The Complete Works of William Shakespeare, William Shakespeare [book recommendations based on other books txt] 📗

else? A madness most discreet, A choking gall, and a preserving sweet.

Farewell, my coz.

Ben. Soft! I will go along.

An if you leave me so, you do me wrong.

Rom. Tut! I have lost myself; I am not here: This is not Romeo, he’s some other where.

Ben. Tell me in sadness, who is that you love?

Rom. What, shall I groan and tell thee?

Ben. Groan? Why, no;

But sadly tell me who.

Rom. Bid a sick man in sadness make his will.

Ah, word ill urg’d to one that is so ill!

In sadness, cousin, I do love a woman.

Ben. I aim’d so near when I suppos’d you lov’d.

Rom. A right good markman! And she’s fair I love.

Ben. A right fair mark, fair coz, is soonest hit.

Rom. Well, in that hit you miss. She’ll not be hit With Cupid’s arrow. She hath Dian’s wit, And, in strong proof of chastity well arm’d, From Love’s weak childish bow she lives unharm’d.

She will not stay the siege of loving terms, Nor bide th’ encounter of assailing eyes, Nor ope her lap to saint-seducing gold.

O, she’s rich in beauty; only poor

That, when she dies, with beauty dies her store.

Ben. Then she hath sworn that she will still live chaste?

Rom. She hath, and in that sparing makes huge waste; For beauty, starv’d with her severity, Cuts beauty off from all posterity.

She is too fair, too wise, wisely too fair, To merit bliss by making me despair.

She hath forsworn to love, and in that vow Do I live dead that live to tell it now.

Ben. Be rul’d by me: forget to think of her.

Rom. O, teach me how I should forget to think!

Ben. By giving liberty unto thine eyes.

Examine other beauties.

Rom. ‘Tis the way

To call hers (exquisite) in question more.

These happy masks that kiss fair ladies’ brows, Being black puts us in mind they hide the fair.

He that is strucken blind cannot forget The precious treasure of his eyesight lost.

Show me a mistress that is passing fair, What doth her beauty serve but as a note Where I may read who pass’d that passing fair?

Farewell. Thou canst not teach me to forget.

Ben. I’ll pay that doctrine, or else die in debt. Exeunt.

 

Scene II.

A Street.

 

Enter Capulet, County Paris, and [Servant] -the Clown.

 

Cap. But Montague is bound as well as I, In penalty alike; and ‘tis not hard, I think, For men so old as we to keep the peace.

Par. Of honourable reckoning are you both, And pity ‘tis you liv’d at odds so long.

But now, my lord, what say you to my suit?

Cap. But saying o’er what I have said before: My child is yet a stranger in the world, She hath not seen the change of fourteen years; Let two more summers wither in their pride Ere we may think her ripe to be a bride.

Par. Younger than she are happy mothers made.

Cap. And too soon marr’d are those so early made.

The earth hath swallowed all my hopes but she; She is the hopeful lady of my earth.

But woo her, gentle Paris, get her heart; My will to her consent is but a part.

An she agree, within her scope of choice Lies my consent and fair according voice.

This night I hold an old accustom’d feast, Whereto I have invited many a guest,

Such as I love; and you among the store, One more, most welcome, makes my number more.

At my poor house look to behold this night Earth-treading stars that make dark heaven light.

Such comfort as do lusty young men feel When well apparell’d April on the heel Of limping Winter treads, even such delight Among fresh female buds shall you this night Inherit at my house. Hear all, all see, And like her most whose merit most shall be; Which, on more view of many, mine, being one, May stand in number, though in reck’ning none.

Come, go with me. [To Servant, giving him a paper] Go, sirrah, trudge about

Through fair Verona; find those persons out Whose names are written there, and to them say, My house and welcome on their pleasure stay-Exeunt [Capulet and Paris].

Serv. Find them out whose names are written here? It is written that the shoemaker should meddle with his yard and the tailor with his last, the fisher with his pencil and the painter with his nets; but I am sent to find those persons whose names are here writ, and can never find what names the writing person hath here writ. I must to the learned. In good time!

 

Enter Benvolio and Romeo.

 

Ben. Tut, man, one fire burns out another’s burning; One pain is lessoned by another’s anguish; Turn giddy, and be holp by backward turning; One desperate grief cures with another’s languish.

Take thou some new infection to thy eye, And the rank poison of the old will die.

Rom. Your plantain leaf is excellent for that.

Ben. For what, I pray thee?

Rom. For your broken shin.

Ben. Why, Romeo, art thou mad?

