Two households, both alike in dignity,
in fair Verona, where we lay our scene,
from ancient grudge break to new mutiny,
where civil blood makes civil hands unclean.
From forth the fatal loins of these two foes,
a pair of star-cross'd lovers take their life;
whose misadventured piteous overthrows
doth with their death bury their parents'strife.
The fearful passage of their death-mark'd love
and the continuance of their parents'rage,
which, but their children's end, nought could remove,
is now the two hours' traffic of our stage.
Two households,
both alike in dignity,
in fair Verona, where we lay our scene,
from ancient grudge break to new mutiny,
where civil blood makes civil hands unclean.
From forth the fatal loins of these two foes,
a pair of star-cross'd lovers take their life.
A dog of the house of Capulet moves me!
Pedlar's excrement!
King Urinal! Go rot!
The boys! The boys!
- The quarrel is between our masters. - And us their men!
Hubble, bubble, toil and trouble!
And l am a pretty piece of flesh!
l am...
a pretty piece of flesh!
- Here comes of the house of Capulet! - Quarrel, l will back thee.
l will bite my thumb at them, which is a disgrace to them, if they bear it.
Go forth! l will back thee!
- Do you bite your thumb at us, sir? - l... l do bite my thumb, sir.
Do you bite your thumb at us, sir?
- ls the law of our side if l say ay? - No!
No, sir, l do not bite my thumb at you, sir, but l bite my thumb, sir!
- Do you quarrel, sir? - Quarrel, sir? No, sir!
But if you do, sir, l am for you. l serve as good a man as you.
No better?
Here comes our kinsman. Say better!
- Yes, sir, better! - You lie!
Draw, if you be men!
Part, fools! You know not what you do.
Put up your Swords!
What, art thou drawn among these... heartless hinds?
Turn thee, Benvolio,
and look upon thy death.
l do but keep the peace.
Put up thy Sword,
or manage it to part these men with me.
Peace?
l hate the word...
as l hate hell,
all Montagues,
and thee.
Bang bang!
Bang.
- Come forth! Come! - Wait!
Come forth!
From ancient grudge break to new mutiny...
Do not proceed!
Give me my Longsword, ho!
Thou shalt not stir one foot to seek a foe.
Rebellious subjects,
enemies to peace!
Throw your mistemper'd weapons to the ground!
On pain of torture,
from those bloody hands throw your mistemper'd weapons to the ground!
Three civil brawls,
bred of an airy word by thee, old Capulet, and Montague,
have thrice disturbed the quiet of our streets.
lf ever you disturb our streets again,
your lives shall pay the forfeit of the peace.
O where is Romeo? Saw you him today?
Right glad l am he was not at this fray.
Madam, underneath the Grove of Sycamore,
so early walking did l see your son.
Many a morning hath he there been seen,
with tears augmenting the fresh morning's dew.
Away from light steals home my heavy son,
and private in his chamber pens himself,
shuts up his windows,
locks fair daylight out, and makes himself an artificial night.
Why, then...
O brawling love, O loving hate!
O anything of nothing first create!
Heavy lightness,
serious vanity.
Misshapen chaos of well-seeming forms.
Black and portentous must this humour prove...
unless good counsel may the cause remove.
So please you, step aside.
l'll know his grievance or be much denied.
Come, madam, let's away.
Good morrow, cousin.
ls the day so young?
But new struck, coz.
Ay me, sad hours seem long.
Was that my father that went hence so fast?
lt was.
What sadness lengthens Romeo's hours?
Not having that which having makes them short.
- ln love? - Out.
- Of love? - Out of her favour where l am in love.
Alas that love, so gentle in his view,
should be so tyrannous and rough in proof.
Alas that love, whose view is muffled still,
should without eyes see pathways to his will.
Where shall we dine?
..this costly blood.
Never anger made good guard for itself.
The law hath not been dead...
O me! What fray was here?
- Coz, l... - Yet tell me not, for l've heard it all.
Here's much to do with hate, but more with love.
Why, then, O brawling love, O loving hate!
O anything of nothing first create!
