Romeo and Juliet Act 1 Scene 1

Gregory, I swear, we're not taking any insults today.

No — that'd make us coal-haulers. (Lowest job going.)

What I mean is: if we get angry, we draw our swords.

Right — and while you're at it, draw your neck out of the hangman's noose.

I hit fast when I'm provoked.

But you're slow to get provoked.

Any mutt from the Montague house provokes me.

To be 'moved' means to move — and being brave means standing your ground.

So if you're moved, you're running away.

A dog of that house will move me to stand my ground. I'll

shove any Montague man or woman off the sidewalk.

That proves you're the weak one — the weakest gets pushed

to the wall.

True — which is why women, being 'weaker,'

always get shoved to the wall. So I'll shove

Montague's men off it, and his women

up against it. (The joke is a threat of sexual violence. Shakespeare opens the play by showing us exactly what this feud is made of.)

The fight is between our bosses — and us, their men.

Same thing. I'll be a monster about it: once I've

fought the men, I'll be cruel to the

women, and cut off their heads.

The women's heads?

Their heads — or their virginity.

Take it however you like.

The ones who feel it will take it however they feel it.

They'll feel me as long as I can stand — and

everyone knows I'm a fine specimen of a man.

Good thing you're not a fish — you'd be

dried salt cod. Draw your weapon! Here come

two of the Montagues.

My blade's out. Start the fight — I'll back you up.

What? Turn your back and run, you mean?

Don't worry about me.

Oh, I'm not worried about you. That's the problem.

Let's keep the law on our side — let them start it.

I'll scowl as I walk past and let them make of it

whatever they want.

No — as much as they dare. I'll bite my thumb at them,

which is an insult they'll have to swallow. (Roughly the Elizabethan middle finger.)

Are you biting your thumb at us, sir?

I am biting my thumb, sir.

Are you biting your thumb AT US, sir?

(quietly, to Gregory) Is the law on our side if I say yes?

No.

No, sir, I'm not biting my thumb AT you, sir. I'm just

biting my thumb, sir.

Are you picking a fight, sir?

A fight, sir? No, sir.

If you are, I'm ready. My boss is as good as yours.

No better than ours.

Well... sir.

Say 'better' — here comes one of the boss's relatives.

Yes. Better, sir.

You're a liar.

Draw, if you're men! Gregory — remember your big swing.

Break it up, idiots!

Put your swords away — you don't know what you're doing.

What, you've drawn your sword on these gutless servants?

Turn around, Benvolio. Meet your death.

I'm only keeping the peace. Put your sword away,

or use it to help me separate them.

Sword drawn, and you talk about peace? I hate that word

as much as I hate hell, all Montagues, and you.

Come on, coward!

Clubs, axes, spears! Hit them! Beat them down!

Down with the Capulets! Down with the Montagues!

What's all this noise? Bring me my longsword!

A crutch, more like! What do you want a sword for?

My sword, I said! Old Montague is here,

waving his blade around just to spite me.

You villain, Capulet! — Don't hold me back, let me go!

You're not taking one step toward a fight.

Rebellious subjects! Enemies of peace!

You who disgrace your swords by staining them with your neighbours' blood —

Won't they listen? You men — you animals —

who put out the fire of your poisonous rage

with fountains of blood from your own veins:

on pain of torture, drop those weapons

from your bloody hands right now,

and hear your furious Prince's ruling.

Three street riots now, all started by a careless word,

thanks to you, old Capulet, and you, Montague.

Three times you've shattered the peace of these streets

and forced Verona's elderly citizens

to throw off their dignified robes

and pick up rusty old weapons in withered old hands,

just to pry apart your rotten hatred.

If you ever disturb these streets again,

your lives will be the penalty.

For now, everyone else clear off.

Capulet, you come with me.

Montague, you come this afternoon

to hear my further judgment on this,

at Free-town, the courthouse.

Once more — on pain of death — everybody go home.

Who kicked off this old feud again?

Tell me, nephew — were you here when it started?

Your enemy's servants were here,

already fighting yours before I got close.

I drew my sword to separate them — and right then,

hot-headed Tybalt showed up with his sword out.

While he hurled insults at me,

he swung it over his head and slashed at nothing but air,

which, being unharmed, just hissed at him mockingly.

While we traded blows,

more and more people arrived and joined in on both sides,

until the Prince arrived and split everyone up.

Oh — where's Romeo? Have you seen him today?

I'm so relieved he wasn't in this brawl.

Madam, an hour before the sun

peeked through the golden window of the east,

a restless mind drove me out for a walk.

And there, under the sycamore grove

that grows west of the city walls,

I saw your son out walking that early.

