They march about the stage; and Servingmen come
forth with napkins
Where's Potpan, that he helps not
to take away? He shift a trencher? He scrape a trencher!
When good manners shall lie all
in one or two men's hands, and they unwashed too, 'tis
a foul thing.
Away with the joint-stools; remove
the court-cupboard; look to the plate. Good thou, save
me a piece of marchpane; and, as thou loves me, let the
porter let in Susan Grindstone and Nell.
Exit Second Servingmen
Anthony, and Potpan!
Enter two more Servingmen
Ay, boy, ready.
You are looked for and called for,
asked for and sought for, in the Great Chamber.
We cannot be here and there too.
Cheerly, boys! Be brisk a while, and the longer liver
Exeunt Third and Fourth Servingmen
Enter Capulet, his wife, Juliet, Tybalt, Nurse, and all
the guests and gentlewomen to the maskers
Welcome, gentlemen! Ladies that have their toes
Unplagued with corns will walk a bout with you.
bout (n.) 2
round, turn of the floor, division of a dance
Ah, my mistresses, which of you all
Will now deny to dance? She that makes dainty,
She, I'll swear, hath corns. Am I come near ye now?
Welcome, gentlemen! I have seen the day
That I have worn a visor and could tell
A whispering tale in a fair lady's ear,
Such as would please. 'Tis gone, 'tis gone, 'tis gone!
You are welcome, gentlemen! Come, musicians, play.
Music plays, and they dance
A hall, a hall! Give room! and foot it, girls.
More light, you knaves! and turn the tables up;
And quench the fire, the room is grown too hot.
Ah, sirrah, this unlooked-for sport comes well.
Nay, sit, nay, sit, good cousin Capulet,
For you and I are past our dancing days.
How long is't now since last yourself and I
Were in a mask?
By'r Lady, thirty years.
What, man? 'Tis not so much, 'tis not so much.
'Tis since the nuptial of Lucentio,
Come Pentecost as quickly as it will,
Some five-and-twenty years; and then we masked.
'Tis more, 'tis more. His son is elder, sir.
His son is thirty.
Will you tell me that?
His son was but a ward two years ago.
What lady's that, which doth enrich the hand
Of yonder knight?
I know not, sir.
O, she doth teach the torches to burn bright!
It seems she hangs upon the cheek of night
Like a rich jewel in an Ethiop'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.
This, by his voice, should be a Montague.
Fetch me my rapier, boy. What, dares the slave
Come hither, covered 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.
Why, how now, kinsman? Wherefore storm you so?
Uncle, this is a Montague, our foe.
A villain, that is hither come in spite
To scorn at our solemnity this night.
Young Romeo is it?
'Tis he, that villain Romeo.
Content thee, gentle coz, let him alone.
'A bears him like a portly gentleman.
And, to say truth, Verona brags of him
talk with pride [about], sound off [about]
To be a virtuous and well-governed youth.
I would not for the wealth of all this 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,
An ill-beseeming semblance for a feast.
It fits when such a villain is a guest.
I'll not endure him.
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!
[unclear meaning] abandon all restraint, put everything into disorder
Why, uncle, 'tis a shame.
Go to, go to!
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!
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 bitterest gall.
If I profane with my unworthiest hand
This holy shrine, the gentle sin is this.
My lips, two blushing pilgrims, ready stand
To smooth that rough touch with a tender kiss.
Good pilgrim, you do wrong your hand too much,
Which mannerly devotion shows in this.
For saints have hands that pilgrims' hands do touch,
And palm to palm is holy palmers' kiss.
Have not saints lips, and holy palmers too?
Ay, pilgrim, lips that they must use in prayer.
O, then, dear saint, let lips do what hands do!
They pray: grant thou, lest faith turn to despair.
Saints do not move, though grant for prayers' sake.
Then move not while my prayer's effect I take.
He kisses her
Thus from my lips, by thine my sin is purged.
Then have my lips the sin that they have took.
Sin from thy lips? O trespass sweetly urged!
Give me my sin again.
He kisses her
You kiss by th' book.
Madam, your mother craves a word with you.
What is her mother?
Her mother is the lady of the house,
And a good lady, and a wise and virtuous.
I nursed her daughter that you talked withal.
I tell you, he that can lay hold of her
Shall have the chinks.
Is she a Capulet?
O dear account! My life is my foe's debt.
Away, be gone;. The sport is at the best.
Ay, so I fear. The more is my unrest.
Nay, gentlemen, prepare not to be gone.
We have a trifling foolish banquet towards.
They whisper in his ear
Is it e'en so? Why then, I thank you all.
I thank you, honest gentlemen. Good night.
More torches here! Come on then, let's to bed.
Ah, sirrah, by my fay, it waxes late.
I'll to my rest.
Exeunt all but Juliet and Nurse
Come hither, Nurse. What is yond gentleman?
The son and heir of old Tiberio.
What's he that now is going out of door?
Marry, that, I think, be young Petruchio.
What's he that follows here, that would not dance?
I know not.
Go ask his name. – If he be married,
My grave is like to be my wedding bed.
His name is Romeo, and a Montague,
The only son of your great enemy.
My only love, sprung from my only hate!
Too early seen unknown, and known too late!
Prodigious birth of love it is to me
That I must love a loathed enemy.
What's this, what's this?
A rhyme I learnt even now
Of one I danced withal.
One calls within: ‘ Juliet ’
Come, let's away. The strangers all are gone.