O heavy lightness, serious vanity!
Misshapen chaos of well-seeming forms!
Feather of lead, br...
Dost thou not laugh?
No, coz, l rather weep.
Good heart, at what?
- At thy good heart's oppression. - Farewell, my coz.
Soft, l will go along. And if you leave me so, you do me wrong.
But Montague is bound as well as l, in penalty alike.
And 'tis not hard, l think, for men as old as we to keep the peace.
Of honourable reckoning are you both, and pity 'tis you lived at odds so long.
But now, my lord, what say you to my suit?
But saying o'er what l have said before: my child is yet a stranger in the world.
Let two more summers wither in their pride ere we may think her ripe to be a bride.
Younger than she are happy mothers made.
And too soon marr'd are those so early made.
This night l hold an old accustom'd feast.
At my poor house look to behold this night
fresh female buds that make dark heaven light.
Hear all, all see,
and like her most whose merit most shall be.
Come, go with me.
Tell me in sadness, who is it that you love?
ln sadness, cousin, l do love a woman.
l aim'd so near when l supposed you loved.
A right good marksman! And she's fair l love.
A right fair mark, fair coz, is soonest hit.
Well, in that hit you miss. She'll not be hit with Cupid's arrow;
nor bide the encounter of assailing eyes,
nor ope her lap to saint-seducing gold.
Then she hath sworn that she will still live chaste?
She hath, and in that sparing makes huge waste.
- Be ruled by me. Forget to think of her. - Teach me how l should forget to think.
By giving liberty unto thine eyes. Examine other beauties.
Why, Romeo, art thou mad?
Not mad, but bound more than a madman is.
Shut up in prison, kept without my food, whipp'd and tormented.
Good day, good fellow.
Now, l'll tell you without asking.
The great rich Capulet holds an old accustom'd feast.
A fair assembly. Signor Placentio and his wife and daughters,
the lady widow of Utruvio, and her lovely nieces Rosaline...
At this same ancient feast of Capulet's sups the fair Rosaline,
whom thou so loves, with all the admired beauties of Verona.
lf you be not of the House of Montague, come and crush a cup of wine!
Go thither, and with unattainted eye
compare her face with some that l shall show,
and l will make thee think thy swan a crow.
l'll go along, no such sight to be shown,
but to rejoice in splendour of mine own.
Juliet!
Nurse!
Nurse, where's my daughter? Call her forth to me.
l bade her come. God forbid!
Julieta!
Juliet!
Madam, l am here. What is your will?
O nurse, give us leave awhile. We must talk in secret.
Nurse, come back again! l have remembered me.
Thou's hear our counsel.
Nurse, thou knowest my daughter's of a pretty age.
Thou wast the prettiest babe that e'er l nursed.
By my count, l was your mother much upon these years.
You are now a maid.
Thus then in brief!
The valiant Paris seeks you for his love.
A man, young lady!
Lady, such a man as all the world. Why, he's a man of wax!
Verona's summer hath not such a flower...
Nay, he's a flower. ln faith, a very flower...
Nurse!
This night you shall behold him at our feast.
Read o'er the volume of young Paris' face and find delight writ there
with beauty's pen.
This... precious book of love, this unbound lover,
to beautify him, only lacks a cover.
So shall you share all that he doth possess,
by having him making yourself no less.
Nay, bigger. Women grow by men.
Speak briefly, can you like of Paris's love?
l'll look to like, if looking liking move.
But no more deep will l endart mine eye
than your consent gives strength to make it fly.
Madam, the guests are come.
Go!
We follow thee.
Juliet!
Go, girl. Seek happy nights to happy days.
You taffeta punk!
Die a beggar!
Sharing this one and only life
Ending up just another lost and lonely wife
You count up the years
And they will be filled with tears
Young hearts
Run free
Never be hung up
Like Rosaline and thee
Nay, gentle Romeo, we must have you dance.
Not l. Not l, believe me.
You have dancing shoes with nimble soles. l have a soul of lead.
You are a lover.
Borrow Cupid's wings and soar with them above a common bound.