I headed toward him, but he spotted me

and slipped off into the cover of the trees.

Judging his mood by my own —

being most occupied when most alone —

I followed my mood by not following him,

and happily avoided someone who was happily avoiding me.

He's been seen out there many a morning,

adding his tears to the fresh morning dew,

piling more clouds onto the sky with his heavy sighs.

But the moment the cheerful sun

begins to pull back

the dark curtains from the dawn's bed,

my gloomy son sneaks home away from the light,

shuts himself alone in his room,

closes the windows, locks the daylight out,

and manufactures his own private night.

This mood is going to turn dark and dangerous

unless someone can find out the cause and fix it.

Uncle — do you know what's causing it?

I don't know, and I can't get it out of him.

Have you pressed him about it at all?

Both myself and plenty of friends have.

But he keeps his own counsel about his feelings —

how honestly, I won't say —

but he's so secretive, so closed off,

so impossible to read or figure out,

like a flower bud eaten by a jealous worm

before it can open its petals to the air

or show its beauty to the sun.

If we could just learn where his sadness comes from,

we'd cure it as gladly as we'd learn it.

Look, here he comes. Please, step aside —

I'll find out what's wrong, or he'll have to work hard to refuse me.

I hope you're lucky enough, by staying,

to hear an honest confession. Come, madam, let's go.

Morning, cousin.

Is it still morning?

It just struck nine.

Ugh. Sad hours feel so long.

Was that my father leaving in such a hurry?

It was. What sadness is stretching out Romeo's hours?

Not having the thing that would make them fly by.

In love?

Out—

Of love?

Out of favour with the girl I'm in love with.

It's sad that love, which looks so gentle,

turns out so cruel and brutal in practice.

It's sad that love, who's always blindfolded,

can still find his way to whatever he wants without eyes.

Where should we eat? — Oh no. Was there a fight here?

Don't tell me, I've heard it all before.

This has a lot to do with hate — but more to do with love.

So then: brawling love! Loving hate!

Anything created out of nothing!

Heavy lightness! Serious silliness!

Ugly chaos made of beautiful shapes!

Lead feathers, bright smoke, cold fire, sick health!

Sleep that's wide awake — nothing is what it is!

That's the love I feel — and I feel no love in it.

Aren't you laughing?

No, cousin. I'd rather cry.

Good heart — about what?

About your good heart being crushed.

That's exactly what love does to people.

My own griefs already sit heavy in my chest,

and you'll only multiply them by pressing down

with your own. This affection you've shown me

just adds more grief to my already too-much grief.

Love is smoke made from the fumes of sighs.

Cleared away, it's a fire sparkling in lovers' eyes.

Frustrated, it's a sea fed by lovers' tears.

What else is it? The most sensible kind of insanity,

a bitter poison and a sweet cure at once.

Goodbye, cousin.

Hold on — I'm coming with you.

If you leave me like this, you're doing me wrong.

Please. I've lost myself. I'm not even here.

This isn't Romeo. He's somewhere else.

Seriously, tell me — who is it you love?

What, you want me to groan it out?

Groan? No.

Just tell me seriously who it is.

That's like telling a dying man to cheerfully write his will —

a cruel thing to ask someone this sick.

Seriously then, cousin: I'm in love with a woman.

I guessed that much when I assumed you were in love.

Great aim! And she's beautiful, the one I love.

A big beautiful target is the easiest to hit, cousin.

Well, that's where you miss. She can't be hit

by Cupid's arrow. She's as chaste as the goddess Diana.

Armored in her own chastity,

she's untouched by love's feeble little bow.

She won't sit through a siege of romantic words,

won't meet the assault of longing looks,

and won't be bought with gold that could tempt a saint.

She's rich in beauty — poor only in this:

when she dies, all that beauty dies with her.

So she's sworn to stay celibate forever?

She has — and by saving herself, she wastes everything.

Beauty starved by her strictness

cuts beauty off from all future generations.

She's too beautiful, too smart, too wisely beautiful,

to earn heaven by driving me to despair.

She's sworn off love — and that vow

leaves me living dead, alive only to tell you about it.

Take my advice: forget about her.

Oh — teach me how to forget how to think.

By letting your eyes wander.

Look at other beautiful women.

That's exactly the way

to make me think about how perfect she is even more.

Those lucky masks that kiss beautiful women's faces,

being black, remind us they're hiding beauty.

A man struck blind can never forget

the precious treasure of the sight he's lost.

Show me a woman who's stunningly beautiful —

what will her beauty do except serve as a note

reminding me of someone even more beautiful?

Goodbye. You can't teach me to forget.

I'll teach you that lesson yet, or die owing you.