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Nur. I am a weary, give me leave a while; Fy, how my Bones ake, what a Jaunt have I had? Jul. I would thou hadft my Bones, and I thy News: Nay come, I pray thee fpeak- Good Nurfe fpeak. Nur. Jefu! what hafte? can you not stay a while? Do you not fee how I am out of Breath?

Jul. How art thou out of Breath, when thou haft Breath To fay to me, that thou art out of Breath? The Excufe that thou doft make in this delay, Is longer than the Tale thou doft excufe. Is thy News good or bad? Anfwer to that, Say either, and I'll ftay the Circumstance: Let me be fatisfied, is't good or bad?

Nur. Well, you have made a fimple Choice; you know not how to chufe a Man: Romeo? no not he, though his Face be better than any Man's, yet his Legs excell all Mens, and for a Hand and a Foot, and a Baw-dy, tho' they be not to be talk'd on, yet they are paft compare. He is not the Flow. er of Courtefie, but I warrant him as gentle a Lamb----Go thy ways Wench, serve God: What, have you dined at home?

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Jul. No, no-But all this did I know before:
What fays he of our Marriage? What of that?
Nur. Lord how my Head akes! what a Head have I?
It beats as it would fall in twenty pieces.
My Back a t'other'fide-O my Back, my Back:
Befhrew your Heart, for fending me about,
To catch my Death with jaunting up and down.
Jul. I'faith I am forry that thou art fo ill,
Sweet, fweet, fweet Nurfe, tell me what fays my Love?
Nur. Your Love fays like an honeft Gentleman,
And a courteous, and a kind, and a handfom,
And I warrant a virtuous- where is your Mother?
Jul. Where is my Mother? Why he is within,
Here should she be? How odly thou reply'st!
Your Love fays like an honeft Gentleman:
Where is my Mother?

Nur. O God's Lady dear,

Are you fo hot? marry come up I trow,
Is this the Poultis for my aking Bones?

D 3

Hence

Hence-forward, do your Meffages your felf.
Jul. Here's fuch a coil; come, what fays Romeo?
Nur. Have you got leave to go to fhrift to Day?
Jul. I have.

Nur. Then hie you hence to Friar Lawrence's Cell,
There ftays a Husband to make you a Wife.
Now comes the wanton Blood up in
your Cheeks,
They'll be in Scarlet ftraight at any News:
Hie you to Church, I must another way,
To fetch a Ladder, by the which
your Love
Muft climb a Bird's Neft foon, when it is dark.

I am the drudge and toil in your Delight,

But you fhall bear the Burthen foon at Night.
Go, I'll to Dinner, hie you to the Cell.

Jul. Hie to high Fortune; honeft Nurfe farewel. [Exeunt.

SCENE VII.

The Monaftery.

Enter Friar Lawrence and Romeo.

Fri. So fmile the Heavens upon this holy Act,
That after Hours with Sorrow chide us not.

Rom. Amen, Amen; but come what Sorow can,
It cannot countervail the exchange of Joy,
That one short Minute gives me in her fight:
Do thou but close our Hands with holy Words,
Then Love-devouring Death do what he dare,
It is enough I may but call her mine.

Fri. Thefe violent Delights have violent Ends,
And in their triumph die like Fire and Powder,
Which as they kifs confume. The sweetest Honey
Is loathfome in his own delicioufnefs,

And in the tafte confounds the Appetite:
Therefore love moderately, long Love doth fe,
Too fwift arrives, as tardy as too flow.

Enter Juliet.

Here comes the Lady. Oh fo light a foot
Will ne'er wear out the everlafting Flint;
A Lover may beftride the Goffamour,
That idles in the wanton Summer Air,
And yet not fall, fo light is Vanity.

Ful.

Jul. Good-even to my ghoftly Confeffor.
Fri. Romeo fhall thank thee Daughter for us both.
Jul. As much to him, elfe are his Thanks too much.
Rom. Ah Juliet, if the measure of thy Joy
Be heapt like mine, and that thy skill be more
To blafon it, then fweeten with thy Breath
This neighbour Air, and let rich Mufick's Tongue
Unfold the imagin'd happiness, that both
Receive in either, by this dear Encounter.

Jul. Conceit more rich in Matter than in Words,
Brags of his Subftance, not of Ornament:
They are but Beggars that can count their Worth,
But my true Love is grown to fuch excess,

I cannot fum up fome half of my Wealth.

Fri. Come, come with me, and we will make fhort Work,

For, by your leaves, you fhall not stay alone,

'Till holy Church incorporate two in one.

АСТ III. SCENE I.

SCENE The Street.

Enter Mercutio, Benvolio, and Servants.

