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he starts and wakes, and being thus frighted, fwears a Prayer or two, and fleeps again. This is that very Mab that plats the Manes of Horfes in the Night, and bakes the Elflocks in foul fluttish Hairs, which once intangled, much Misfor tunes bodes.
This is the Hag, when Maids lye on their Backs,
That preffes them, and learns them first to bear,
Making them Women of good Carriage:
This is the-
Rom. Peace, peace, Mercutio, peace; Thou talk'ft of nothing.
Mer. True, I talk of Dreams;
Which are the Children of an idle Brain,
Begot of nothing, but vain Phantaie,
Which is as thin of fubftance as the Air,
And more unconftant than the Wind; who wooes
Even now the frozen bofom of the North,
And being anger'd, puffs away from thence,
Turning his fide to the Dew-dropping South.
Ben. This Wind you talk of, blows us from our felves; Supper is done, and we shall come too late.
Rom. I fear too early; for my mind mifgives,
Some confequence ftill 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 fome vile forfeit of untimely death;
But he that hath the fteerage of my courfe,
Dire& my Suit: On, lufty Gentlemen.
Ben. Strike, Drum.
They march about the Stage, and Servants come forth with their Napkins.
1 Ser. Where's Potpan, that he helps not to take away? He shift a Trencher! He fcrape a Trencher!
a Ser. When good Manners fhall lye in one or two Mens Hands, and they unwash'd too, 'tis a foul thing.
1 Ser. Away with the Joint-tools, remove the Court-cupboard, look to the Plate: Good thou, fave me a piece of March-pane; and as thou loveft me, let the Porter let in VOL. V.
Suffan Grindstone, and Nell, Anthony, and Potpan.
2 Ser. Ay, Boy, ready,
1 Ser. You are look'd for, call'd for, ask'd for, and sought for, in the great Chamber.
2 Ser. We cannot be here and there too; chearly Boys; Be brisk a while, and the longer liver take all. Enter all the Guests and Ladies to the Maskers. 1 Cap. Welcome, Gentlemen;
Ladies that have their Toes
Unplagu'd with Corns, will walk about with you.
Ah me, my Miftreffes, which of you all
Will now deny to Dance? She that makes dainty,
She, I'll fwear, hath Corns; Am I come near ye now?
Welcome Gentlemen, I have feen the day
That I have worn a Visor, and could tell
A whispering Tale in a fair Lady's Ear,
Such as would please: 'Tis gone; 'tis gone; 'tis gone:
You are all welcome, Gentlemen; come, Muficians, play.
[Mufick plays, and they Dance.
A Hall, Hall; give room, and foot it, Girls:
More Light ye 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, fit, nay, fit, good Coufin Capulet,
For you and I are paft our dancing days:
How long is't now fince laft your felf and I
Were in a Mask?
2 Cap. By'r Lady, thirty Years.
I Cap. What, Man! 'tis not fo much, 'tis not so much; 'Tis fince the Nuptial of Lucentio,
Come Pentecoft, as quickly as it will,
Some five and twenty Years, and then we Mask'd.
2 Cap. 'Tis more, 'tis more, his Son is Elder, Sir:
His Son is Thirty.
1 Cap. Will you tell me that?
His Son was but a Ward two Years ago.
Rom. What Lady is that which doth enrich the Hand Of yonder Knight?
Sir. I know not, Sir.
Rom. O fhe doth teach the Torches to burn bright; Her Beauty 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 fhews 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 bleffed my rude Hand.
Did my Heart love 'till now; forfwear it Sight?
For I ne'er faw true Beauty 'till this Night.
Tib. This by his Voice should be a Mountague.
Fetch me my Rapier, Boy: what dares the Slave
Come hither cover'd with an Antick Face,
To fleer and fcorn at our Solemnity?
Now by the stock and honour of my Kin,
To strike him dead, and hold it not a fin.
Cap. Why, how now, Kinfman,
Wherefore ftorm you fo?
Tib. Uncle, this is a Mountague, our Foe:
A Villain that is hither come in fpight,.
To fcorn at our Solemnity this Night.
Cap. Young Romeo, is it?
Tib. 'Tis he, that Villain Romeo.
