Download MERCUTIO (Dream about Queen Mab 1

MERCUTIO (Dream about Queen Mab 1.4.57-100)
O, then, I see Queen Mab hath been with you.
And then dreams he of smelling out a suit;
She is the fairies' midwife, and she comes
And sometime comes she with a tithe-pig's tail
In shape no bigger than an agate-stone
Tickling a parson's nose as a' lies asleep,
On the fore-finger of an alderman,
Then dreams, he of another benefice:
Drawn with a team of little atomies
Sometime she driveth o'er a soldier's neck,
Athwart men's noses as they lie asleep;
And then dreams he of cutting foreign throats,
Her wagon-spokes made of long spiders' legs,
Of breaches, ambuscadoes, Spanish blades,
The cover of the wings of grasshoppers,
Of healths five-fathom deep; and then anon
The traces of the smallest spider's web,
Drums in his ear, at which he starts and wakes,
The collars of the moonshine's watery beams,
And being thus frighted swears a prayer or two
Her whip of cricket's bone, the lash of film,
And sleeps again. This is that very Mab
Her wagoner a small grey-coated gnat,
That plats the manes of horses in the night,
Not so big as a round little worm
And bakes the elflocks in foul sluttish hairs,
Prick'd from the lazy finger of a maid;
Which once untangled, much misfortune bodes:
Her chariot is an empty hazel-nut
This is the hag, when maids lie on their backs,
Made by the joiner squirrel or old grub,
That presses them and learns them first to bear,
Time out o' mind the fairies' coachmakers.
Making them women of good carriage:
And in this state she gallops night by night
This is she—
Through lovers' brains, and then they dream of love;
O'er courtiers' knees, that dream on court'sies straight,
O'er lawyers' fingers, who straight dream on fees,
O'er ladies ' lips, who straight on kisses dream,
Which oft the angry Mab with blisters plagues,
Because their breaths with sweetmeats tainted are:
Sometime she gallops o'er a courtier's nose,
ROMEO (Balcony scene 2.2.2-26)
But, soft! what light through yonder window breaks?
It 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; cast it off.
It is my lady, O, it is my love!
O, that she knew she were!
She speaks yet she says nothing: what of that?
Her eye discourses; I will answer it.
I am too bold, 'tis not to me she speaks:
Two of the fairest stars in all the heaven,
Having some business, do entreat her eyes
To twinkle in their spheres till they return.
What if her eyes were there, they in her head?
The brightness of her cheek would shame those stars,
As daylight doth a lamp; her eyes in heaven
Would through the airy region stream so bright
That birds would sing and think it were not night.
See, how she leans her cheek upon her hand!
O, that I were a glove upon that hand,
That I might touch that cheek!
JULIET (Juliet waits for Romeo 3.2.1-33)
Gallop apace, you fiery-footed steeds,
O, I have bought the mansion of a love,
Towards Phoebus' lodging: such a wagoner
But not possess'd it, and, though I am sold,
As Phaethon would whip you to the west,
Not yet enjoy'd: so tedious is this day
And bring in cloudy night immediately.
As is the night before some festival
Spread thy close curtain, love-performing night,
To an impatient child that hath new robes
That runaway's eyes may wink and Romeo
And may not wear them. O, here comes my nurse,
Leap to these arms, untalk'd of and unseen.
And she brings news; and every tongue that speaks
Lovers can see to do their amorous rites
But Romeo's name speaks heavenly eloquence.
By their own beauties; or, if love be blind,
It best agrees with night. Come, civil night,
Thou sober-suited matron, all in black,
And learn me how to lose a winning match,
Play'd for a pair of stainless maidenhoods:
Hood my unmann'd blood, bating in my cheeks,
With thy black mantle; till strange love, grown bold,
Think true love acted simple modesty.
Come, night; come, Romeo; come, thou day in night;
For thou wilt lie upon the wings of night
Whiter than new snow on a raven's back.
