Romeo and Juliet Lines- Juliet

God forbid. Where’s this girl? What, Juliet?

How now, who calls?

Your mother.

Madam, I am here. What is your will?

Thou wilt fall backward when thou comest to age, Wilt thou not, Jule?” It stinted and said “Ay”.

And stint thou, too, I pray thee, nurse, say I.

How stands your disposition to be married?

It is an honor that I dream not of.

Speak briefly. Can you like of Paris’ love?

I’ll look to like, if looking liking move. But no more deep will I endart mine eye Than your consent gives strength to make it fly.

My lips, two blushing pilgrims, ready stand To smooth that rough touch with a tender kiss.

Good pilgrim, you do wrong your hand too much, Which mannerly devotion shows in this; For saints have hands that pilgrims’ hands do touch, And palm to palm is holy palmers’ kiss.

Have not saint lips, and holy palmers too?

Ay, pilgrim, lips that they must use in prayer.

O then, dear saint, let lips do what hands do. They pray: grant thou, lest faith turn to despair.

Saints do not move, though grant for prayers’ sake.

Then move not while my prayer’s effect I take. Thus from my lips, by thine, my sin is purged.

Then have my lips the sin that they have took.

Sin from my lips? O trespass sweetly urged! Give me my sin again.

You kiss by th’ book.

Come on then, let’s to bed.- Ah, sirrah, by my fay, it waxes late. I’ll to my rest.

Come hither, nurse. What is yond gentleman?

The son and heir of old Tiberio.

What’s he that now is going out of door?

Marry, that, I think, be young Pertruchio.

What’s he that follows here, that would not dance?

I know not.

Go ask his name. If he be married, My grave is like to be my wedding bed.

His name is Romeo, and a Montague, The only son of your greatest enemy.

My only love sprung from my only hate! Too early seen unknown, and known too late! Prodigious birth of love it is to me That I must love a loathèd enemy.

What’s this? What’s this?

A rhyme I learned even now Of one I danced withal.

O, that I were a glove upon that hand, That I might touch that cheek!

Ay me.

When he bestrides the lazy puffing clouds And sails upon the bosom of the air.

O Romeo, Romeo, wherefore art thou Romeo? Deny thy father and refuse thy name, Or, if thou wilt not, be but sworn my love, And I’ll no longer be a Capulet.

Shall I hear more, or shall I speak at this?

‘Tis but thy name that is my enemy. Thou art thyself, though not a Montague. What’s Montague? It is nor hand, nor foot, Nor arm, nor face. O, be some other name Belonging to a man. What’s in a name? That which we call a rose By any other word would smell as sweet. So Romeo would, were he not Romeo called, Retain that dear perfection which he owes Without that title. Romeo, doff thy name, And, for thy name, which is no part of thee, Take all myself.

I take thee at thy word. Call me but love, and I’ll be new baptized. Henceforth I will never be Romeo.

What man art thou that, thus bescreened in night, So stumblest on my counsel?

My name, dear saint, is hateful to myself Because it is an enemy to thee. Had I it written, I would tear the word.

My ears have yet not drunk a hundred words Of thy tongue’s uttering, yet I know the sound. Art thou not Romeo, and a Montague?

Neither, fair maid, if either thee dislike.

How camest thou hither, tell me, and wherefore? The orchard walls are high and hard to climb, And the place death, considering who thou art, If any of my kinsmen find thee here.

With love’s light wings did I o’erperch these walls, For stony limits cannot hold love out, And what love can do, that dares love attempt. Therefore thy kinsmen are no stop to me.

If they do see thee, they will murder thee.

Alack, there lies more peril in thine eye Than twenty of their swords. Look thou but sweet, And I am proof against their enmity.

I would not for the world they saw thee here.

I have night’s cloak to hide me from their eyes, And, but thou love me, let them find me here. My life were better ended by their hate Than death poroguèd, wanting of thy love.

By whose direction found’st thou out this place?

By love, that first did prompt me to inquire. He lent me counsel, and I lent him eyes. I am not pilot; yet, wert thou as far As that vast shore washed with the farthest sea, I should adventure for such merchandise.

