Too like the lightning which doth cease to be

Ere one can say it lightens. Sweet, good night.

This bud of love by summer’s ripening breath

May prove a beauteous flower when next we meet.

Good night, good night. As sweet repose and rest

Come to thy heart as that within my breast.

ROMEO

O, wilt thou leave me so unsatisfied?

JULIET

What satisfaction canst thou have tonight?

ROMEO

Th’exchange of thy love’s faithful vow for mine.

JULIET

I gave thee mine before thou didst request it,

And yet I would it were to give again.

ROMEO

Wouldst thou withdraw it? For what purpose, love?

JULIET

But to be frank and give it thee again.

And yet I wish but for the thing I have.

My bounty is as boundless as the sea,

My love as deep. The more I give to thee

The more I have, for both are infinite.

Nurse calls within

I hear some noise within. Dear love, adieu.—

Anon, good Nurse!—Sweet Montague, be true.

Stay but a little; I will come again. Exit

ROMEO

O blessed, blessèd night! I am afeard,

Being in night, all this is but a dream,

Too flattering-sweet to be substantial.

Enter Juliet aloft

JULIET

Three words, dear Romeo, and good night indeed.

If that thy bent of love be honourable,

Thy purpose marriage, send me word tomorrow,

By one that I’ll procure to come to thee,

Where and what time thou wilt perform the rite,

And all my fortunes at thy foot I’ll lay,

And follow thee, my lord, throughout the world.

⌈NURSE⌉ (within)

Madam!

JULIET

I come, anon. (To Romeo) But if thou mean’st not well,

I do beseech thee—

⌈NURSE⌉ (within) Madam!

JULIET By and by I come.—

To cease thy strife and leave me to my grief.

Tomorrow will I send.

ROMEO So thrive my soul—

JULIET A thousand times good night. Exit

ROMEO

A thousand times the worse to want thy light.

Love goes toward love as schoolboys from their books,

But love from love, toward school with heavy looks.

⌈He is going.⌉ Enter Juliet aloft again

JULIET

Hist, Romeo! Hist! O for a falconer’s voice

To lure this tassel-gentle back again.

Bondage is hoarse, and may not speak aloud,

Else would I tear the cave where Echo lies,

And make her airy tongue more hoarse than mine

With repetition of my Romeo’s name. Romeo!

ROMEO

It is my soul that calls upon my name.

How silver-sweet sound lovers’ tongues by night,

Like softest music to attending ears!

JULIET

Romeo!

ROMEO My nyas?

JULIET What o’clock tomorrow

Shall I send to thee?

ROMEO By the hour of nine.

JULIET

I will not fail; ’tis twenty year till then.

I have forgot why I did call thee back.

ROMEO

Let me stand here till thou remember it.

JULIET

I shall forget, to have thee still stand there,

Rememb’ring how I love thy company.

ROMEO

And I’ll still stay, to have thee still forget,

Forgetting any other home but this.

JULIET

’Tis almost morning. I would have thee gone—

And yet no farther than a wanton’s bird,

That lets it hop a little from his hand,

Like a poor prisoner in his twisted gyves,

And with a silk thread plucks it back again,

So loving-jealous of his liberty.

ROMEO

I would I were thy bird.

JULIET Sweet, so would I.

Yet I should kill thee with much cherishing.

Good night, good night. Parting is such sweet sorrow

That I shall say good night till it be morrow.

⌈ROMEO⌉

Sleep dwell upon thine eyes, peace in thy breast.

Exit Juliet

Would I were sleep and peace, so sweet to rest.

Hence will I to my ghostly sire’s close cell,

His help to crave, and my dear hap to tell.

Exit

2.2 Enter Friar Laurence, with a basket

FRIAR LAURENCE

The grey-eyed morn smiles on the frowning night,

Chequ’ring the eastern clouds with streaks of light,

And fleckled darkness like a drunkard reels

From forth day’s path and Titan’s fiery wheels.

Now, ere the sun advance his burning eye

The day to cheer and night’s dank dew to dry,

I must up-fill this osier cage of ours

With baleful weeds and precious-juicèd flowers.

The earth, that’s nature’s mother, is her tomb.

What is her burying grave, that is her womb,

And from her womb children of divers kind

We sucking on her natural bosom find,

Many for many virtues excellent,

None but for some, and yet all different.

O mickle is the powerful grace that lies

In plants, herbs, stones, and their true qualities,

For naught so vile that on the earth doth live

But to the earth some special good doth give;

Nor aught so good but, strained from that fair use,

Revolts from true birth, stumbling on abuse.

Virtue itself turns vice being misapplied,

And vice sometime’s by action dignified.

Enter Romeo

Within the infant rind of this weak flower

Poison hath residence, and medicine power,

For this, being smelt, with that part cheers each part;

Being tasted, slays all senses with the heart.

Two such opposed kings encamp them still

In man as well as herbs—grace and rude will;