Ben. I Pray thee, good Mercutio, let's retire,
The Day is hot, the Capulets abroad,

And if we meet, we fhall not fcape a Brawl;
For now these hot Days is the mad Blood ftirring.

Exeunt.

Mer. Thou art like one of thofe Fellows, that when he enters the confines of a Tavern, claps me his Sword upon the Table, and fays, God fend me no need of thee: And by the Operation of a fecond Cup, draws him on the Drawer, when indeed there is no need.

Ben. Am I like fuch a Fellow?

Mer. Come, come, thou art as hot a Jack in thy mood as any in Italy; and as foon moved to be moody, and as foon moody to be mov'd.

Ben. And what too?

Mer. Nay, and there were two fuch, we should have none fhortly, for one would kill the other. Thou! why thou

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wilt quarrel with a Man that hath a Hair more, or a Hair lefs in his Beard than thou haft: Thou wilt quarrel with a Man for cracking Nuts, having no other reafon, but because thou haft hafel Eyes; what Eye, but fuch an Eye, would fpy out fuch a quarrel? Thy Head is as full of quarrels, as an Egg is full of Meat, and yet thy Head hath been beaten as addle as an Egg for quarrelling: Thou hast quarrell'd with a Man for Coughing in the Street, because he hath wakened thy Dog that hath lain afleep in the Sun. Didft thou not fall out with a Tailor for wearing his new Doublet before Eafter? with another, for tying his new. Shooes with old Ribband? And yet thou wilt Tutor me from quarrelling!

Ben. And I were fo apt to quarrel as thou art, any Man should buy the Fee-fimple of my Life for an hour and a quarter.

Mer. The Fee-fimple? O fimple!

Enter Tybalt, Petruchio, and others.

Ben. By my Head here come the Capulets.
Mer. By my Heel I care not.

Tyb. Follow me close, for I will fpeak to them.

Gentlemen, Good-den, a Word with one of you.

Mer. And but one Word with one of us? couple it with fomething, make it a Word and a Blow.

Tyb. You fhall find me apt enough to that, Sir, and Will give me occafion.

you

Mer. Could you not take fome Occafion without giving ?

Tyb. Mercutio, thou confort'ft with Romeo

Mer. Confort! What, doft thou make us Minstrels? And thou make Minstrels of us, look to hear nothing but Difcords: Here's my Fiddleftick; here's thar fhall make you dance. Come, Confort. [Laying his Hind on his Sword. Ben. We talk here in the pubuck haunt of Men: Either withdraw unto fome private place,

Or reafon coldly of your Grievances,

Or elfe depart; here all Eyes gaze on us.

Mer. Mens Eyes were made to look, and let them

I will not budge for no Man's pleasure I.

gaze,

Enter

Enter Romeo.

Tyb. Well, peace be with you, Sir, here comes my Man.
Mer. But I'll be hang'd, Sir, it he wear your Livery:
Marry go before to Field, he'll be your Follower,
Your Worship in that fenfe may call him Man.
Tyb. Romeo, the love I bear thee can afford
No better term than this; Thou art a Villain.
Rom. Tybalt, the reason that I have to love thee,
Doth much excufe the appertaining rage
To fuch a greeting:

Therefore farewel, I fee thou know'ft me not.
Tyb. Boy, this fhall not excufe the Injuries
That thou haft done me, therefore turn and draw.
Rom. I do proteft I never injur'd thee,
But lov'd thee better than thou canst devife;
'Till thou shalt know the reafon of my Love.
And fo good Capulet, which Name I tender
As dearly as my own, be fatisficd.

Mer. O calm, dishonourable, vile Submiffion!
Allaftucatho carries it away.

Tybalt, You, Rat-catcher, will you walk?

Tyb. What wouldst thou have with me?

Mer. Good King of Cats, nothing but one of

your nine Lives, that I mean to make bold withal; and as you shall use me, hereafter dry beat the reft of the eight. Will you pluck your Sword out of his Pilcher by the Ears? Make haste, left mine be about your Ears e'er it be out.

Tyb. I am for you.

Rom. Gentle Mercutio, put thy Rapier up.
Mer. Come, Sir, your Paffado.

[Drawing.

[Mer. and Tyb. fight,

Rom. Draw, Benvolio----beat down their Weapons-
Gentlemen- -for fhame forbear this Outrage-

Tybalt Mercutio the Prince exprefly hath
Forbidden bandying in Verona Streets.

Hold Tybaltgood Mercutio.

Mer. I am hurt

A Plague of both the Houses, I am sped :

Is he gone, and hath nothing?

Ben. What, art thou hurt?

[Exit Tybalt.

Mer. Ay, ay, a Scratch, a Scratch; marry 'tis enough. Where is my Page? Go, Villain, fetch a Surgeon.

Rom.

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