Thou knowest the mask of night is on my face, Else would a maiden blush bepaint my cheek For that which thou hast heard me speak tonight. Fain would I dwell on form; fain, fain deny What I have spoke. But farewell compliment. Dost thou love me? I know thou wilt say “Ay,” And I will take thy word. Yet, if thou swear’st, Thou mayst prove false. At lovers’ perjuries, They say, Jove laughs. O gentle Romeo, If thou dost love, pronounce it faithfully. Or, if thou thinkest I am too quickly won, I’ll frown and be perverse and say thee nay, So thou wilt woo, but else not for the world. In truth, fair Montague, I am too fond, And therefore thou mayst think my havior light. But trust me, gentleman, I’ll prove more true Than those that have more coying to be strange. I should have been more strange, I must confess, But that thou overheard’st ere I was ware My true-love passion. Therefore pardon me, And not impute this yielding to light love, Which the dark night hath so discoverèd.

Lady, by yonder blessèd moon I vow, That tips with silver all these fruit-tree tops-

O, swear not by the moon, th’ inconstant moon, That monthly changes in her circled orb, Lest that thy love prove likewise variable.

What shall I swear by?

Do not swear at all. Or, if thou wilt, swear by thy gracious self, Which is the god of my idolatry, And I’ll believe thee.

If my heart’s dear love-

Well, do not swear. Although I joy in thee, I have no joy of this contract tonight. It is too rash, too unadvised, too sudden, Too like the lightning, which doth cease to be Ere one can say “It lightens.” Sweet, good night. This bud of love, by summer’s ripening breath, May prove a beauteous flower when next we meet. Good night, good night. As sweet repose and rest Come to thy heart as that within my breast.

O, wilt thou leave me so unsatisfied?

What satisfaction canst thou have tonight?

Th’ exchange of thy love’s faithful vow for mine.

I gave thee mine before thou didst request it, And yet I would it were to give again.

Wouldst thou withdraw it? For what purpose, love?

But to be frank and give it thee again. And yet I wish but for the thing I have. My bounty is as boundless as the sea, My love as deep. The more I give to thee, The more I have, for both are infinite. I hear some noise within. Dear love, adieu.- Anon, good nurse.- Sweet Montague, be true. Stay but a little, I will come again.

O blessèd, blessèd night! I am afeard, Being in night, all this but a dream, Too flattering sweet to be substantial.

Three words, dear Romeo, and good night indeed. If that thy bent of love be honorable, Thy purpose marriage, send me word tomorrow, By one that I’ll procure to come to thee, Where and what time thou wilt perform the rite. And all my fortunes at thy foot I’ll lay And follow thee my lord throughout the world.

(nurse, balcony scene, first time): Madam.

I come anon.- But if thou meanest not well, I do beseech thee-

(nurse, balcony scene, second time): Madam.

By and by, I come.- To cease thy strife and leave me to my grief. Tomorrow will I send.

So thrive my soul-

A thousand times good night.

A thousand times the worse to want thy light. Love goes toward love as schoolboys from their books, But love from love, toward school with heavy looks.

Hist, Romeo, hist! O, for a falc’ner’s voice To lure this tassel-gentle back again! Bondage is horse and may not speak aloud. Else would I tear the cave where Echo lies And make her airy tongue more hoarse than mine With repetition of “My Romeo!”

It is my soul that calls upon my name. How silver-sweet sound lovers’ tongues by night, Like softest music to attending ears.

Romeo.

My dear.

What o’clock tomorrow Shall I send to thee?

By the hour of nine.

I will not fail. ‘Tis twenty years till them. I have forgot why I did call thee back.

Let me stand here till thou remember it.

I shall forget, to have thee still stand there, Rememb’ring how I love thy company.

And I’ll still stay, to have thee still forget, Forgetting any other home but this.

‘Tis almost morning. I would have thee gone, And yet no farther than a wanton’s bird, That lets it hop a little from his hand, Like a poor prisoner in his twisted gyves, And with a silken thread plucks it back again, So loving-jealous of his liberty.

I would I were thy bird.

Sweet, so would I. Yet I should kill thee with much cherishing, Good night, good night. Parting is such sweet sorrow That I shall say “Good night” till it be morrow.

Beginning of Act 2, Scene 5

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 glides than the sun’s beams, Driving back shadows over louring hills. Therefore do nimble-pinioned doves draw Love. And therefore hath the wing-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. Now, good sweet nurse- O Lord, why lookest 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 aweary. Give me leave awhile. Fie, how my bones ache! What a jaunt have I!

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 hadst 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?

Serve God. What, have you dined at home?

No, no. But all this did I know before. What says he or our marriage? What of that?

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? Hencefoward do your messages yourself.

Here’s such a coil. come, what says Romeo?

Have you got leave to go to shrift today?

I have.

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.

This neighbor 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.

Beginning of Act 3, Scene 2

Come, gentle night; come, loving black-browned night, Give me my Romeo, and when I 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 possessed it, and, though I am sold, Not yet enjoyed. 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.- Now, nurse, what news? What hast thou there? The cords That Romeo bid thee fetch?

