| |
| Romeo |
[To a Servingman] What lady is that, which doth |
| Romeo |
O, she doth teach the torches to burn bright! |
| |
It seems she hangs upon the cheek of night |
| |
Like a rich jewel in an Ethiope's ear; |
| |
Beauty too rich for use, for earth too dear! |
| |
So shows a snowy dove trooping with crows, |
| |
As yonder lady o'er her fellows shows. |
| |
The measure done, I'll watch her place of stand, |
| |
And, touching hers, make blessed my rude hand. |
| |
Did my heart love till now? forswear it, sight! |
| |
For I ne'er saw true beauty till this night. |
| Tybalt |
This, by his voice, should be a Montague. |
| |
Fetch me my rapier, boy. What dares the slave |
| |
Come hither, cover'd with an antic face, |
| |
To fleer and scorn at our solemnity? |
| |
Now, by the stock and honour of my kin, |
| |
To strike him dead, I hold it not a sin. |
| Capulet |
Why, how now, kinsman! wherefore storm you so? |
| Tybalt |
Uncle, this is a Montague, our foe, |
| |
A villain that is hither come in spite, |
| |
To scorn at our solemnity this night. |
| Capulet |
Young Romeo is it? |
| Tybalt |
'Tis he, that villain Romeo. |
| Capulet |
Content thee, gentle coz, let him alone; |
| |
He bears him like a portly gentleman; |
| |
And, to say truth, Verona brags of him |
| |
To be a virtuous and well-govern'd youth: |
| |
I would not for the wealth of all the town |
| |
Here in my house do him disparagement: |
| |
Therefore be patient, take no note of him: |
| |
It is my will, the which if thou respect, |
| |
Show a fair presence and put off these frowns, |
| |
And ill-beseeming semblance for a feast. |
| Tybalt |
It fits, when such a villain is a guest: |
| Capulet |
He shall be endured: |
| |
What, goodman boy! I say, he shall: go to; |
| |
Am I the master here, or you? go to. |
| |
You'll not endure him! God shall mend my soul! |
| |
You'll make a mutiny among my guests! |
| |
You will set cock-a-hoop! you'll be the man! |
| Tybalt |
Why, uncle, 'tis a shame. |
| |
You are a saucy boy: is't so, indeed? |
| |
This trick may chance to scathe you, I know what: |
| |
You must contrary me! marry, 'tis time. |
| |
Well said, my hearts! You are a princox; go: |
| |
Be quiet, or--More light, more light! For shame! |
| |
I'll make you quiet. What, cheerly, my hearts! |
| Tybalt |
Patience perforce with wilful choler meeting |
| |
Makes my flesh tremble in their different greeting. |
| |
I will withdraw: but this intrusion shall |
| |
Now seeming sweet convert to bitter gall. |
|
