Romeo & Juliet Page #3

Die a beggar!

Sharing this one and only life

Ending up just another

lost and lonely wife

You count up the years

And they will be filled with tears

Young hearts

Run free

Never be hung up

Like Rosaline and thee

Nay, gentle Romeo,

we must have you dance.

Not I. Not I, believe me.

You have dancing shoes with

nimble soles. I have a soul of lead.

You are a lover.

Borrow Cupid's wings and soar

with them above a common bound.

Under love's heavy burden do I sink.

Too great oppression for a tender thing.

Is love a tender thing? It is too rough,

too rude, too boisterous,

and it pricks like thorn.

If love be rough with you, be rough with love.

Prick love for pricking,

and you beat love down.

Every man, betake him to his legs!

Come, we burn daylight, ho!

- But 'tis no wit to go!

- Why, may one ask?

- I dreamt a dream tonight.

- And so did I.

- And 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

on the forefinger of an alderman,

drawn with a team of little atomies

over men's noses as they lie asleep.

Her chariot is an empty hazelnut,

her waggoner a small grey-coated gnat.

And in this state she gallops

night by night through lovers' brains,

and then they dream of...

love;

o'er lawyers' fingers,

who straight dream on fees.

Sometime she driveth o'er a soldier's neck,

and then dreams he

of cutting foreign throats;

and, being thus frighted, swears

a prayer or two, and sleeps again.

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!

This is she!

Peace, good 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;

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 angered,

puffs away from thence,

turning aside to the dew-dropping south.

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,

and expire the term...

of a despised life closed within my breast...

by some vile forfeit of untimely death.

But he that hath the steerage of my course

direct my sail!

On, lusty gentlemen!

Thy drugs are quick.

I have seen the day that I could tell

a whispering tale in a fair lady's ear

Rate this script:0.0 / 0 votes