La. 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, fallst upon thy face? Thou wilt fall backward, when thou com'st to age ; Wilt thou not, Jule? it stinted, and said—Ay.

Jul. 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 nurs’d:
An I might live to see thee married once,
I have my wish.

La. 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.
La. Cap. Well, think of marriage now; younger

than you,
Here in Verona, ladies of esteem,
Are made already mothers: by my count,
I was your 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.

La. Cap. Verona's summer hath not such a flower.

Nurse. Nay, he's a flower; in faith, a very flower.
La. Cap. What say you ? can you love the gentle-

man?
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 married lineament,
And see how one another lends content;
And what obscur'd 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.
La. 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. Sero. Madam, the guests are come, supper served up, you called, my young lady asked for, the nurse cursed in the pantry, and every thing in extremity. I must hence to wait; I beseech you, follow straight.

La. Cap. We follow thee. Juliet, the county stays. Nurse. Go, girl, seek happy nights to happy days.

[Exeunt. SCENE IV.-A street.

Enter Romeo, Mercurio, Benvolio, with five or six

Maskers, torch-bearers and others. Rom. What, shall this speech be spoke for our ex

cuse?
Or shall we on without apology?

Ben. The date is out of such prolixity:
We'll have no Cupid hood-wink'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 soles : 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 boist’rous; 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 (save reverence) love, wherein thou stick’st
Up to the ears.-Coine, we burn day-light, 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. Why, may one ask?
Rom. I dreamt a dream to-night.
Mer. And so did I.
Rom. Well, what was yours?
Mer. 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 fore-finger 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 grashoppers; The traces, of the smallest spider's web; The collars, of the moonshine's watry 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 of mind the fairies' coach-makers. And in this state she gallops night by night Through lovers' brains, and then they dream of love: On courtiers' knees, that dream on court'sies 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 sweet-meats tainted are. Sometime she gallops o'er a courtier's nose, And then dreams he of smelling out a suit: And sometimes 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,