Come Lammas-eve at night shall she be fourteen.

Susan and she,—God rest all Christian souls!—

Were of an age: well, Susan is with God;

She was too good for me:—but, as I said,

On Lammas-eve at night shall she be fourteen;

That shall she, marry; I remember it well.

‘Tis since the earthquake now eleven years;

And she was wean’d,—I never shall forget it—,

Of all the days of the year, upon that day:

For I had then laid wormwood to my dug,

Sitting in the sun under the dove-house wall;

My lord and you were then at Mantua:

Nay, I do bear a brain:—but, as I said,

When it did taste the wormwood on the nipple

Of my dug and felt it bitter, pretty fool,

To see it tetchy, and fall out with the dug!

Shake, quoth the dove-house: ‘twas no need, I trow,

To bid me trudge. And since that time it is eleven years;

For then she could stand alone; nay, by the rood

She could have run and waddled all about;

For even the day before, she broke her brow:

And then my husband,—God be with his soul!

‘A was a merry man,—took up the child:

‘Yea,’ quoth he, ‘dost thou fall upon thy face?

Thou wilt fall backward when thou hast more wit;

Wilt thou not, Jule?’ and, by my holidame,

The pretty wretch left crying, and said ‘Ay:’

To see now how a jest shall come about!

I warrant, an I should live a thousand yeas,

I never should forget it;

‘Wilt thou not, Jule?’ quoth he;

And, pretty fool, it stinted, and said ‘Ay.’

Lady Capulet.

Enough of this; I pray thee hold thy peace.

Nurse.

Yes, madam;—yet I cannot choose but laugh,

To think it should leave crying, and say ‘Ay:’

And yet, I warrant, it had upon its brow

A bump as big as a young cockerel’s stone;

A parlous knock; and it cried bitterly.

‘Yea,’ quoth my husband, ‘fall’st upon thy face?

Thou wilt fall backward when thou com’st to age;

Wilt thou not, Jule?’ it stinted, and said ‘Ay.’

Juliet.

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

Nurse.

Peace, I have done. God mark thee to his grace!

Thou wast the prettiest babe that e’er I nurs’d:

An I might live to see thee married once, I have my wish.

Lady Capulet.

Marry, that marry is the very theme I came to talk of.—

Tell me, daughter Juliet,

How stands your disposition to be married?

Juliet.

It is an honour that I dream not of.

Nurse.

An honour!—were not I thine only nurse,

I would say thou hadst suck’d wisdom from thy teat.

Lady Capulet.

Well, think of marriage now: younger than you,

Here in Verona, ladies of esteem,

Are made already mothers: by my count

I was your mother much upon these years

That you are now a maid. Thus, then, in brief;—

The valiant Paris seeks you for his love.

Nurse.

A man, young lady! lady, such a man

As all the world—why he’s a man of wax.

Lady Capulet.

Verona’s summer hath not such a flower.

Nurse.

Nay, he’s a flower, in faith, a very flower.

Lady Capulet.

What say you? can you love the gentleman?

This night you shall behold him at our feast;

Read o’er the volume of young Paris’ face,

And find delight writ there with beauty’s pen;

Examine every married lineament,

And see how one another lends content;

And what obscur’d in this fair volume lies

Find written in the margent of his eyes.

This precious book of love, this unbound lover,

To beautify him, only lacks a cover:

The fish lives in the sea; and ‘tis much pride

For fair without the fair within to hide:

That book in many’s eyes doth share the glory,

That in gold clasps locks in the golden story;

So shall you share all that he doth possess,

By having him, making yourself no less.

Nurse.

No less! nay, bigger; women grow by men

Lady Capulet.

Speak briefly, can you like of Paris’ love?

Juliet.

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.

          [Enter a Servant.]

Servant.

Madam, the guests are come, supper served up, you called, my young lady asked for, the nurse cursed in the pantry, and everything in extremity. I must hence to wait; I beseech you, follow straight.

Lady Capulet.

We follow thee.

          [Exit Servant.]

— Juliet, the county stays.

Nurse.

Go, girl, seek happy nights to happy days.

          [Exeunt.]

Scene IV. A Street.

          [Enter Romeo, Mercutio, Benvolio, with five or six Maskers; Torch-bearers, and others.]

Romeo.

What, shall this speech be spoke for our excuse?

Or shall we on without apology?

Benvolio.

The date is out of such prolixity:

We’ll have no Cupid hoodwink’d with a scarf,

Bearing a Tartar’s painted bow of lath,

Scaring the ladies like a crow-keeper;

Nor no without-book prologue, faintly spoke

After the prompter, for our entrance:

But, let them measure us by what they will,

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

Romeo.

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.

Romeo.

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.

Romeo.

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.

Romeo.

Is love a tender thing? it is too rough,

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

Mercutio.

If love be rough with you, be rough with love;

Prick love for pricking, and you beat love down.—

Give me a case to put my visage in:

          [Putting on a mask.]

A visard for a visard! what care I

What curious eye doth quote deformities?

Here are the beetle-brows shall blush for me.

Benvolio.

Come, knock and enter; and no sooner in

But every man betake him to his legs.

Romeo.

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.

Romeo.

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.

Romeo.

And we mean well, in going to this mask;

But ‘tis no wit to go.

Mercutio.

Why, may one ask?

Romeo.

I dreamt a dream to-night.