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by William Shakespeare
[ Enter Friar Lawrence with a basket. ]
FRIAR LAWRENCE.
Now, ere the sun advance his burning eye,
The day to cheer, and nightâs dank dew to dry,
I must upfill this osier cage of ours
With baleful weeds and precious-juiced flowers.
The earth thatâs natureâs 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,
None but for some, and yet all different.
O, mickle is the powerful grace that lies
In plants, herbs, stones, and their true qualities.
For naught so vile that on the earth doth live
But to the earth some special good doth give;
Nor aught so good but, strainâd from that fair use,
Revolts from true birth, stumbling on abuse.
Virtue itself turns vice being misapplied,
And vice sometimeâs by action dignified.
[ Enter Romeo. ]
Within the infant rind of this weak flower
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 kings encamp them still
In man as well as herbs,âgrace and rude will;
And where the worser is predominant,
Full soon the canker death eats up that plant.
ROMEO.
Good morrow, father.
FRIAR LAWRENCE.
Benedicite!
What early tongue so sweet saluteth me?
Young son, it argues a distemperâd head
So soon to bid good morrow to thy bed.
Care keeps his watch in every old manâs eye,
And where care lodges sleep will never lie;
But where unbruised youth with unstuffâd brain
Doth couch his limbs, there golden sleep doth reign.
Therefore thy earliness doth me assure
Thou art uprousâd with some distemperature;
Or if not so, then here I hit it right,
Our Romeo hath not been in bed tonight.
ROMEO.
That last is true; the sweeter rest was mine.
FRIAR LAWRENCE.
God pardon sin. Wast thou with Rosaline?
ROMEO.
With Rosaline, my ghostly father? No.
I have forgot that name, and that nameâs woe.
FRIAR LAWRENCE.
Thatâs my good son. But where hast thou been then?
ROMEO.
Iâll tell thee ere thou ask it me again.
I have been feasting with mine enemy,
Where on a sudden one hath wounded me
Thatâs by me wounded. Both our remedies
Within thy help and holy physic lies.
I bear no hatred, blessed man; for lo,
My intercession likewise steads my foe.
FRIAR LAWRENCE.
Be plain, good son, and homely in thy drift;
Riddling confession finds but riddling shrift.
ROMEO.
Then plainly know my heartâs dear love is set
On the fair daughter of rich Capulet.
As mine on hers, so hers is set on mine;
And all combinâd, save what thou must combine
By holy marriage. When, and where, and how
We met, we wooâd, and made exchange of vow,
Iâll tell thee as we pass; but this I pray,
That thou consent to marry us today.
FRIAR LAWRENCE.
Holy Saint Francis! What a change is here!
Is Rosaline, that thou didst love so dear,
So soon forsaken? Young menâs love then lies
Not truly in their hearts, but in their eyes.
Jesu Maria, what a deal of brine
Hath washâd thy sallow cheeks for Rosaline!
How much salt water thrown away in waste,
To season love, that of it doth not taste.
The sun not yet thy sighs from heaven clears,
Thy old groans yet ring in mine ancient ears.
Lo here upon thy cheek the stain doth sit
Of an old tear that is not washâd off yet.
If ere thou wast thyself, and these woes thine,
Thou and these woes were all for Rosaline,
And art thou changâd? Pronounce this sentence then,
Women may fall, when thereâs no strength in men.
ROMEO.
Thou chiddâst me oft for loving Rosaline.
FRIAR LAWRENCE.
For doting, not for loving, pupil mine.
ROMEO.
And badâst me bury love.
FRIAR LAWRENCE.
Not in a grave
To lay one in, another out to have.
ROMEO.
I pray thee chide me not, her I love now
Doth grace for grace and love for love allow.
The other did not so.
FRIAR LAWRENCE.
O, she knew well
Thy love did read by rote, that could not spell.
But come young waverer, come go with me,
In one respect Iâll thy assistant be;
For this alliance may so happy prove,
To turn your householdsâ rancour to pure love.
ROMEO.
O let us hence; I stand on sudden haste.
FRIAR LAWRENCE.
Wisely and slow; they stumble that run fast.
[ Exeunt. ]