Fy, how my Bones ake, what a Jaunt have I had? ?

Jul. I would thou hadit my Bones, and I thy News: Nay come, I pray thee Speak Good Nurle speak.

Nur. Jifu! what haste? can you not stay a while? Do you not see how I am out of Breath?

Jul. How alt thou out of Breath, when thou hast Breath To say to me, that thou art out of Breath? The Excuse that thou doft make in this delay, Is longer than the Tale thou doft 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?

Nur. Well, you have made a simple Choice; you know not how to chuse a Man: Rome ? no not he, though his Face be better than any Man's, yet his Legs excel all Mens, and for a Hand and a Foot, and a Baw-dy, tho'tbey be not to be talk'd on, yet they are past compare. He is not the Flower of Courtefie, but I warrant him as gentle a Lamb-Go thy ways Wench, ferve God: What, have you dined at home?

Jul. No, no -But all this did I know before:
What says he of our Marriage? What of that?

Nur. Lord how my Head akes! what a Head have I?
It beats as it would fall in twenty pieces.
My Back a to her fide- O my Back, my Back:
Beshrew your Heart, for sending me about,
To catch my Death with jaunting up and down.

Jul. I'faith I am sorry that thou art so ill,
Sweet, sweet, sweet Nurse, tell me what says my Love?

Nur. Your Love says like an honest Gentleman,
And a courteous, and a kind, and an handlom,
And I warrant a virtuous where is your Mother?

Jul. Where is my Mother? Why she is within,
Where should she be? How odly thou reply'st !
Your Love says like an honest Gentleman:
Where is my Mother?

Nur. O God's Lady dear,

so hot? marry come up I trow, Is this the Poultis for my aking Bones?



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Hence-forward, do your Massages your

Jul Here's such a coil; come, what says Romeo ?
Nur. Have you got leave to go to shrift to Day?
Joh I have.

Nur. Then hie you hence to Friar Lawrence's Cell,
There stays a Husband to make you a Wife.
Now comes the warton Blood up in your Cheeks,
They'll be in Scarlet straight at any News:
Hıc you to Church, I must another way,
To fetch a Ladder, by the which your Love
Must climb a Bird's Neft foon, when it is dark.
I am the drudge and toil in your Delight,
But you shall bear the Burthen soon at Night.
Go, I'll to Dinner, hie you to the Cell.
Jul. Hie to high Fortune; honest Nurse farewel. (Exeunt,

The Monastery.
Enter Friar Lawrence and Romeo.
Fri. So smile the Heav'ns upon this holy Ad.
That after Hours with Sorrow chide us not.

Rom. Amen, Amen; but come what Sorrow can,
It cannot countervail the exchange of Joy,
That one short Minute gives me in her fight:
Do thou but close our Hands wirh holy Words,
Then Love-devouring Death do what he dare,
It is enough I may but call her mine.

Fri. Thise violent Delights have violent Ends,
And in their tri mph die like Fire and Powder,
Which as they kils consume. The sweetest Honey
Is loathsome in his own deliciousness,
And in the taste confounds the Appetite:
Ther-fore love moderatly, long Love doth fo,
Too swift arrives, as tardy as too flow.

Enter Juliet.

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Here comes the Lady. o lo light a foot
Will oc’er wear out the everlasting Flint ;
A Lover may bestride the Gossamour,
That idles in the wanton Summer Air,
And yet not fall

, fo light is Vanity.

Jul. Good-even to my ghostly Confessor.
Fri. Romeo Thall thank thee Daughter for us both.
Jul. As much to him, elle are his Thanks too much.

Rom. Ah Juliet, if the measure of thy Joy
Be heapt like mine, and that thy skill be more
To blason it, then sweeten with thy Breath
This Neighbour Air, and let rich Mufick's Tongue
Unfold the imagin'd happiness, that both
Receive in either, by this dear Encounter.

Jul. 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 some half of my

Fri. 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. [Exeunt.


SCENE The Street:

Enter Mercutio, Benvolio, and Servants.
Ben. Pray thee, good Mercutio, let's retire,

The Day is hot, the Capulets abroad,
And if we meer, we shall not scape a Brawl;
For now these hot Days is the mad Blood stirring.

Mer. 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 a second Cup, draws him on the Drawer, wben indeed there is no need.

Ben. Am I like fuch a Fellow?

Mer. 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 mov’d.

Ben. And what too?

Mer. Nay, and there were two such, we should have none shortly, for one would kill che other. Thou! why thou

wile 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 Nurs, having no other reason, but because thou hast hasel Eyes; what Eye, but such an Eye, would ípy out such a quarrel? Thy Head is as full of quarrels, as an Egg is fun of Meat, and yet 'thy Head hath been beaten as addle as an Egg for quarrelli g: Thou hast quarrellid 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 Ribband? And yet thou wilt Tutor me from quarrelling!

Ben. And 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. Mer. The Fee-simple? O simple !

Enter Tybalt, Petruchio, and others. Ben. By my Head here come the Capulets. Mer. By my Heel I care not.

Tyb. Follow me close, for I will speak to them. Gentlemen, God-din, a Word with one of you.

Mer. And but one Word with one of us? couple it with som tbig, make it a Word and a Blow.

Tyb. You shall find me apt enough to that, Sir, and you will give me occasion.

Mer. Could you not take fome occafion without giving?

Tyb. Mercutio, thou confort'st with Romeo

Mer. Confort! Whar, dost thou make us Minstrels! And thou make Mnstrels of us, look to hear nothing but Dilcords: Here' my Fiddlestick; here's that hall make you dance. Come, Conlo t.

[Laying his Hand on his Sword, Ben. W talk here in the publick haunt of Men: Either withdraw unto some private place, Or realon coldly of your Grievances, Or e'le d-part; here all Eyes gazo on us.

Mer. Mens Eyes were made to look, and let them gaze, I will not budge for no Man's pleasure I.



Enter Romeo. Tyb. Well, peace be with you, Sir, here comes my Man.

Mer. But I'll be hang'd, Sir, if he wear your Livery: Mairy go before to Field, hy'll be your Follower, Your Worship in that sense may cail him Man.

Tyb. Romeo, the love I bear thee can afford
No better term than this; Thou art a Villain.

Rom. Tybale, the reason that I have to love thee,
Doch much excuse the appertaining rage
To such a greeting:
Therefore farewel, I see thou know'st me not.

Tyb. Boy, this shall not excuse the Injuries
That thou hast done me, therefore turn and draw,

Rom. I do protest I never injur'd thee,
But loy'd 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.

Mer. O calm, dishonourable, vile Submission!
Allastucatho Carries it away.
Tybalt, You, Rat-catcher, will you walk?

Tyb. What wouldst thou have with me?

Mer. 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 dry beat the reft of the eight. Will you pluck your Sword out of his Pilcher by the Ears ? Make haste, left mine be about your Ears e'er it be out. Tyb. I am for you.

[Drawing. Rom, Gentle Mercutio, put thy Rapier up. Mer. Come, Sir, your Pallado. [Mer. and Tyb. fight.

Rom. Draw, Benvolio-beat down their Weapons-
Gentlemen for shame forbear this Outrage-
Tybalt - Mercutio the Prince exprelly hath
Forbidden bandying in Verona Streets.
Huld Tybalı-good Mercutio.

[Exit Tybalt.
Mer. I am hurt-
A Plague of both the Houses, I am sped:
Is he gone, and hath nothing?

Ben. What, art thou hurt?

Mer. Ay, ay, a Scratch, a Scratch; marry 'tis enough. Where is my Page? Go, Villoin, fetch a Surgeon.


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