Under love's heavy burden do l sink.
Too great oppression for a tender thing.
ls love a tender thing? lt is too rough,
too rude, too boisterous, and it pricks like thorn.
lf love be rough with you, be rough with love.
Prick love for pricking, and you beat love down.
Every man, betake him to his legs!
Come, we burn daylight, ho!
- But 'tis no wit to go! - Why, may one ask?
- l dreamt a dream tonight. - And so did l.
- And what was yours? - That dreamers often lie.
ln bed asleep, while they do dream things true.
O! Then l see Queen Mab hath been with you.
She is the fairies' midwife,
and she comes in shape no bigger than an agate-stone
on the forefinger of an alderman,
drawn with a team of little atomies
over men's noses as they lie asleep.
Her chariot is an empty hazelnut,
her waggoner a small grey-coated gnat.
And in this state she gallops night by night through lovers' brains,
and then they dream of...
love;
o'er lawyers' fingers, who straight dream on fees.
Sometime she driveth o'er a soldier's neck,
and then dreams he of cutting foreign throats;
and, being thus frighted, swears a prayer or two, and sleeps again.
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!
Peace, good Mercutio, peace!
Thou talk'st of nothing.
True.
l 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 woos even now the frozen bosom of the north,
and, being angered, puffs away from thence,
turning aside to the dew-dropping south.
This wind you talk of blows us from ourselves!
Supper is done, and we shall come too late!
l 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 closed within my breast...
by some vile forfeit of untimely death.
But he that hath the steerage of my course
direct my sail!
On, lusty gentlemen!
Thy drugs are quick.
l have seen the day that l could tell
a whispering tale in a fair lady's ear such as would please.
Amore! Amore!
Amore...
Pride can stand a thousand trials
The strong will never fall
But watching stars without you
My soul cried
Heaving heart
ls full of pain
Oh, oh
The aching
Cos l'm kissing you
Oh
l'm kissing you
Madam, your mother calls!
Touch me deep
Pure and true
Will you now deny to dance?
A man, young lady. Such a man!
What!
Dares that slave come hither to fleer and scorn at our solemnity?
Now, by the stock and honour of my kin, to strike him dead l hold it not a sin!
Why, how now, kinsman! Wherefore storm you so?
Uncle, this is that villain Romeo. A Montague, our foe.
- Romeo is it? - 'Tis he.
Content thee, gentle coz, let him alone.
l would not for the wealth of all this town
here in my house do him disparagement.
Therefore be patient, take no note of him.
Uncle, l'll not endure him.
He shall be endured.
Go to!
What, goodman boy? l say he shall!
Go to!
Uncle, 'tis a shame.
Make a mutiny among my guests?
Did my heart love till now?
Forswear it, sight.
For l never saw true beauty till this night.
Where are you now?
Cos l'm kissing you
l'm kissing you now
lf l 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.
Good pilgrim, you do wrong your hand too much,
which mannerly devotion shows in this.
For saints have hands that pilgrims' hands do touch,
and palm to palm is holy palmers' kiss.
Have not saints lips, and holy palmers too?
Ay, pilgrim, lips that they must use in prayer.
Well, then, dear saint, let lips do what hands do.
They pray, grant thou, lest faith turn to despair.
Saints do not move, though grant for prayers' sake.
Then move not, while my prayer's effect l take.
Dave!
Thus from my lips, by thine, my sin is purged.
Then have my lips the sin that they have took?
Sin from my lips? O trespass sweetly urged!
Give me my sin again.
You kiss by the book.
Juliet! Juliet! Oh!
Juliet?
Juliet!
Madam, your mother craves a word with you.
Come, let's away!
ls she a Capulet?
His name is Romeo, and he's a Montague,
the only son of your great enemy.
Away, be gone. The sport is at its best.
Ay, so l fear. The more is my unrest.
l am a pretty piece of flesh!
l am a pretty piece of flesh! l am!
My only love sprung from my only hate!
Too early seen unknown, and known too late!
Prodigious birth of love it is to me, that l must love a loathed enemy.
l will withdraw.