Ay, ay, the cords.

Ay me, what news? Why dost thou wring thy hands?

Ah weraday, all blood and death and gone! We are undone, lady, we are undone. Alack the day, all ruin and decay.

Can heaven be so envious?

Romeo can, though heaven cannot. O Romeo, Romeo, Whoever would have thought it? Romeo!

What devil art thou that dost torment me thus? This torture should be roared in dismal hell. Hath Romeo slain himself? Say thou but “ay,” 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 makes thee answer “Ay.” If he be slain, say “Ay,” or if not, “No.” Brief sounds determine my weal or woe.

Pale, pale as ashes, all bedaubed in blood, All in gore blood, I swoonèd at the sight.

O break, my heart, poor bankrout, 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, kindly woman, That ever I should live to see thee dead!

What storm is this that blows so contrary? Is Romeo slaughtered and is Tybalt dead? My dearest cousin, and my dearer lord? Then, dreadful trumpet, sound the general doom, For who is living if those two are gone?

Here from Verona art thou banishèd. Be patient, for the world is broad and wide.

O God, did Romeo’s hand shed Tybalt’s blood?

Is death mistermed. Calling death “banishèd,” Thou cutt’st my head off with a golden ax And smilest upon the stroke that murders me.

Blistered be thy tongue For such a wish! He was not born to shame.

Will you speak well of him that killed your cousin?

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?

Who even in pure and vestal modesty Still blush, as thinking their own kisses sin; But Romeo may not; he is banishèd.

Some word there was, worser than Tybalt’s death, That murdered me. I would forget it fain. But, O, it presses to my memory Like damnèd guilty deeds to sinners’ minds: “Tybalt is dead and Romeo banishèd.”

Being a divine, a ghostly confessor, A sin absolver, and my friend professed. To mangle me with that word “banishèd?”

That “banishèd,'“ that one word “banishèd,” 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 ranked with other griefs, Why followed not, when she said “Tybalt’s dead,” “Thy father'“ or “thy mother,” nay, or both, Which modern lamentation might have moved? But with a rearward following Tybalt’s death, “Romeo is banishèd.” To speak that word Is father, mother, Tybalt, Romeo, Juliet, All slain, all dead. “Romeo is banishèd.”

Yet “banishèd?” Hand 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.

Where is my father and my mother, nurse?

Weeping and wailing over Tybalt’s corse. Will you go to them? I will bring your father.

Wash they her wounds with tears? Mine shall be spent, When theirs are dry, for Romeo’s banishment.- Take up these 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-widowèd. 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 you, your Romeo will be here at night. I’ll to him. He is his at Lawrence’ cell.

O, find him! Give this ring to my true knight And bid him come to take his last farewell.

Beginning of Act 3, Scene 5A

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 yond pomegranate tree. Believe me, love, it was the nightingale.

I must be gone and live, or stay and die.

Yond light is not daylight, I know it, I. It is some meteor that the sun exhaled To be to thee this night a torchbearer And light thee on thy way to Mantua. Therefore stay yet. Thou need’st not to be gone.

Come death and welcome. Juliet wills it so. How is’t, my soul? Let’s talk. It is not day.

It is, it is. Hie hence, begone, away! It is the lark that sings so out of tune, Straining harsh discords and unpleasing sharps. Some say the lark makes sweet division. This doth not so, for she divideth us. Some say the lark and loathèd toad changed eyes. O, now I would they had changed voices too, Since arm from arm that voice doth us affray, Hunting thee hence with hunt’s-up to the day. O, now begone. More light and light it grows.

Romeo: More light and light, more dark and dark our woes.

Nurse: Madam.

Nurse?

Your lady mother is coming to your chamber. The day is broke; be wary; look about.

Then, window, let day in, and let life out.

Farewell, farewell. One kiss and I’ll descend.

Art thou gone so? Love, lord, ay husband, friend! I must hear from thee every day in the hour. For in a minute there are many days. O, by this count I shall be much in years Ere I again behold my Romeo.

Farewell. I will omit no opportunity That may convey my greetings, love, to thee.

O, think’st thou we shall ever meet again?

I doubt it not; and all these woes shall serve For sweet discourses in our times to come.

O God, I have an ill-divining soul! Methinks I see thee, now thou art so low, As one dead in the bottom of a tomb. Either my eyesight fails or thou lookest pale.

And trust me, love, in my eye so do you. Dry sorrow drinks our blood. Adieu, adieu.

