Who lets it hop a little from her hand, Like a poor prisoner in his twisted gyves, And with a silk thread plucks it back again, So loving-jealous of his liberty.
Rom. I would, I were thy bird.
Jul. 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.
Rom. Sleep dwell upon thine eyes, peace in thy breast !- Would I were sleep and peace, so sweet to rest! Hence will I to my ghostly father's cell; His help to crave, and my good hap to tell. [Exit.
Scene III. - Friar Laurence's Cell.
Enter Friar Laurence, with a basket.
Fri. The grey-ey'd morn smiles on the frown- ing night, Checquering the eastern clouds with streaks of light; And flecked darkness like a drunkard reels From forth day's path and Titan's fiery wheels: Now, ere the sun advance his burning eye The day to cheer, and night's dank dew to dry, I must up-fill this osier cage of ours, With baleful weeds, and precious-juiced flowers. The earth, that's nature's mother, is her tomb; What is her burying grave, that is her womb; And from her womb children of divers kind We sucking on her natural bosom find: Many for many virtues excellent, None but for some, and yet all different. O ! mickle is the powerful grace that lies In herbs, plants, stones, and their true qualities: For nought so vile that on the earth doth live But to the earth some special good doth give; - Nor aught so good, but strain'd from that fair use, Revolts from true birth, stumbling on abuse: Virtue itself turns vice, being misapplied, And vice sometime's by action dignified. Within the infant rind of this weak flower Poison hath residence, and medicine power: For this, being smelt, with that part cheers each part; Being tasted, slays all senses with the heart. Two such opposed kings encamp them still In man as well as herbs, grace, and rude will; And where the worser is predominant, Full soon the canker death eats up that plant.
Enter Romeo.
Rom. Good morrow, father!
Fri. Benedicite ! What early tongue so sweet saluteth me ?- Young son, it argues a distemper'd head, So soon to bid good morrow to thy bed: Care keeps his watch in every old man's eye, And where care lodges, sleep will never lie; But where unbruised youth, with unstuff'd brain,
- Doth couch his limbs, there golden sleep doth reign.
Therefore, thy earliness doth me assure, Thou art up-rous'd by some distemperature: Or if not so, then here I hit it right-- Our Romeo hath not been in bed to-night.
Rom. That last is true; the sweeter rest was mine.
Fri. God pardon sin ! weft thou with Rosaline ?
Rom. With Rosaline, my ghostly father ? no; I have forgot that name, and that name's woe.
Fri. That's my good son: but where hast thou been, then ?
Rom. I'll tell thee, ere thou ask it me again. I have been feasting with mine en. emy; Where, on a sudden, one hath wounded me, That's by me wounded: both our remedies Within thy help and holy physic lies: I bear no hatred, blessed man; for, lo! My intercession likewise steads my foe.
Fri. Be plain, good son, and homely in thy drift; Riddling confession finds but fiddling shrift.
Rom. Then plainly know, my heart's dear love is set On the fair daughter of rich Capulet: As mine on hers, so hers is set on mine; And all combin'd, save what thou must combine By holy marriage. When, and where, and how, We met, we woo'd, and made exchange of vow, I'll tell thee as we pass; but this I pray, That thou consent to marry us to-day.
Fri. Holy Saint Francis ! what a change is here ! Is Rosaline, whom thou didst love so dear, So soon forsaken ? young men's love, then, lies Not truly in their hearts, but in their eyes. Jesu Maria ! what a deal of brine Hath wash'd thy sallow cheeks for Rosaline ! How much salt water thrown away in waste To season love, that of it doth not taste! The sun not yet thy sighs from heaven clears, Thy old groans ring yet in my ancient ears; Lo! here upon thy cheek the stain doth sit Of an old tear that is not wash'd off yet. If e'er thou wast thyself, and these woes thine, Thou and these woes were all for Rosaline: And art thou chang'd ? pronounce this sentence, then-- Women may fall, when there's no strength in men.
Rom. Thou chidd'st me oft for loving Rosaline.
Fri. For doting, not for loving, pupil mine.
Rom. And bad'st me bury love.
Fri. Not in a grave, To lay one in, another out to have.
Rom. I pray thee, chide not: she whom I love now, Doth grace for grace, and love for love allow: The other did not so.
Fri. O ! she knew well, Thy love did read by rote, and could not spell. But come, young waverer, come, go with me, In one respect I'll thy assistant be; For this alliance may so happy prove, To turn your households' rantour to pure love.
Rom. O ! let us hence: I stand on sudden haste.
Fri. Wisely, and slow; they stumble that run fast. [Exeunt.
Scene IV. - A Street.
Enter Benvolio and Mercutio.
Mer. Where the devil should this Romeo be ?- Came he not home to-night ?
Ben. Not to his father's: I spoke with his man.
Mer. Why, that same pale hard-hearted wench, that Rosaline, Torments him so, that he will sure run mad.
Ben. Tybalt, the kinsman to old Capulet, Hath sent a letter to his father's house.
Mer. A challenge, on my life.
Ben. Romeo will answer it.
