Romeo + Juliet Page #3

Nurse:

Nay, bigger; women grow by men.

Lady Capulet:

Speak briefly, can you like of Paris' love?

Juliet:

I'll look to like, if looking liking move: But no more deep will I endart mine eye Than your consent to give strength to make it fly.

Servant:

Madam, the guests are come.

Lady Capulet:

Go! We follow thee. Juliet, Blah!

Nurse:

[whisper to JULIET] Go, girl, seek happy nights to happy days.

Sampson:

Capulet ply, and I a beggar.

Mercutio:

Young hearts run free. Never be caught up, caught up like Rosaline and thee. Nay, gentle Romeo, we must have you dance.

Romeo:

Not I, Not I believe me: you have dancing shoes With nimble soles: I have a soul of lead

Mercutio:

You are a lover; borrow Cupid's wings, And soar with them above a common bound.

Romeo:

Under love's heavy burden do I sink.

Mercutio:

Too great oppression for a tender thing.

Romeo:

Is love a tender thing? It is too rough, Too rude, too boisterous, and it pricks like thorn.

Mercutio:

If love be rough with you, be rough with love; Prick love for pricking, and you beat love down.

Benvolio:

Every man betake him to his legs.

Romeo:

But 'tis no wit to go.

Mercutio:

Why, may one ask?

Romeo:

I dream'd a dream tonight.

Mercutio:

And so did I.

Romeo:

Well, what was yours?

Mercutio:

That dreamers often lie.

Romeo:

In bed asleep, while they do dream things true.

Mercutio:

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. Over men's noses as they lie asleep; Her chariot is an empty hazelnut Her wagoner 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!

Romeo:

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

Mercutio:

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 wooes even now the frozen bosom of the north, and, being anger'd, puffs away from thence, turning his face to the dew-dropping south.

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