O Fortune, Fortune, all men call thee fickle. If thou art fickle, what dost thou with him That is renowned for faith? Be fickle, Fortune, For then I hope thou wilt not keep him long, But send him back.

Ho, daughter, are you up?

Who is’t that calls? It is my lady mother. Is she not down so late or up so early? What unaccustomed cause procures her hither?

Why, how now, Juliet?

Madam, I am not well.

Some grief shows much of love, But much of grief shows still some want of wit.

Yet let me weep for such a feeling loss.

So shall you feel the loss, but not the friend Which you weep for.

Feeling so the loss, I cannot choose but ever weep the friend.

Well, girl, thou weep’st not so much for her death As that villain lives which slaughtered her.

What villain, madam?

That same villain, Romeo.

Villain and he be many miles asunder.- God pardon him. I do with all my heart, And yet no man like he doth grieve my heart.

That is because the traitor murderer lives.

Ay, madam, from the reach of these my hands. Would none but I might venge my cousin’s death!

Where that same banished runagate doth live, Shall give him such an unaccustomed dram That he shall soon keep Tybalt company. And then, I hope, thou wilt be satisfied.

Indeed, I never shall be satisfied With Romeo till I behold him- dead- Is my poor heart, so for a kinsman vexed. Madam, if you could find out but a man To bear a poison, I would temper it, That Romeo should, upon receipt thereof, Soon sleep in quiet. O, how my heart abhors To hear him names and cannot come to him To wreak the love I bore my cousin Upon his body that hath slaughtered her.

Find thou the means, and I’ll find such a man. But now I’l tell thee joyful tidings, girl.

And joy comes well in such a needy time. What are they, beseech your Ladyship?

Well, well, thou hast a careful father, child, One who, to put thee from thy heaviness, Hath sorted out a sudden day of joy That thou expects not, nor I looked not for.

Madam, in happy time! What day is that?

Marry, my child, early next Thursday morn The gallant, young, and noble gentleman, The County Paris, at Saint Peter’s Church Shall happily make thee there a joyful bride.

Now, by Saint Peter’s Church, and Peter too, He shall not make me there a joyful bride! I wonder at this haste, that I must wed Ere he that should be my husband comes to woo. I pray you, tell my lord and father, madam, I will not marry yet, and when I do I swear It shall be Romeo, whom you know I hate, Rather than Paris. These are news indeed!

Doth. she not count her blessed, Unworthy as she is, that we have wrought So worthy a gentleman to be her bride?

Not proud you have, but thankful that you have. Proud can I never be of what I hate, But thankful even for hate that is meant love.

Fie, fie, what, are you mad?

Good father, I beseech you on my knees, Hear me with patience but to speak a word.

For, by my soul, I’ll ne’er acknowledge thee, Nor what is mine shall never do thee good. Trust to ‘t; bethink you. I’ll not be forsworn.

Is there no pity sitting in the clouds That sees into the bottom of my grief?- O sweet my mother, cast me not away. Delay this marriage for a month, a week, Or, if you do not, make the bridal bed In that dim monument where Tybalt lies.

Talk not to me, for I’ll not speak a word. Do as thou wilt, for I have done with thee.

O God! O nurse, how shall this be prevented? My husband is on Earth, my faith in heaven. How shall that faith return again to Earth Unless that husband send it me from heaven By leaving Earth? Comfort me; counsel me.- Alack, alack, that heaven should practice strategems Upon so soft a subject as myself.- What sayst thou? Hast thou not a word of joy? Some comfort, nurse.

Your first is dead, or ‘twere as good he were As living here and you no use of him.

Speak’st thou from thy heart?

And from my soul, too, else beshrew them both.

Amen.

What?

Well, thou hast comforted me marvelous much. Go in and tell my lady I am gone, Having displeased my father, to Lawrence’ cell To make confession and to be absolved.

Marry, I will; and this is wisely done.

Ancient damnation, O most wicked fiend! Is it more sin to wish me thus forsworn Or to dispraise my lord with that same tongue Which she hath praised him with above compare So many thousand times? Go, counselor. Thou and my bosom henceforth shall be twain. I’ll to the Friar to know his remedy. If all else fail, myself have power to die.

Happily met, my lady and my wife.

That may be, sir, when I may be a wife.

That “may be”, must be, love, on Thursday next.

What must be shall be.

Come you to make confession to this father?

To answer that, I should confess to you.

Do not deny to him that you love me.

I will confess to you that I love him.

So will you, I am sure, that you love me.

If I do so, it will be more price Being spoke behind your back than to your face.