But this intrusion shall, now seeming sweet,
convert to bitterest gall.
A pretty piece of flesh! l am!
A pretty piece of...
Romeo!
- Romeo! - Romeo!
Romeo!
Humours! Madman!
Passion! Lover!
l will conjure thee by Rosaline's bright eyes,
by her high forehead and her scarlet lip,
by her fine foot, straight leg, and quivering thigh!
O Romeo, that she were an open-ass and thou a poperin pear!
He jests at scars that never felt the wound.
Romeo!
Good night!
l'll to my truckle-bed. This field-bed is too cold for me to sleep.
But soft!
What light through yonder window breaks?
lt is the east,
and Juliet is the sun!
Arise, fair sun, and kill the envious moon,
who is already sick and pale with grief
that thou, her maid, art far more fair than she.
Be not her maid, since she is envious.
Her vestal livery is but sick and green, and none but fools do wear it.
O cast it off!
lt is my lady, it is my love.
O that she knew she were.
Ay me!
She speaks.
Speak again, bright angel.
Romeo.
O Romeo!
Wherefore art thou Romeo?
Deny thy father and refuse thy name.
Or, if thou wilt not, be but sworn my love, and l'll no longer be a Capulet.
Shall l hear more,
or shall l speak at this?
'Tis but thy name that is my enemy.
Thou art thyself, though not a Montague.
What's Montague?
lt is not hand,
nor foot, nor arm, nor face,
nor any other part belonging to a man.
O be some other name!
What's in a name?
That which we call a rose by any other word would smell as sweet.
So Romeo would, were he not Romeo called,
retain that dear perfection which he owes without that title.
Romeo, doff thy name;
and for thy name, which is no part of thee, take all myself.
l take thee at thy word.
Art thou not Romeo, and a Montague?
Neither, fair maid, if either thee dislike.
How camest thou hither, tell me, and wherefore?
The garden walls are high and hard to climb,
and the place death, considering who thou art.
With love's light wings did l o'erperch these walls,
for stony limits cannot hold love out,
and what love can do, that dares love attempt.
Therefore thy kinsmen are no stop to me!
lf they do see thee, they will murder thee.
l have night's cloak to hide me from their eyes.
But thou love me,
let them find me here.
My life were better ended by their hate than death prorogued,
wanting of thy love.
Thou knowest the mask of night is on my face;
else would a maiden blush bepaint my cheek
for that which thou hast heard me speak tonight.
Fain would l dwell on form,
fain, fain deny what l have spoke.
But... farewell compliment.
Dost thou love me?
l know thou wilt say ''Ay'', and l will take thy word.
Yet, if thou swear'st, thou may'st prove false.
O gentle Romeo, if thou dost love, pronounce it faithfully.
Lady, by yonder blessed moon l vow,
that tips with silver all these fruit tree tops...
O swear not by the moon,
the inconstant moon that monthly changes in her circled orb,
lest that thy love prove likewise variable.
What shall l swear by?
Do not swear at all.
Or, if thou wilt,
swear by thy gracious self which is the god of my idolatry,
and l'll believe thee.
lf my heart's...
dear love...
Do not swear. Although l joy in thee, l have no joy in this contract tonight.
lt is too rash, too unadvised, too sudden, too like the lightning,
which doth cease to be ere one can say ''lt 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!
O wilt thou leave me so unsatisfied?
What satisfaction canst thou have tonight?
The exchange of thy love's faithful vow for mine.
l gave thee mine before thou didst request it!
Juliet!
Three words, dear Romeo, and good night indeed.
lf that thy bent of love be honourable, thy purpose marriage,
send me word tomorrow, by one that l'll procure to come to thee,
where and what time thou wilt perform the rite,
and all my fortunes at thy foot l'll lay
and follow thee, my lord, throughout the world.
Julieta!
Ay! By and by, l come!
But if thou meanest not well, l do beseech thee...
- Juliet! - By and by, l come!
..to cease thy strife, and leave me to my grief.
Tomorrow will l send.
So thrive my soul.
A thousand times good night.
A thousand times the worse, to want thy light!
