Romeo and Juliet: Act 1

What ho! You men, you beasts,
That quench the fire of your pernicious rage
With purple fountains issuing from your veins...

So early walking did I see your son.
Towards him I made, but he was ’ware of me
And stole into the covert of the wood.

Black and portentous must this humor prove,
Unless good counsel may the cause remove.

Have you importuned him by any means?

Griefs of mine own lie heavy in my breast,
Which thou wilt propagate to have it pressed
With more of thine.

She hath forsworn to love, and in that vow
Do I live dead, that live to tell it now.

Read o’er the volume of young Paris’ face,
And find delight writ there with beauty’s pen.
Examine every married lineament
And see how one another lends content,
And what obscured in this fair volume lies,
Find written in the margent of his eyes.

Give me a case to put my visage in.

Sometime she driveth o’er a soldier’s neck,
And then dreams he of cutting foreign throats,
Of breaches, ambuscadoes, Spanish blades,
Of healths five fathom deep, and then anon
Drums in his ear, at which he starts and wakes;
And, being thus frighted, swears a prayer or two
And sleeps again.

...This is that very Mab
That plats the manes of horses in the night
And bakes the elflocks in foul sluttish hairs,
Which, once untangled, much misfortune bodes.

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 despisèd life clos'd in my breast
By some vile forfeit of untimely death.

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 despisèd life clos'd in my breast
By some vile forfeit of untimely death.

I would not for the wealth of all the town
Here in my house do him disparagement.

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.

If I profane with my unworthiest hand
This holy shrine, the gentle sin is this,
My lips, two blushing pilgrims, ready stand
To smooth that rough touch with a tender kiss.