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Friar Laurence's cell at the church. We see books scattered everywhere, and there are pictures of Jesus on the walls; as well as a cross. There is a door on the back wall of the cell. |
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Enter FRIAR LAURENCE, with a basket |
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Friar Lawrence |
The grey-eyed morn smiles on the frowning night, |
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Chequering the eastern clouds with streaks of light, |
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And flecked darkness like a drunkard reels |
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From forth day's path and Titan's fiery wheels: |
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Now, ere the sun advance his burning eye, |
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The day to cheer and night's dank dew to dry, |
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I must up-fill this osier cage of ours |
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With baleful weeds and precious-juiced flowers. |
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The earth that's nature's mother is her tomb; |
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What is her burying grave that is her womb, |
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And from her womb children of divers kind |
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We sucking on her natural bosom find, |
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Many for many virtues excellent, |
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None but for some and yet all different. |
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O, mickle is the powerful grace that lies |
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In herbs, plants, stones, and their true qualities: |
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For nought so vile that on the earth doth live |
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But to the earth some special good doth give, |
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Nor aught so good but strain'd from that fair use |
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Revolts from true birth, stumbling on abuse: |
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Virtue itself turns vice, being misapplied; |
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And vice sometimes by action dignified. |
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Within the infant rind of this small flower |
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Poison hath residence and medicine power: |
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For this, being smelt, with that part cheers each part; |
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Being tasted, slays all senses with the heart. |
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Two such opposed kings encamp them still |
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In man as well as herbs, grace and rude will; |
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And where the worser is predominant, |
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Full soon the canker death eats up that plant. |
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Romeo |
Good morrow, father. |
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Friar Lawrence |
Benedicite! |
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What early tongue so sweet saluteth me? |
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Young son, it argues a distemper'd head |
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So soon to bid good morrow to thy bed: |
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Care keeps his watch in every old man's eye, |
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And where care lodges, sleep will never lie; |
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But where unbruised youth with unstuff'd brain |
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Doth couch his limbs, there golden sleep doth reign: |
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Therefore thy earliness doth me assure |
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Thou art up-roused by some distemperature; |
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Or if not so, then here I hit it right, |
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Our Romeo hath not been in bed to-night. |
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Romeo |
That last is true; the sweeter rest was mine. |
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Friar Lawrence |
God pardon sin! wast thou with Rosaline? |
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Romeo |
With Rosaline, my ghostly father? no; |
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I have forgot that name, and that name's woe. |
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Friar Lawrence |
That's my good son: but where hast thou been, then? |
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Romeo |
I'll tell thee, ere thou ask it me again. |
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I have been feasting with mine enemy, |
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Where on a sudden one hath wounded me, |
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That's by me wounded: both our remedies |
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Within thy help and holy physic lies: |
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I bear no hatred, blessed man, for, lo, |
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My intercession likewise steads my foe. |
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Friar Lawrence |
Be plain, good son, and homely in thy drift; |
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Riddling confession finds but riddling shrift. |
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Romeo |
Then plainly know my heart's dear love is set |
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On the fair daughter of rich Capulet: |
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As mine on hers, so hers is set on mine; |
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And all combined, save what thou must combine |
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By holy marriage: when and where and how |
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We met, we woo'd and made exchange of vow, |
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I'll tell thee as we pass; but this I pray, |
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That thou consent to marry us to-day. |
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Friar Lawrence |
Holy Saint Francis, what a change is here! |
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Is Rosaline, whom thou didst love so dear, |
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So soon forsaken? young men's love then lies |
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Not truly in their hearts, but in their eyes. |
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Jesu Maria, what a deal of brine |
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Hath wash'd thy sallow cheeks for Rosaline! |
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How much salt water thrown away in waste, |
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To season love, that of it doth not taste! |
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The sun not yet thy sighs from heaven clears, |
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Thy old groans ring yet in my ancient ears; |
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Lo, here upon thy cheek the stain doth sit |
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Of an old tear that is not wash'd off yet: |
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If e'er thou wast thyself and these woes thine, |
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Thou and these woes were all for Rosaline: |
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And art thou changed? pronounce this sentence then, |
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Women may fall, when there's no strength in men. |
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Romeo |
Thou chid'st me oft for loving Rosaline. |
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Friar Lawrence |
For doting, not for loving, pupil mine. |
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Romeo |
And bad'st me bury love. |
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Friar Lawrence |
Not in a grave, |
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To lay one in, another out to have. |
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Romeo |
I pray thee, chide not; she whom I love now |
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Doth grace for grace and love for love allow; |
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Friar Lawrence |
O, she knew well |
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Thy love did read by rote and could not spell. |
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But come, young waverer, come, go with me, |
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In one respect I'll thy assistant be; |
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For this alliance may so happy prove, |
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To turn your households' rancour to pure love. |
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Romeo |
O, let us hence; I stand on sudden haste. |
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Friar Lawrence |
Wisely and slow; they stumble that run fast. |
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