Come, gentle night, come, loving, black-brow'd night,
Give me my Romeo; and, when he shall die,
Take him and cut him out in little stars,
And he will make the face of heaven so fine
That all the world will be in love with night
And pay no worship to the garish sun.
JULIET (Prepares to drink potion 4.3.15-60)
Farewell! God knows when we shall meet again.
As in a vault, an ancient receptacle,
I have a faint cold fear thrills through my veins,
Where, for these many hundred years, the bones
That almost freezes up the heat of life:
Of all my buried ancestors are packed:
I'll call them back again to comfort me:
Where bloody Tybalt, yet but green in earth,
Nurse! What should she do here?
Lies festering in his shroud; where, as they say,
My dismal scene I needs must act alone.
At some hours in the night spirits resort;--
Come, vial.
Alack, alack, is it not like that I,
What if this mixture do not work at all?
So early waking, what with loathsome smells,
Shall I be married then to-morrow morning?
And shrieks like mandrakes' torn out of the earth,
No, no: this shall forbid it: lie thou there.
That living mortals, hearing them, run mad:--
What if it be a poison, which the friar
O, if I wake, shall I not be distraught,
Subtly hath minister'd to have me dead,
Environed with all these hideous fears?
Lest in this marriage he should be dishonour'd,
And madly play with my forefather's joints?
Because he married me before to Romeo?
And pluck the mangled Tybalt from his shroud?
I fear it is: and yet, methinks, it should not,
And, in this rage, with some great kinsman's bone,
For he hath still been tried a holy man.
As with a club, dash out my desperate brains?
How if, when I am laid into the tomb,
O, look! methinks I see my cousin's ghost
I wake before the time that Romeo
Seeking out Romeo, that did spit his body
Come to redeem me? there's a fearful point!
Upon a rapier's point: stay, Tybalt, stay!
Shall I not, then, be stifled in the vault,
Romeo, I come! this do I drink to thee.
To whose foul mouth no healthsome air breathes in,
And there die strangled ere my Romeo comes?
Or, if I live, is it not very like,
The horrible conceit of death and night,
Together with the terror of the place,--
ROMEO (In tomb 5.3.91-120)
In faith, I will. Let me peruse this face.
Than with that hand that cut thy youth in twain
Mercutio's kinsman, noble County Paris!
To sunder his that was thine enemy?
What said my man, when my betossed soul
Forgive me, cousin! Ah, dear Juliet,
Did not attend him as we rode? I think
Why art thou yet so fair? shall I believe
He told me Paris should have married Juliet:
That unsubstantial death is amorous,
Said he not so? or did I dream it so?
And that the lean abhorred monster keeps
Or am I mad, hearing him talk of Juliet,
Thee here in dark to be his paramour?
To think it was so? O, give me thy hand,
For fear of that, I still will stay with thee;
One writ with me in sour misfortune's book!
And never from this palace of dim night
I'll bury thee in a triumphant grave;
Depart again: here, here will I remain
A grave? O no! a lantern, slaughter'd youth,
With worms that are thy chamber-maids; O, here
For here lies Juliet, and her beauty makes
Will I set up my everlasting rest,
This vault a feasting presence full of light.
And shake the yoke of inauspicious stars
Death, lie thou there, by a dead man interr'd.
From this world-wearied flesh. Eyes, look your last!
How oft when men are at the point of death
Arms, take your last embrace! and, lips, O you
Have they been merry! which their keepers call
The doors of breath, seal with a righteous kiss
A lightning before death: O, how may I
A dateless bargain to engrossing death!
Call this a lightning? O my love! my wife!
Come, bitter conduct, come, unsavoury guide!
Death, that hath suck'd the honey of thy breath,
Thou desperate pilot, now at once run on
Hath had no power yet upon thy beauty:
The dashing rocks thy sea-sick weary bark!
Thou art not conquer'd; beauty's ensign yet
Here's to my love!
Is crimson in thy lips and in thy cheeks,
And death's pale flag is not advanced there.
Tybalt, liest thou there in thy bloody sheet?
O, what more favour can I do to thee,