Tib. Patience perforce, with wilfull choler meeting, Makes my flesh tremble in their different greeting: I will withdraw, but this intrusion shall Now seeming sweet, conuert to bitter gall. Enter.
Rom. If I prophane with my vnworthiest hand, This holy shrine, the gentle sin is this, My lips to blushing Pilgrims did ready stand, To smooth that rough touch, with a tender kisse
Iul. Good Pilgrime, You do wrong your hand too much. Which mannerly deuotion shewes in this, For Saints haue hands, that Pilgrims hands do tuch, And palme to palme, is holy Palmers kisse
Rom. Haue not Saints lips, and holy Palmers too? Iul. I Pilgrim, lips that they must vse in prayer
Rom. O then deare Saint, let lips do what hands do, They pray (grant thou) least faith turne to dispaire
Iul. Saints do not moue, Though grant for prayers sake
Rom. Then moue not while my prayers effect I take: Thus from my lips, by thine my sin is purg'd
Iul. Then haue my lips the sin that they haue tooke
Rom. Sin from my lips? O trespasse sweetly vrg'd: Giue me my sin againe
Iul. You kisse by'th' booke
Nur. Madam your Mother craues a word with you
Rom. What is her Mother? Nurs. Marrie Batcheler, Her Mother is the Lady of the house, And a good Lady, and a wise, and Vertuous, I Nur'st her Daughter that you talkt withall: I tell you, he that can lay hold of her, Shall haue the chincks
Rom. Is she a Capulet? O deare account! My life is my foes debt
Ben. Away, be gone, the sport is at the best
Rom. I so I feare, the more is my vnrest
Cap. Nay Gentlemen prepare not to be gone, We haue a trifling foolish Banquet towards: Is it e'ne so? why then I thanke you all. I thanke you honest Gentlemen, good night: More Torches here: come on, then let's to bed. Ah sirrah, by my faie it waxes late, Ile to my rest
Iuli. Come hither Nurse, What is yond Gentleman: Nur. The Sonne and Heire of old Tyberio
Iuli. What's he that now is going out of doore? Nur. Marrie that I thinke be young Petruchio
Iul. What's he that follows here that would not dance? Nur. I know not
Iul. Go aske his name: if he be married, My graue is like to be my wedded bed
Nur. His name is Romeo, and a Mountague, The onely Sonne of your great Enemie
Iul. My onely Loue sprung from my onely hate, Too early seene, vnknowne, and knowne too late, Prodigious birth of Loue it is to me, That I must loue a loathed Enemie
Nur. What's this? whats this? Iul. A rime, I learne euen now Of one I dan'st withall.
One cals within, Iuliet.
Nur. Anon, anon: Come let's away, the strangers all are gone.
Chorus. Now old desire doth in his death bed lie, And yong affection gapes to be his Heire, That faire, for which Loue gron'd for and would die, With tender Iuliet matcht, is now not faire. Now Romeo is beloued, and Loues againe, A like bewitched by the charme of lookes: But to his foe suppos'd he must complaine, And she steale Loues sweet bait from fearefull hookes: Being held a foe, he may not haue accesse To breath such vowes as Louers vse to sweare, And she as much in Loue, her meanes much lesse, To meete her new Beloued any where: But passion lends them Power, time, meanes to meete, Temp'ring extremities with extreame sweete. Enter Romeo alone.