I have remember'd me, thou shalt hear our counsel, Thou know'ft, my daughter's of a pretty age. Nurfe. 'Faith, I can tell her age unto an hour. La. Cap. She's not fourteen. Nurfe. I'll lay fourteen of my teeth, And yet, to my teen be it fpoken, I have but four, She is not fourteen: How long is it now To Lammas-tide? La. Cap. A fortnight, and odd days. Nurfe. Even or odd, of all days in the year, Come Lammas-eve at night, fhall fhe be fourteen; Sufan and fhe,-God reft all Chriftian fouls!Were of an age.-Well, Sufan is with God; She was too good for me: But, as I said, On Lammas-eve at night shall fhe be fourteen; That fhall fhe, marry; I remember it well. 'Tis fince the earthquake now eleven years; And she was wean'd,-I never fhall forget it,Of all the days of the year, upon that day; For I had then laid wormwood to my dug, Sitting in the fun under the dove-houfe wall, My lord and you were then at Mantua :Nay, I do bear a brain :--but, as I faid, When it did tafte the wormwood on the nipple Of my dug, and felt it bitter, pretty fool! To fee it tetchy, and fall out with the dug. Shake, quoth the dove-houfe: 'twas no need, I trow, To bid me trudge. And fince that time it is eleven years: For then she could stand alone; nay, by the rood, Thou wilt fall backward, when thou haft more wit; I never fhould forget it; Wilt thou not Jule? quoth he: And, pretty fool, it ftinted, and faid—Ay. La. Cap. Enough of this; I pray thee, hold thy peace. Nurfe. Yes, madam; Yet I cannot choose bat laugh, To think it should leave crying, and fay-Ay: Thou waft the prettieft babe that e'er I nurs'd: La. Cap. Marry, that marry is the very theme I came to talk of :-Tell me, daughter Juliet, How ftands your difpofition to be married? ful. It is an honour that I dream not of. Nurfe. An honour! were not I thine only nurse, I'd say, thou had'ft fuck'd wisdom from thy teat. La. Cap. Well, think of marriage now; younger than you, Here in Verona, ladies of esteem, Are made already mothers: by my count, The valiant Paris feeks you for his love. Nurfe. A man, young lady! lady, fuch a man, As all the world-Why, he's a man of wax. La. Cap. Verona's fummer hath not fuch a flower. Nurfe. Nay, he's a flower; in faith, a very flower. La. Cap. What fay you? can you love the gen tleman ? This night you fhall behold him at our feaft: And fee how one another lends content; The fish lives in the fea; and 'tis much pride, Nurfe. No lefs? nay, bigger; women grow by men. La. Cap. Speak briefly, can you like of Paris' love? ful. I'll look to like, if looking liking move; But no more deep will I endart mine eye, Than your confent gives ftrength to make it fly. Enter a Servant. Serv. Madam, the guefts are come fupper ferved up, you call'd, my young lady afk'd for, the nurfe curfed in the pantry, and every thing in extremity. I muft hence to wait; I befeech you, follow ftraight. La. Cap. We follow thee.-Juliet, the county ftays. Nurfe. Go, girl, feek happy nights to happy days. SCENE IV. A Street. [Exeunt. Enter ROMEO, MERCUTIO, BENVOLIO, with five or fix Mafkers, Torch-bearers, and others. Rom. What, fhall this fpeech be spoke for our excufe? Or fhall we on without apology? Ben. The date is out of fuch prolixity: But, let them meafure us by what they will, Being but heavy, I will bear the light. Mer. Nay, gentle Romeo, we must have you dance. Rom. Not I, believe me: you have dancing shoes, With nimble foles: I have a foul of lead, So ftakes me to the ground, I cannot move. Mer. You are a lover; borrow Cupid's wings, And foar with them above a common bound. Rom. I am too fore enpierced with his shaft, Mer. And to fink in it, fhould you burden love; Toe great oppreffion for a tender thing, Rom. Is love a tender thing? it is too rough, Too rude, too boift'rous; and it pricks like thorn. Mer. If love be rough with you, be rough with love; Prick love for pricking, and you beat love down.→ Give me a cafe to put my vifage in: [Putting on a mask. A vifor for a vifor!-what care I, What curious eye doth quote deformities? Here are the beetle-brows, fhall blush for me. Rom. A torch for me: let wantons, light of Tickle the fenfelefs rufhes with their heels; If thou art dun, we'll draw thee from the mire Mer. Rom. And we mean well, in going to this mask; But 'tis no wit to go. Mer. Why, may one ask? Rom. I dreamt a dream to-night. Mer. And fo did I. That dreamers often lie. Rom. Well, what was yours? Mer. Rom. In bed, afleep, while they do dream things true, |