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  • Title: Romeo and Juliet (Folio 1, 1623)
  • Editor: Roger Apfelbaum

    • ISBN: 1-55058-299-2

    Copyright Internet Shakespeare Editions. This text may be freely used for educational, non-proift purposes; for all other uses contact the Coordinating Editor.
    Author: William Shakespeare
    Editor: Roger Apfelbaum
    Not Peer Reviewed

    Romeo and Juliet (Folio 1, 1623)

    68 The Tragedie of Romeo and Iuliet.
    Since birth, and heauen and earth, all three do meete
    In thee at once, which thou at once would'st loose.
    Fie, fie, thou sham'st thy shape, thy loue, thy wit,
    1940Which like a Vsurer abound'st in all:
    And vsest none in that true vse indeed,
    Which should bedecke thy shape, thy loue, thy wit:
    Thy Noble shape, is but a forme of waxe,
    Digressing from the Valour of a man,
    1945Thy deare Loue sworne but hollow periurie,
    Killing that Loue which thou hast vow'd to cherish.
    Thy wit, that Ornament, to shape and Loue,
    Mishapen in the conduct of them both:
    Like powder in a skillesse Souldiers flaske,
    1950Is set a fire by thine owne ignorance,
    And thou dismembred with thine owne defence.
    What, rowse thee man, thy Iuliet is aliue,
    For whose deare sake thou wast but lately dead.
    There art thou happy. Tybalt would kill thee,
    1955But thou slew'st Tybalt, there art thou happie.
    The law that threatned death became thy Friend,
    And turn'd it to exile, there art thou happy.
    A packe or blessing light vpon thy backe,
    Happinesse Courts thee in her best array,
    1960But like a mishaped and sullen wench,
    Thou puttest vp thy Fortune and thy Loue:
    Take heed, take heed, for such die miserable.
    Goe get thee to thy Loue as was decreed,
    Ascend her Chamber, hence and comfort her:
    1965But looke thou stay not till the watch be set,
    For then thou canst not passe to Mantua,
    Where thou shalt liue till we can finde a time
    To blaze your marriage, reconcile your Friends,
    Beg pardon of thy Prince, and call thee backe,
    1970With twenty hundred thousand times more ioy
    Then thou went'st forth in lamentation.
    Goe before Nurse, commend me to thy Lady,
    And bid her hasten all the house to bed,
    Which heauy sorrow makes them apt vnto.
    1975Romeo is comming.
    Nur. O Lord, I could haue staid here all night,
    To heare good counsell: oh what learning is!
    My Lord Ile tell my Lady you will come.
    Rom. Do so, and bid my Sweete prepare to chide.
    1980Nur. Heere sir, a Ring she bid me giue you sir:
    Hie you, make hast, for it growes very late.
    Rom. How well my comfort is reuiu'd by this.
    Fri. Go hence,
    Goodnight, and here stands all your state:
    1985Either be gone before the watch be set,
    Or by the breake of day disguis'd from hence,
    Soiourne in Mantua, Ile find out your man,
    And he shall signifie from time to time,
    Euery good hap to you, that chaunces heere:
    1990Giue me thy hand, 'tis late, farewell, goodnight.
    Rom. But that a ioy past ioy, calls out on me,
    It were a griefe, so briefe to part with thee:
    Farewell. Exeunt.

    Enter old Capulet, his Wife and Paris.

    1995Cap. Things haue falne out sir so vnluckily,
    That we haue had no time to moue our Daughter:
    Looke you, she Lou'd her kinsman Tybalt dearely,
    And so did I. Well, we were borne to die.
    'Tis very late, she'l not come downe to night:
    2000I promise you, but for your company,
    I would haue bin a bed an houre ago.
    Par. These times of wo, affoord no times to wooe:
    Madam goodnight, commend me to your Daughter.
    Lady. I will, and know her mind early to morrow,
    2005To night, she is mewed vp to her heauinesse.
    Cap. Sir Paris, I will make a desperate tender
    Of my Childes loue: I thinke she will be rul'd
    In all respects by me: nay more, I doubt it not.
    Wife, go you to her ere you go to bed,
    2010Acquaint her here, of my Sonne Paris Loue,
    And bid her, marke you me, on Wendsday next,
    But soft, what day is this?
    Par. Monday my Lord.
    Cap. Monday, ha ha: well Wendsday is too soone,
    2015A Thursday let it be: a Thursday tell her,
    She shall be married to this Noble Earle:
    Will you be ready? do you like this hast?
    Weele keepe no great adoe, a Friend or two,
    For harke you, Tybalt being slaine so late,
    2020It may be thought we held him carelesly,
    Being our kinsman, if we reuell much:
    Therefore weele haue some halfe a dozen Friends,
    And there an end. But what say you to Thursday?
    Paris. My Lord,
    2025I would that Thursday were to morrow.
    Cap. Well, get you gone, a Thursday, be it then:
    Go you to Iuliet ere you go to bed,
    Prepare her wife, against this wedding day.
    Farewell my Lord, light to my Chamber hoa,
    2030Afore me, it is so late, that we may call ir early by and by,
    Goodnight. Exeunt.

    Enter Romeo and Iuliet aloft.

    Iul. Wilt thou be gone? It is not yet neere day:
    It was the Nightingale, and not the Larke,
    2035That pier'st the fearefull hollow of thine eare,
    Nightly she sings on yond Pomgranet tree,
    Beleeue me Loue, it was the Nightingale.
    Rom. It was the Larke the Herauld of the Morne:
    No Nightingale: looke Loue what enuious streakes
    2040Do lace the seuering Cloudes in yonder East:
    Nights Candles are burnt out, and Iocond day
    Stands tipto on the mistie Mountaines tops,
    I must be gone and liue, or stay and die.
    Iul. Yond light is not daylight, I know it I:
    2045It 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.
    Rom. Let me be tane, let me be put to death,
    2050I am content, so thou wilt haue it so.
    Ile say yon gray is not the mornings eye,
    'Tis but the pale reflexe of Cinthias brow.
    Nor that is not Larke whose noates do beate
    The vaulty heauen so high aboue our heads,
    2055I haue more care to stay, then will to go:
    Come death and welcome, Iuliet wills it so.
    How ist my soule, lets talke, it is not day.
    Iuli. It is, it is, hie hence be gone away:
    It is the Larke that sings so out of tune,
    2060Straining harsh Discords, and vnpleasing Sharpes.
    Some say the Larke makes sweete Diuision;
    This doth not so: for she diuideth vs.
    Some say, the Larke and loathed Toad change eyes,
    O now I would they had chang'd voyces too:
    Since
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