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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    Not Peer Reviewed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)

    58 The Tragedie of Romeo and Iuliet.
    625Did my heart loue till now, forsweare it sight,
    For I neuer saw true Beauty till this night.
    Tib. This by his voice, should be a Mountague.
    Fetch me my Rapier Boy, what dares the slaue
    Come hither couer'd with an antique face,
    630To fleere and scorne at our Solemnitie?
    Now by the stocke and Honour of my kin,
    To strike him dead I hold it not a sin.
    Cap. Why how now kinsman,
    Wherefore storme you so?
    635Tib. Vncle this is a Mountague, our foe:
    A Villaine that is hither come in spight,
    To scorne at our Solemnitie this night.
    Cap. Young Romeo is it?
    Tib. 'Tis he, that Villaine Romeo.
    640Cap. Content thee gentle Coz, let him alone,
    A beares him like a portly Gentleman:
    And to say truth, Verona brags of him,
    To be a vertuous and well gouern'd youth:
    I would not for the wealth of all the towne,
    645Here in my house do him disparagement:
    Therfore be patient, take no note of him,
    It is my will, the which if thou respect,
    Shew a faire presence, and put off these frownes,
    An ill beseeming semblance for a Feast.
    650Tib. It fits when such a Villaine is a guest,
    Ile not endure him.
    Cap. He shall be endu'rd.
    What goodman boy, I say he shall, go too,
    Am I the Maister here or you? go too,
    655Youle not endure him, God shall mend my soule,
    Youle make a Mutinie among the Guests:
    You will set cocke a hoope, youle be the man.
    Tib. Why Vncle, 'tis a shame.
    Cap. Go too, go too,
    660You are a sawcy Boy, 'ist so indeed?
    This tricke may chance to scath you, I know what,
    You must contrary me, marry 'tis time.
    Well said my hearts, you are a Princox, goe,
    Be quiet, or more light, more light for shame,
    665Ile make you quiet. What, chearely my hearts.
    Tib. Patience perforce, with wilfull choler meeting,
    Makes my flesh tremble in their different greeting:
    I will withdraw, but this intrusion shall
    Now seeming sweet, conuert to bitter gall. Exit.
    670Rom. If I prophane with my vnworthiest hand,
    This holy shrine, the gentle sin is this,
    My lips to blushing Pilgrims did ready stand,
    To smooth that rough touch, with a tender kisse.
    Iul. Good Pilgrime,
    675You do wrong your hand too much.
    Which mannerly deuotion shewes in this,
    For Saints haue hands, that Pilgrims hands do tuch,
    And palme to palme, is holy Palmers kisse.
    Rom. Haue not Saints lips, and holy Palmers too?
    680Iul. I Pilgrim, lips that they must vse in prayer.
    Rom. O then deare Saint, let lips do what hands do,
    They pray (grant thou) least faith turne to dispaire.
    Iul. Saints do not moue,
    Though grant for prayers sake.
    685Rom. Then moue not while my prayers effect I take:
    Thus from my lips, by thine my sin is purg'd.
    Iul. Then haue my lips the sin that they haue tooke.
    Rom. Sin from my lips? O trespasse sweetly vrg'd:
    Giue me my sin againe.
    690Iul. You kisse by'th'booke.
    Nur. Madam your Mother craues a word with you.
    Rom. What is her Mother?
    Nurs. Marrie Batcheler,
    Her Mother is the Lady of the house,
    695And a good Lady, and a wise, and Vertuous,
    I Nur'st her Daughter that you talkt withall:
    I tell you, he that can lay hold of her,
    Shall haue the chincks.
    Rom. Is she a Capulet?
    700O deare account! My life is my foes debt.
    Ben. Away, be gone, the sport is at the best.
    Rom. I so I feare, the more is my vnrest.
    Cap. Nay Gentlemen prepare not to be gone,
    We haue a trifling foolish Banquet towards:
    705Is it e'ne so? why then I thanke you all.
    I thanke you honest Gentlemen, good night:
    More Torches here: come on, then let's to bed.
    Ah sirrah, by my faie it waxes late,
    Ile to my rest.
    710Iuli. Come hither Nurse,
    What is yond Gentleman:
    Nur. The Sonne and Heire of old Tyberio.
    Iuli. What's he that now is going out of doore?
    Nur. Marrie that I thinke be young Petruchio.
    715Iul. What's he that follows here that would not dance?
    Nur. I know not.
    Iul. Go aske his name: if he be married,
    My graue is like to be my wedded bed.
    Nur. His name is Romeo, and a Mountague,
    720The onely Sonne of your great Enemie.
    Iul. My onely Loue sprung from my onely hate,
    Too early seene, vnknowne, and knowne too late,
    Prodigious birth of Loue it is to me,
    That I must loue a loathed Enemie.
    725Nur. What's this? whats this?
    Iul. A rime, I learne euen now
    Of one I dan'st withall.
    One cals within, Iuliet.
    Nur. Anon, anon:
    730Come let's away, the strangers all are gone.
    Exeunt.
    Chorus.
    Now old desire doth in his death bed lie,
    And yong affection gapes to be his Heire,
    735That faire, for which Loue gron'd for and would die,
    With tender Iuliet matcht, is now not faire.
    Now Romeo is beloued, and Loues againe,
    A like bewitched by the charme of lookes:
    But to his foe suppos'd he must complaine,
    740And she steale Loues sweet bait from fearefull hookes:
    Being held a foe, he may not haue accesse
    To breath such vowes as Louers vse to sweare,
    And she as much in Loue, her meanes much lesse,
    To meete her new Beloued any where:
    745But passion lends them Power, time, meanes to meete,
    Temp'ring extremities with extreame sweete.
    Enter Romeo alone.
    Rom. Can I goe forward when my heart is here?
    Turne backe dull earth, and find thy Center out.
    750Enter Benuolio, with Mercutio.
    Ben. Romeo, my Cozen Romeo, Romeo.
    Merc. He is wise,
    And on my life hath stolne him home to bed.
    Ben. He ran this way and leapt this Orchard wall.
    755Call good Mercutio:
    Nay, Ile coniure too.
    Mer.
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