Romeo and Juliet Page #3

You are a lover, borrow Cupid's wings

and soar with them

above a common bound.

Come, let us enter, and no sooner in,

but every man betake him to his legs.

And we mean well

in going to this masque.

- But 'tis no wit to go.

- Why, may one ask?

I dream'd a dream last night.

- And so did I.

- What was yours?

That dreamers often lie.

In bed asleep,

while they do dream things true.

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

upon the forefinger of an alderman.

Drawn with a team of little atomies

athwart men's noses as they lie asleep.

Her wagon spokes

made of long spinner's legs.

The covers, 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 gray-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 hazelnut,

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 on love.

O'er courtiers' knees,

who dream on curtsies straight.

O'er lawyers' fingers

who straight dream on fees.

O'er ladies lips,

who straight on kisses dream.

Sometimes she gallops

o'er a courtier's nose,

and then dreams he of smelling out a suit.

And sometimes come she

with a tithe-pig's tail

tickling a parson's nose as he lies asleep,

then dreams he of another benefice.

Sometimes 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 ears,

at which he starts and wakes,

and being thus frighted swears a prayer

or two and sleeps again.

- This is that very Mab. This is she...

- Peace, peace, Mercutio, peace.

Thou talk'st of nothing.

True, I talk of dreams,

which are the children of an idle brain,

begot of nothing but vain fantasy,

as thin of substance as the air,

and more inconstant than the wind.

This wind you talk of

blows us from ourselves.

Supper is done

and we shall come too late.

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.

But he, that hath the steerage

of my course, direct my sail.

On, lusty gentlemen.

Strike drum.

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.

'Tis gone, 'tis gone, 'tis gone.

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