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, Or-save your 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 judgement sits
Five times in that ere once in our five wits.
Rom. And we mean well in going to this mask ;
But 't is no wit to go.

Mer.
Why, may one ask?
Rom. I dream'd a dream to-night.
Mer.

Rom. Well, what was yours?
Mer.

And so did I.

That dreamers often lie.

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;
The traces, of the smallest spider's web;
The collars, of the moonshine's watery beams
Her whip, of cricket's bone; the lash, of film;
Her waggoner, a small grey-coated gnat,
Not half so big as a round little worm
Prick'd from the lazy finger of a maid;
Her chariot is an empty hazel-nut,
Made by the joiner squirrel or old grub,
Time out o' mind the fairies' coach-makers.
And in this state she gallops night by night

Through lovers' brains, and then they dream of

love;

O'er courtiers' knees, that dream on court'sics straight;

O'er lawyers' fingers, who straight dream on fees;
O'er ladies' lips, who straight on kisses dream;
Which oft the angry Mab with blisters plagues,
Because their breaths with sweetmeats tainted are.
Sometime she gallops o'er a courtier's nose,
And then dreams he of smelling out a suit;
And sometime comes she with a tithe-pig's tail,
Tickling a parson's nose as a' lies asleep,
Then dreams he of another benefice;
Sometime she driveth o'er a soldier's neck,
And then dreams he of cutting foreign throats,
Of breaches, ambuscadoes, Spanish blades,
Of healths five fathom deep; and then anon
Drums in his ear, at which he starts and wakes;
And, being thus frighted, swears a prayer or two,
And sleeps again. This is that very Mab
That plats the manes of horses in the night;
And bakes the elf-locks in foul sluttish hairs,
Which once untangled much misfortune bodes;
This is the hag, when maids lie on their backs,
That presses them and learns them first to bear,
Making them women of good carriage;

This is she

Rom.

Peace, peace! Mercutio, peace! Thou talk'st of nothing.

Mer.
True, I talk of dreams,
Which are the children of an idle brain,

Begot of nothing but vain fantasy;
Which is as thin of substance as the air,

And more inconstant than the wind, who woos
Even now the frozen bosom of the north,
And, being anger'd, puffs away from thence,
Turning his face to the dew-dropping south.
Ben. This wind you talk of blows us from our
selves;

Supper is done, and we shall come too late.
Rom. I fear, too early; for my mind misgives
Some consequence yet hanging in the stars
Shall bitterly begin his fearful date

With this night's revels, and expire the term
Of a despised life closed in my breast
By some vile forfeit of untimely death.
But He, that hath the steerage of my course,
Direct my sail! On, lusty gentlemen.
Ben. Strike, drum.

[Exeunt.

SCENE V. The Same. A Hall in CAPULET'S

House.

Musicians waiting. Enter Servingmen.

First Serv. Where's Potpan, that be helps not to take away? He shift a trencher? he scrape a trencher!

Second Serv. When good manners shall lie all in one or two men's hands, and they unwashed too, 't is a foul thing.

First Serv. Away with the joint-stools, remove the court-cupboard, look to the plate. Good thou, save me a piece of marchpane; and, as thou lovest me, let the porter let in Susan Grindstone and Nell. Antony! and Potpan!

Second Serv. Ay, boy; ready.

First Serv. You are looked for and called for, asked for and sought for, in the great chamber. Third Serv. We cannot be here and there too. Cheerly, boys; be brisk awhile, and the longer liver take all. [They retire behind.

Enter CAPULET, with JULIET and others of his house, meeting the Guests and Maskers.

Cap. Welcome, gentlemen! ladies that have their toes

Unplagued with corns will have a bout with you. Ah ha! 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; 't is gone, 't is gone, 't is gone. You are welcome, gentlemen! Come, musicians, play.

A hall a hall! give room, and foot it, girls.

[Music plays, and they dance. More light, you knaves! and turn the tables up, And quench the fire, the room is grown too hot. Ah! sirrah, this unlook'd-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?

Second Cap.

By'r Lady, thirty years.

Cap. What! man; 't is not so much, 't is not so much: