R&J Scene 4

Enter ROMEO, MERCUTIO, BENVOLIO

What, shall this speech be spoke for our excuse?

Or shall we on without apology?

BENVOLIO
But let them measure us by what they will;

We'll measure them a measure, and be gone.

Give me a torch: I am not for this ambling;

Being but heavy, I will bear the light.

MERCUTIO

Nay, gentle Romeo, we must have you dance.

Not I, believe me: you have dancing shoes

With nimble soles: I have a soul of lead

So stakes me to the ground I cannot move.

MERCUTIO

You are a lover; borrow Cupid's wings,

And soar with them above a common bound.

I am too sore enpierced with his shaft

To soar with his light feathers, and so bound,

I cannot bound a pitch above dull woe:

Under love's heavy burden do I sink.

MERCUTIO

And, to sink in it, should you burden love;

Too great oppression for a tender thing.

Is love a tender thing? it is too rough,

Too rude, too boisterous, and it pricks like thorn.

BENVOLIO

Come, knock and enter; and no sooner in,

But every man betake him to his legs.

A torch for me: let wantons light of heart

Tickle the senseless rushes with their heels,

For I am proverb'd with a grandsire phrase;

I'll be a candle-holder, and look on.

The game was ne'er so fair, and I am done.

MERCUTIO

Tut, dun's the mouse, the constable's own word:

If thou art dun, we'll draw thee from the mire

Of this sir-reverence love, wherein thou stick'st

Up to the ears. Come, we burn daylight, ho!

Nay, that's not so.

MERCUTIO

I mean, sir, in delay

We waste our lights in vain, like lamps by day.

Take our good meaning, for our judgment sits

Five times in that ere once in our five wits.

And we mean well in going to this mask;

But 'tis no wit to go.

MERCUTIO

Why, may one ask?

I dream'd a dream to-night.

MERCUTIO

And so did I.

Well, what was yours?

MERCUTIO

That dreamers often lie.

In bed asleep, while they do dream things true.

Mercutio
And sleeps again. This is that very Mab

That plats the manes of horses in the night,
This is she--

Peace, peace, Mercutio, peace!

Thou talk'st of nothing.

BENVOLIO

This wind, you talk of, blows us from ourselves;

Supper is done, and we shall come too late.

I fear, too early: for my mind misgives

Some consequence yet hanging in the stars

Shall bitterly begin his fearful date

With this night's revels and expire the term

Of a despised life closed in my breast

By some vile forfeit of untimely death.

But He, that hath the steerage of my course,

Direct my sail!