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 holy dam,
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 years,
I never should forget it: Wilt thou not, Jule?
quoth he:

And, pretty fool, it stinted, and said—Ay.
Lady Cap. 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 cockrel'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. Ful. 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 nursed:
An I might live to see thee married once,
I have my wish.

Lady Cap. Marry, that marry is the very theme I came to talk of.-Tell me, daughter Juliet, How stands your disposition to be married?

Jul. It is an honour that I dream not of. Nurse. An honour! were not I thine only

nurse,

I'd say, thou hadst suck'd wisdom from thy teat. Lady Cap. Well, think of marriage now; younger than you,

Here in Verona, ladies of esteem,

Are made already mothers: by my count,
I was a 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 Cap. Verona's summer hath not such a flower.

Nurse. Nay, he's a flower; in faith, a very flower.

Lady Cap. 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 several lineament,

And see how one another lends content;
And what obscured in this fair volume lies,
Find written in the margin 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 Cap. Speak briefly, can you like of Paris' love?

Jul. 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.

Serv. 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 Cap. We follow thee. [Exit Servant.]— Juliet, the county stays.

Nurse. Go, girl, seek happy nights to happy days.

SCENE IV.-A Street.

[Exeunt.

Enter ROMEO, MERCUTIO, BENVOLIO, with five or six Maskers, Torch-bearers, and others.

Rom. What, shall this speech be spoke for

our excuse;

Or shall we on without apology?

Ben. 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.

Rom. Give me a torch,-I am not for this ambling;

Being but heavy I will bear the light.

Mer. Nay, gentle Romeo, we must have you dance.

Rom. Not I, believe me: you have dancing shoes,

With nimble souls: I have a soul of lead,
So stakes me to the ground I cannot move.
Mer. You are a lover; borrow Cupid's wings,
And soar with them above a common bound.

Rom. 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.

Mer. And, to sink in it, should you burden love:

Too great oppression for a tender thing.

Rom. Is love a tender thing? it is too rough, Too rude, too boisterous; and it pricks like thorn. Mer. 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 visor for a visor !-what care I,

What curious eye doth quote deformities?
Here are the beetle-brows shall blush for me.
Ben. Come, knock, and enter; and no sooner
in,

But every man betake him to his legs.

Rom. 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.
Mer. 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.
Rom. Nay, that's not so.

Mer. 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. Rom. And we mean well in going to this mask;

But 'tis no wit to go.

Mer.
Rom. I dreamt a dream to-night.

Mer.

Why, may one ask?

And so did I.

That dreamers often lie.

Rom. Well, what was yours?

Mer.

Rom. In bed, asleep, while they do dream things true.

Mer. O, then, I see, queen Mab hath been with you.

She is the fairies' midwife; and she comes
In shape no bigger than an agate-stone
On the forefinger of an alderman,

Drawn with a team of little atomies
Athwart men's noses as they lie asleep :
Her waggon-spokes made of long spinners' legs,
The cover of the wings of grasshoppers;
Her traces of the smallest spider's web;
Her collars of the moonshine's watery beams;
Her whip of cricket's bone; the lash of film:
Her waggoner a small gray-coated gnat,
Not half so big as a round little worm