And bakes the elf-locks in foul sluttish hairs,
Which, once untangled, much misfortune bodes:
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,—
Romeo.
Peace, peace, 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.
Benvolio.
This wind you talk of blows us from ourselves:
Supper is done, and we shall come too late.
Romeo.
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, clos’d in my breast,
By some vile forfeit of untimely death:
But He that hath the steerage of my course
Direct my sail!—On, lusty gentlemen!
Benvolio.
Strike, drum.
[Exeunt.]
SCENE V. A Hall in Capulet’s House.
[Musicians waiting. Enter Servants.]
1 Servant. Where’s Potpan, that he helps not to take away? he shift a trencher! he scrape a trencher!
2 Servant. When good manners shall lie all in one or two men’s hands, and they unwash’d too, ‘tis a foul thing.
1 Servant. Away with the join-stools, remove the court-cupboard, look to the plate:—good thou, save me a piece of marchpane; and as thou loves me, let the porter let in Susan Grindstone and Nell.— Antony! and Potpan!
2 Servant. Ay, boy, ready.
1 Servant. You are looked for and called for, asked for and sought for in the great chamber.
2 Servant. We cannot be here and there too.—Cheerly, boys; be brisk awhile, and the longer liver take all.
[They retire behind.]
[Enter Capulet, &c. with the Guests the Maskers.]
Capulet.
Welcome, gentlemen! ladies that have their toes
Unplagu’d with corns will have a bout with you.—
Ah ha, my mistresses! which of you all
Will now deny to dance? she that makes dainty, she,
I’ll swear hath corns; am I come near you now?
Welcome, gentlemen! I have seen the day
That I have worn a visard; and could tell
A whispering tale in a fair lady’s ear,
Such as would please;—‘tis gone, ‘tis gone, ‘tis gone:
You are welcome, gentlemen!—Come, musicians, play.
A hall—a hall! give room! and foot it, girls.—
[Music plays, and they dance.]
More light, you knaves; and turn the tables up,
And quench the fire, the room is grown too hot.—
Ah, sirrah, this unlook’d-for sport comes well.
Nay, sit, nay, sit, good cousin Capulet;
For you and I are past our dancing days;
How long is’t now since last yourself and I
Were in a mask?
2 Capulet. By’r Lady, thirty years.
Capulet.
What, man! ‘tis not so much, ‘tis not so much:
‘Tis since the nuptial of Lucentio,
Come Pentecost as quickly as it will,
Some five-and-twenty years; and then we mask’d.
2 Capulet.
‘Tis more, ‘tis more: his son is elder, sir;
His son is thirty.
Capulet.
Will you tell me that?
His son was but a ward two years ago.
Romeo.
What lady is that, which doth enrich the hand
Of yonder knight?
Servant.
I know not, sir.
Romeo.
O, she doth teach the torches to burn bright!
It seems she hangs upon the cheek of night
Like a rich jewel in an Ethiop’s ear;
Beauty too rich for use, for earth too dear!
So shows a snowy dove trooping with crows
As yonder lady o’er her fellows shows.
The measure done, I’ll watch her place of stand
And, touching hers, make blessed my rude hand.
Did my heart love till now? forswear it, sight!
For I ne’er saw true beauty till this night.
Tybalt.
This, by his voice, should be a Montague.—
Fetch me my rapier, boy:—what, dares the slave
Come hither, cover’d with an antic face,
To fleer and scorn at our solemnity?
Now, by the stock and honour of my kin,
To strike him dead I hold it not a sin.
Capulet.
Why, how now, kinsman! wherefore storm you so?
Tybalt.
Uncle, this is a Montague, our foe;
A villain, that is hither come in spite,
To scorn at our solemnity this night.
Capulet.
Young Romeo, is it?
Tybalt.
‘Tis he, that villain, Romeo.
Capulet.
Content thee, gentle coz, let him alone,
He bears him like a portly gentleman;
And, to say truth, Verona brags of him
To be a virtuous and well-govern’d youth:
I would not for the wealth of all the town
Here in my house do him disparagement:
Therefore be patient, take no note of him,—
It is my will; the which if thou respect,
Show a fair presence and put off these frowns,
An ill-beseeming semblance for a feast.
Tybalt.
It fits, when