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The Same. FRIAR LAURENCE’S Cell. | |
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Enter FRIAR LAURENCE, with a basket. | |
| Fri. L. The grey-ey’d morn smiles on the frowning night, | |
| Chequering the eastern clouds with streaks of light, | |
| And flecked darkness like a drunkard reels | 5 |
| 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-juiced flowers. | 10 |
| 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, | 15 |
| None but for some, and yet all different. | |
| O! mickle is the powerful grace that lies | |
| In herbs, plants, stones, and their true qualities: | |
| For nought so vile that on the earth doth live | |
| But to the earth some special good doth give, | 20 |
| Nor aught so good but strain’d from that fair use | |
| Revolts from true birth, stumbling on abuse: | |
| Virtue itself turns vice, being misapplied, | |
| And vice sometime’s by action dignified. | |
| Within the infant rind of this weak flower | 25 |
| 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 foes encamp them still | |
| In man as well as herbs, grace and rude will; | 30 |
| And where the worser is predominant, | |
| Full soon the canker death eats up that plant. | |
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Enter ROMEO. | |
| Rom. Good morrow, father! | |
| Fri. L. Benedicite! | 35 |
| What early tongue so sweet saluteth me? | |
| Young son, it argues a distemper’d head | |
| So soon to bid good morrow to thy bed: | |
| Care keeps his watch in every old man’s eye, | |
| And where care lodges, sleep will never lie; | 40 |
| But where unbruised youth with unstuff’d brain | |
| Doth couch his limbs, there golden sleep doth reign: | |
| Therefore thy earliness doth me assure | |
| Thou art up-rous’d by some distemperature; | |
| Or if not so, then here I hit it right, | 45 |
| Our Romeo hath not been in bed to-night. | |
| Rom. That last is true; the sweeter rest was mine. | |
| Fri. L. God pardon sin! wast thou with Rosaline? | |
| Rom. With Rosaline, my ghostly father? no; | |
| I have forgot that name, and that name’s woe. | 50 |
| Fri. L That’s my good son: but where hast thou been, then? | |
| Rom. I’ll tell thee, ere thou ask it me again. | |
| I have been feasting with mine enemy, | |
| Where on a sudden one hath wounded me, | |
| That’s by me wounded: both our remedies | 55 |
| Within thy help and holy physic lies: | |
| I bear no hatred, blessed man; for, lo! | |
| My intercession likewise steads my foe. | |
| Fri. L. Be plain, good son, and homely in thy drift; | |
| Riddling confession finds but riddling shrift. | 60 |
| Rom. Then plainly know my heart’s dear love is set | |
| On the fair daughter of rich Capulet: | |
| As mine on hers, so hers is set on mine; | |
| And all combin’d, save what thou must combine | |
| By holy marriage: when and where and how | 65 |
| We met we woo’d and made exchange of vow, | |
| I’ll tell thee as we pass; but this I pray, | |
| That thou consent to marry us to-day. | |
| Fri. L. Holy Saint Francis! what a change is here; | |
| Is Rosaline, whom thou didst love so dear, | 70 |
| So soon forsaken? young men’s love then lies | |
| Not truly in their hearts, but in their eyes. | |
| Jesu Maria! what a deal of brine | |
| Hath wash’d thy sallow cheeks for Rosaline; | |
| How much salt water thrown away in waste, | 75 |
| To season love, that of it doth not taste! | |
| The sun not yet thy sighs from heaven clears, | |
| Thy old groans ring yet in my ancient ears; | |
| Lo! here upon thy cheek the stain doth sit | |
| Of an old tear that is not wash’d off yet. | 80 |
| If e’er thou wast thyself and these woes thine, | |
| Thou and these woes were all for Rosaline: | |
| And art thou chang’d? pronounce this sentence then: | |
| Women may fall, when there’s no strength in men. | |
| Rom. Thou chidd’st me oft for loving Rosaline. | 85 |
| Fri. L. For doting, not for loving, pupil mine. | |
| Rom. And bad’st me bury love. | |
| Fri. L. Not in a grave, | |
| To lay one in, another out to have. | |
| Rom. I pray thee, chide not; she, whom I love now | 90 |
| Doth grace for grace and love for love allow; | |
| The other did not so. | |
| Fri. L. O! she knew well | |
| Thy love did read by rote and could not spell. | |
| But come, young waverer, come, go with me, | 95 |
| In one respect I’ll thy assistant be; | |
| For this alliance may so happy prove, | |
| To turn your households’ rancour to pure love. | |
| Rom. O! let us hence; I stand on sudden haste. | |
| Fri. L. Wisely and slow; they stumble that run fast. [Exeunt. | 100 |
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