Rom. Not mad, but bound more than a madman is; Shut up in Prison, kept without my food, Whipp’d and tormented and-God-den, good fellow.

Serv. God gi’ go-den. I pray, sir, can you read?

Rom. Ay, mine own fortune in my misery.

Serv. Perhaps you have learned it without book. But I pray, can you read anything you see?

Rom. Ay, If I know the letters and the language.

Serv. Ye say honestly. Rest you merry!

Rom. Stay, fellow; I can read. He reads.

 

‘Signior Martino and his wife and daughters; County Anselmo and his beauteous sisters; The lady widow of Vitruvio;

Signior Placentio and His lovely nieces; Mercutio and his brother Valentine; Mine uncle Capulet, his wife, and daughters; My fair niece Rosaline and Livia;

Signior Valentio and His cousin Tybalt; Lucio and the lively Helena.’

 

[Gives back the paper.] A fair assembly. Whither should they come?

Serv. Up.

Rom. Whither?

Serv. To supper, to our house.

Rom. Whose house?

Serv. My master’s.

Rom. Indeed I should have ask’d you that before.

Serv. Now I’ll tell you without asking. My master is the great rich Capulet; and if you be not of the house of Montagues, I pray come and crush a cup of wine. Rest you merry! Exit.

Ben. At this same ancient feast of Capulet’s Sups the fair Rosaline whom thou so lov’st; With all the admired beauties of Verona.

Go thither, and with unattainted eye

Compare her face with some that I shall show, And I will make thee think thy swan a crow.

Rom. When the devout religion of mine eye Maintains such falsehood, then turn tears to fires; And these, who, often drown’d, could never die, Transparent heretics, be burnt for liars!

One fairer than my love? The all-seeing sun Ne’er saw her match since first the world begun.

Ben. Tut! you saw her fair, none else being by, Herself pois’d with herself in either eye; But in that crystal scales let there be weigh’d Your lady’s love against some other maid That I will show you shining at this feast, And she shall scant show well that now seems best.

Rom. I’ll go along, no such sight to be shown, But to rejoice in splendour of my own. [Exeunt.]

 

Scene III.

Capulet’s house.

 

Enter Capulet’s Wife, and Nurse.

 

Wife. Nurse, where’s my daughter? Call her forth to me.

Nurse. Now, by my maidenhead at twelve year old, I bade her come. What, lamb! what ladybird!

God forbid! Where’s this girl? What, Juliet!

 

Enter Juliet.

 

Jul. How now? Who calls?

Nurse. Your mother.

Jul. Madam, I am here.

What is your will?

Wife. This is the matter-Nurse, give leave awhile, We must talk in secret. Nurse, come back again; I have rememb’red me, thou’s hear our counsel.

Thou knowest my daughter’s of a pretty age.

Nurse. Faith, I can tell her age unto an hour.

Wife. She’s not fourteen.

Nurse. I’ll lay fourteen of my teeth—

And yet, to my teen be it spoken, I have but four-She is not fourteen. How long is it now To Lammastide?

Wife. A fortnight and odd days.

Nurse. Even or odd, of all days in the year, Come Lammas Eve at night shall she be fourteen.

Susan and she (God rest all Christian souls!) Were of an age. Well, Susan is with God; She was too good for me. But, as I said, On Lammas Eve at night shall she be fourteen; That shall she, marry; I remember it well.

‘Tis since the earthquake now eleven years; And she was wean’d (I never shall forget it), Of all the days of the year, upon that day; For I had then laid wormwood to my dug, Sitting in the sun under the dovehouse wall.

My lord and you were then at Mantua.

Nay, I do bear a brain. But, as I said, When it did taste the wormwood on the nipple Of my dug and felt it bitter, pretty fool, To see it tetchy and fall out with the dug!

Shake, quoth the dovehouse! ‘Twas no need, I trow, To bid me trudge.

And since that time it is eleven years, For then she could stand high-lone; nay, by th’ rood, 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 holidam, 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 yeas, I never should forget it. ‘Wilt thou not, Jule?’ quoth he, And, pretty fool, it stinted, and said ‘Ay.’

Wife. 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 bad upon it brow A bump as big as a young cock’rel’s stone; A perilous knock; and it cried bitterly.

‘Yea,’ quoth my husband, ‘fall’st upon thy face?

Thou wilt fall backward when thou comest 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.

Wife. 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 would say thou hadst suck’d wisdom from thy teat.

Wife. 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.

Wife. Verona’s summer hath not such a flower.

Nurse. Nay, he’s a flower, in faith-a very flower.

Wife. 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 married lineament,

And see how one another lends content; And what obscur’d in