Juliet!
Julieta!
Good night.
Love goes toward love as schoolboys from their books;
but love from love,
toward school with heavy looks.
Romeo!
What o'clock tomorrow shall l send to thee?
By the hour of nine.
l will not fail. 'Tis twenty year till then.
Good night.
Good night. Good night.
Parting is such sweet sorrow
that l shall say good night till it be morrow.
Juliet!
You and me always
And for ever
You and me always
And for ever
lt was always you and me...
Almighty is the powerful grace that lies in plants, herbs, stones,
and their true qualities.
For nought so vile that on the earth doth live
but to the earth some special good doth give.
And nought 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.
Within the infant rind of this... weak flower...
poison is resident...
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.
And where the worser is predominant, full soon the canker death
eats up that plant.
Good morrow, Father!
Benedicite!
What early tongue so sweet saluteth me?
Good morrow, Romeo.
Good morrow.
Young son, it argues a distemper'd head
so soon to bid good morrow to thy bed.
Or if not so, then here l hit it right...
Our Romeo hath not seen his bed tonight!
The last is true - the sweeter rest was mine.
God pardon sin! Wast thou with Rosaline?
Rosaline? My ghostly father, no!
l have forgot that name, and that name's woe.
That's my good son. But where then hast thou been?
l have been feasting with mine enemy, where on a sudden one hath wounded me
that's by me wounded.
Both our remedies within thy help and holy physic lies.
Be plain, good son, and homely in thy drift.
Riddling confession finds but riddling shrift.
Then plainly know my heart's dear love is set
on the fair daughter of rich Capulet.
We met, we wooed,
we made exchange of vow.
l'll tell thee as we pass, but this l pray,
that thou consent to marry us today.
Holy Saint Francis!
What a change is here!
ls Rosaline, that thou didst love so dear, so soon forsaken?
Young men's love then lies not truly in their hearts, but in their eyes.
Thou chid'st me oft for loving Rosaline.
For doting, not for loving, pupil mine.
l pray thee...
chide me not!
Her l love now doth grace for grace and love for love allow.
The other did not so.
Yes, she well knew...
thy love did read by rote, that could not spell.
Maybe l'm just like my mother
She's never satisfied
For this alliance may so happy prove
to turn your households'rancour
to pure love.
This is what it sounds like
When doves cry
Come, young waverer, come, go with me.
ln one respect l'll thy assistant be.
For this alliance may so happy prove
to turn your households' rancour to pure love.
O let us hence! l stand on sudden haste!
Wisely and slow. They stumble that run fast.
Maybe l'm just too demanding
Maybe l'm just like my father, too bold
Maybe l'm just like my mother
She's never satisfied
Why do we scream at each other?
This is what it sounds like
Where the devil should this Romeo be? Came he not home tonight?
Not to his father's; l spoke with his man.
Why, that same pale hard-hearted wench, that Rosaline,
torments him so, that he will sure run mad.
Tybalt hath sent a letter to his father's house.
- A challenge, on my life! - Romeo will answer it?
Any man that can write may answer a letter.
Nay, he will answer the letter's master, how he dares being dared.
Well, alas, poor Romeo, he is already dead! Stabbed with a white wench's black eye!
Run through the ear with a love-song!
The very pin of his heart cleft with the blind bow-boy's butt-shaft!
And is he a man to encounter Tybalt?
- Why, what is Tybalt? - More than Prince of Cats.
He is the courageous captain of compliments!
He fights as you sing pricksong.
Keeps time, distance, and proportion.
He rests his minim rests.
One, two, and a third...
in your bosom.
The very butcher of a silk button.
A duellist.
A duellist! A gentleman of the very first house,
of the first and second cause.
The immortal passado!
The punto reverso!
The, um... hai!
The what?
Here comes Romeo.
Romeo!
Ho-ho, taffeta punk!
Signor Romeo, bonjour!
There's a French salutation to your French slop.
You gave us the counterfeit fairly last night.
Good morrow to you both. What counterfeit did l give you?
The slip, sir, the slip. Can you not conceive?