Cap. 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 Houfe do him difparagement:
Therefore be patient, take no Note of him,
It is my will, the which if thou refpect,
Shew a fair Presence, and put off these Frowns,
And ill befeeming femblance of a Feast.
Tib. It fits, when fuch a Villain is a Gueft,
I'll not endure him.
Cap. He fhall be indur'd.
What, Goodman-boy-I fay he fhall. Go to
Am I the Mafter here, or you? Go to
You'll not endure him! God fhall mend my Soul,
You'll make a Mutiny among the Guests:
You will fet Cock-a-hoop? You'll be the Man?
Tib. Why, Uncle, 'tis a fhame.
Cad. Go to, go to.
You are a faucy Boy-'tis fo indeed.
This trick may chance to scathe you; I know what,
You must contrary me?-marry
-marry 'tis time,
Well faid, my Hearts, you are a Princox, go,
Be quiet, or more light, for fhame;
I'll make you quiet. What, cheerly, my Hearts.
Tib. Patience perforce with wilful Choler meeting,
Makes my Flesh tremble in their different greeting.
I will withdraw; but this Intrufion fhall,
Now feeming fweet, convert to bitter Gall.
Rom. If I prophane with my unworthieft Hand,[To Julier.
This holy Shrine, the gentle fin is this,
My Lips two blushing Pilgrims ready stard,
To fmooth that rough touch with a tender Kifs.
Jul. Good Pilgrim,
You do wrong your Hand too much,
Which mannerly Devotion fhews in this,
For Saints have Hands-the Pilgrim's Hands do touch,
And Plam to Palm, is holy Palmer's Kifs.
Rom. Have not Saints Lips, and holy Palmers too? Jul. Ay, Pilgrim, Lips that they muft ufe in Prayer. Rom. O then, dear Saint, let Lips do what Hands do, They pray (grant thou) left Faith turn to Defpair. Jul. Saints do not move,
Though grant for Prayers fake.
Rom. Then move not while my Prayers effect do take: Thus from my Lips, by thine my fin is purg'd. [Kiffing her. Jul. Then have my Lips the fin that they have took. Rom. Sin from my Lips! O trefpafs fweetly urg'd: Give me my fin again.
Jul. You kifs by th' Book.
Nur. Madam, your Mother craves a word with you.
Rom. What is her Mother?
Nur. Marry, Batchelor,
Her Mother is the Lady of the House,
And a good Lady, and a wife and virtuous,
I nurs'd her Daughter that you talk withal:
I tell you, he that can lay hold of her,
Shall have the Chinks.
Rom. Is the a Capulet?
O dear Account! My Life is my Foe's debt.
Ben. Away, be gone, the sport is at the beft.
Rom. Ay, fo I fear, the more is my unreft.
Cap. Nay, Gentlemen, prepare not to be gone,'
We have a trifling foolish Banquet towards.
Is it e'en fo? why then, I thank you all.
I thank you, honeft Gentlemen, good Night:
More Torches here-come on, then let's to Bed.
Ah, Sirrah, by my Fay it waxes late.
I'll to my reft.
Jul. Come hither, Nurse.
What is yond' Gentleman?
Nur. The Son and Heir of old Tyberio.
Jul. What's he that now is going out of Door?
Nur. Marry, that I think to be young Petruchio.
Jul. What's he that follows here, that would not dance?
Nur. I know not.
Jul. Go ask his Name. If he be Married, My Grave is like to be my wedding Bed.
Nur. His Name is Romeo, and a Mountague,
The only Son of our great Enemy."
Jul. My only Love fprung from my only Hate!
Too early feen, unknown, and known too late;
Prodigious birth of Love it is to me,
That I must love a loathed Enemy.
Nur. What's this? what's this?
Jul. A Rhime I learn'd even now
Of one I danc'd withal.
Nur. Anon, anon:
Come, let's away, the Strangers all are gone.
us diy brow
[One calls within, Juliet.
OW old Defire doth in his Death-bed lye,
young gapes to be his
That fair, for which Love groan'd fore, and would die,
With tender Juliet match'd is now not fair.
Now Romeo is belov'd, and loves again,