Romeo and Juliet

Synopsis: The Montagues and the Capulets, two powerful families of Verona, hate each other. Romeo, son of Montague, crashes a Capulet party, and there meets Juliet, daughter of Capulet. They fall passionately in love. Since their families would disapprove, they marry in secret. Romeo gets in a fight with Tybalt, nephew of Lady Capulet, and kills him. He is banished from Verona. Capulet, not knowing that his daughter is already married, proceeds with his plans to marry Juliet to Paris, a prince. This puts Juliet in quite a spot, so she goes to the sympathetic Friar Laurence, who married her to Romeo. He suggests a daring plan to extricate her from her fix. Tragedy ensues.
Genre: Drama, Romance
Director(s): George Cukor
Production: MGM
  Nominated for 4 Oscars. Another 1 win & 1 nomination.
Rotten Tomatoes:
125 min


"Two households, both alike in dignity,

"in fair Verona, where we lay our scene,

"from ancient grudge

break to new mutiny,

"where civil blood

makes civil hands unclean.

"From forth the fatal loins

of these two foes

"a pair of star-cross'd lovers

take their life."

The Capulets, the Capulets.

The Capulets.

The Montagues.

The Montagues.

Here come the Capulets.

Be patient. Take no note.

- The House of Montague, our foe.

- Soft.

Keep the peace.

I strike quickly, being moved,

when a dog of the House of Montague

moves me.

Do you bite your thumb at us, sir?

- I do bite my thumb, sir.

- Do you bite your thumb at us, sir?

- Is the law on our side if I say ay?

- No.

No, sir, I do not bite

my thumb at you, sir,

but I do bite my thumb, sir.

- Do you quarrel, sir?

- Quarrel, sir?

- No, sir.

- If you do, sir, I am for you.

I serve as good a man as you.

No better.

- Say "better."

- Yes, better.

- You lie.

- Draw, if you be men.

Part, fools!

Put up your swords.

Put up your swords.

What? Art thou drawn amongst

these heartless hinds?

Turn thee, Benvolio, look upon thy death.

I do but keep the peace.

Put up thy sword

or manage it to part these men with me.

What? Drawn, and talk of peace?

I hate the word as I hate hell,

all Montagues and thee.

Have at thee, coward.

Rebellious subjects, enemies to peace.

Will they not hear?

What ho, you men, you beasts,

on pain of torture.

Throw your mis-temper'd weapons

to the ground

and hear the sentence

of your moved Prince.

Three civil brawls, bred of an airy word

by thee, old Capulet,

and Montague, have thrice disturb'd

the quiet of our streets.

If ever you disturb our streets again,

your lives

shall pay the forfeit of the peace.

For this time, all the rest depart away.

You, Capulet, shall go along with me,

and, Montague,

come you this afternoon

to know our further pleasure in this case.

Once more, on pain of death,

all men depart.

But Montague is bound as well as I,

in penalty alike.

And 'tis not hard, I think,

for men as old as we to keep the peace.

Of honorable reckoning are you both. And

pity it is you've lived at odds so long.

But now, my lord,

what say you to my suit?

But saying o'er what I have said before.

My child is yet a stranger in the world.

But woo her, gentle Paris, get her heart.

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.



Go, 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.



Where's my daughter?

Call her forth to me.

I bade her come. What, lamb.

What, ladybird.

God forbid. Where's this girl?

What, Juliet!

Madam, what is your will?

This is the matter.

Nurse, give leave awhile.

We must talk in secret.

Nurse, come back again.

I have remember'd me,

thou'st hear our counsel.

Thou know'st my daughter's

of a pretty age.

Faith, I can tell her age unto an hour.

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,

my lord and you were then at Mantua.

For then she could stand alone.

Nay, by the 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, he 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 halidom, the pretty wretch

left crying, and said, "Ay."

To see now how a jest may come about.

I warrant, and I should live

a thousand years, I never should forget it.

"Wilt thou not, Jule?" quoth he.

And, pretty fool, it

stinted and said, "Ay."

Enough of this. I pray

thee, hold thy peace.

Peace, I have done.

God mark thee to his grace.

Thou wast the prettiest babe

that e'er I nursed.

And I might live to see thee married once,

I have my wish.

Marry, that "marry" is the very theme

I came to talk of.

Tell me, daughter Juliet,

how stands your disposition

to be married?

It is an honor that I dream not of.

Well, think of marriage now.

The valiant Paris seeks you for his love.

My will to her consent is but a part.

Oh, a man, young lady.

Lady, such a man as all the world.

Why, he's a man of wax.

Verona's summer hath not such a flower.

Nay, he's a flower. In

faith, a very flower.

What say you?

Can you love the gentleman?

This night you shall

behold him at our feast.

Speak briefly. Can you like of Paris' love?

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.

Good morrow, cousin.

Is the day so young?

But new struck 9:00.

And here I hit it right,

our Romeo has not been in bed tonight.

Ay me, sad hours seem long.

What sadness lengthens Romeo's hours?

Not having that which having

makes them short.

- In love?

- Out.

- Of love?

- Out of her favor where I am in love.

Jesu Maria! What a deal of brine hath

washed thy sallow cheek for Rosaline.


Dost thou not laugh?

No, coz, I rather weep.

- Good heart, at what?

- At thy good heart's oppression.

Why, such is love's transgression.

Love is a smoke

raised with the fume of sighs,

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