And fometimes comes fhe with a tithe-pig's tail, Rom. Peace, peace, Mercutio, peace; Mer. True, I talk of dreams; Which are the children of an idle brain, And, being anger'd, puffs away from thence, Turning his face to the dew-dropping fouth. Ben. This wind, you talk of, blows us from our felves Supper is done, and we fhall come too late. Rom. I fear, too early; for my mind mifgives, Some confequence, yet hanging in the Stars, Shall bitterly begin his fearful date With this night's revels; and expire the term [They march about the Stage, and Exeunt. SCENE SCENE changes to a Hall in Capulet's House. Ser. Enter Servants, with Napkins. HERE's Potpan, that he helps not to v; he shift a trencher! he scrape W take away a trencher! 2 Ser. When good manners fhall lie all in one or two mens' hands, and they unwash'd too, 'tis a foul thing. 1 Ser. Away with the joint-ftools, remove the courtcup-board, look to the plate: good thou, fave me a piece of march-pane; and, as thou loveft me, let the porter let in Sufan Grindstone, and Nell. Antony, and Potpan 2 Ser. Ay, boy, ready. 1 Ser. You are look'd for, call'd for, ask'd for, and fought for, in the great chamber. 2 Ser. We cannot be here and there too; cheerly, boys; be brisk a while, and the longer liver take all. [Exeunt. Enter all the Guefts and Ladies, with the maskers.. 1 Cap. Welcome, Gentlemen. Ladies, that have your feet Unplagu'd with corns, we'll have a bout with you. Will now deny to dance? fhe that makes dainty, A whispering tale in a fair lady's ear, up; Such as would please: 'tis gone; 'tis gone; 'tis gone! B Were Were in a mask? 2 Cap. By'r lady, thirty years. Cap. What, man! 'tis not fo much, 'tis not fo much; 'Tis fince the nuptial of Lucentio, Come Pentecoft as quickly as it will, Some five and twenty years, and then we mask'd. 2 Cap. 'Tis more, 'tis more; his son is elder, Sir: His fon is thirty. 1 Cap. Will you tell me that? His fon was but a ward two years ago. Rom. What lady's That, which doth enrich the hand Of yonder knight? Ser. I know not, Sir. Rom. O, the doth teach the torches to burn bright; Beauty too rich for use, for earth too dear! The measure done, I'll watch her place of Stand, Tyb. This by his voice fhould be a Montague. Now by the flock and honour of my kin, To ftrike him dead I hold it not a fin. Cap. Why, how now, kinsman, wherefore storm you fo? Tyb. Uncle, this is a Montague, our foe: Tyb. That villain Romeo, Cap. Content thee, gentle coz, let him alone; To To be a virtuous and well-govern'd youth. Tyb. It fits, when fuch a villain is a guest. Cap. He fhall be endur'd. What, goodman boy-I fay, he fhall. Go to my foul, Cap. Go to, go to, You are a fawcy boy-is't fo, indeed? This trick may chance to scathe you; I know what. You must contrary me! Marry, 'tis time. Well faid, my hearts: Be quiet, or (more light, You are a Princox, go:more light, for fhame) I'll make you quiet-What? cheerly, my hearts. Tyb. Patience perforce, with wilful choler meeting, Makes my flesh tremble in their different Greeting. I will withdraw; but this intrufion fhall, Now feeming fweet, convert to bitter gall. Rom. If I profane with my unworthy hand (5) (5) If I profane with my unworthy hand This holy Shrine, the gentle Sin is this, [To Juliet.' My Lips, wo blushing Pilgrims, &c.] All Profanations are fuppos'd to be expiated either by fome meritorious Action, or by fome Penance undergone and Punishment fubmitted to. So, Romeo would here fay, if I have been profane in the rude Touch of my Hand, my Lips ftand ready, as two blushing Pilgrims, to take off that Offence, to atone for it, by a fweet Penance. Our Poet therefore must have wrote, This holy fhrine, the gentle Fine is this; My lips, two blufhing pilgrims, ready ftand, To fmooth that rough Touch with a tender kifs. Jul. Good pilgrim, you do wrong your hand too much, Which mannerly devotion fhews in this; For Saints have hands that pilgrims' hands do touch, Rom. Have not faints lips, and holy palmers too? Jul. Ay, pilgrim, lips that they must ufe in prayer. Rom. O then, dear faint, let lips do what hands do: They pray, (grant thou) left faith turn to despair. Jul. Saints do not move, yet grant for prayers' fake. Rom. Then move not, while my prayers' effect I take: Thus from my lips, by thine, my fin is purg'd. [Kiffing her. Jul. Then have my lips the fin that late they took. Rom. Sin from my lips! O trefpafs, fweetly urg'd! Give me my fin again. Jul. You kifs by th' book. Nurfe. Madam, your mother craves a word with you. Rom. What is her mother? Nurfe. Marry, batchelor, Her mother is the lady of the house, [To her Nurje. And a good lady, and a wife and virtuous. Rom. Is the a Capulet? O dear account! my life is my foe's debt. I'l to my Reft. [Exeunt. Jul. Come hither, nurfe. What is yon gentleman ? Nurfe. The fon and heir of old Tiberio. Jul. |