Romeo and Juliet Act 1 Scene 4
A street outside the Capulet house.
The Original
Plain Modern English
Enter Romeo, Mercutio, Benvolio, with five or six Maskers, Torch-bearers, and others.
Romeo
What, shall this speech be spoke for our excuse?
Or shall we on without a apology?
Romeo
So — do we make the little speech to excuse ourselves?
Or just go in without an apology?
Benvolio
The date is out of such prolixity:
We'll have no Cupid hoodwink'd with a scarf,
Bearing a Tartar's painted bow of lath,
Scaring the ladies like a crow-keeper;
Nor no without-book prologue, faintly spoke
After the prompter, for our entrance:
But let them measure us by what they will;
We'll measure them a measure, and be gone.
Benvolio
That long-winded stuff is out of fashion.
We won't have a blindfolded Cupid
carrying a painted toy bow,
scaring the ladies like a scarecrow.
No memorized prologue mumbled
after the prompter to announce us.
Let them judge us however they like —
we'll dance one dance with them and leave.
Romeo
Give me a torch: I am not for this ambling;
Being but heavy, I will bear the light.
Romeo
Give me a torch. I'm not in the mood for dancing.
I'm feeling heavy, so I'll carry the light.
Mercutio
Nay, gentle Romeo, we must have you dance.
Mercutio
Oh no, gentle Romeo — you're dancing.
Romeo
Not I, believe me: you have dancing shoes
With nimble soles: I have a soul of lead
So stakes me to the ground I cannot move.
Romeo
Not me, believe me. You've got dancing shoes
with light soles. I've got a soul made of lead,
pinning me to the ground so I can't move.
Mercutio
You are a lover; borrow Cupid's wings,
And soar with them above a common bound.
Mercutio
You're a lover — borrow Cupid's wings
and soar higher than any ordinary leap.
Romeo
I am too sore enpierced with his shaft
To soar with his light feathers, and so bound,
I cannot bound a pitch above dull woe:
Under love's heavy burden do I sink.
Romeo
I'm too badly wounded by his arrow
to soar on his light feathers. I'm so tied down
I can't leap an inch above this dull misery.
I'm sinking under love's heavy weight.
Mercutio
And, to sink in it, should you burden love;
Too great oppression for a tender thing.
Mercutio
And by sinking into it, you'd be weighing love down —
too much pressure for something so delicate.
Romeo
Is love a tender thing? it is too rough,
Too rude, too boisterous, and it pricks like thorn.
Romeo
Is love a delicate thing? It's too rough,
too crude, too violent — and it stabs like a thorn.
Mercutio
If love be rough with you, be rough with love;
Prick love for pricking, and you beat love down.
Give me a case to put my visage in:
A visor for a visor! what care I
What curious eye doth quote deformities?
Here are the beetle brows shall blush for me.
Mercutio
If love plays rough with you, play rough back.
Stab love for stabbing you, and you'll win.
Hand me a mask to put my face in.
A mask for a mask! Why should I care
if some nosy eye picks out my flaws?
Let these bushy fake eyebrows blush on my behalf.
Benvolio
Come, knock and enter; and no sooner in,
But every man betake him to his legs.
Benvolio
Come on, knock and go in. And the second we're inside,
everybody start dancing.
Romeo
A torch for me: let wantons light of heart
Tickle the senseless rushes with their heels,
For I am proverb'd with a grandsire phrase;
I'll be a candle-holder, and look on.
The game was ne'er so fair, and I am done.
Romeo
A torch for me. Let the carefree party people
tickle the floor-rushes with their heels.
I'll live by an old proverb:
I'll hold the candle and just watch.
The party's never looked better — and I'm out.
Mercutio
Tut, dun's the mouse, the constable's own word:
If thou art dun, we'll draw thee from the mire
Of this sir-reverence love, wherein thou stick'st
Up to the ears. Come, we burn daylight, ho!
Mercutio
Oh, hush and keep quiet, as the constable says.
If you're stuck in the mud, we'll pull you out
of this — pardon the word — love you're stuck in
up to your ears. Come on, we're wasting daylight!
Romeo
Nay, that's not so.
Romeo
No, that's not right — it's night.
Mercutio
I mean, sir, in delay
We waste our lights in vain, like lamps by day.
Take our good meaning, for our judgment sits
Five times in that ere once in our five wits.
Mercutio
I mean, sir, that by dawdling
we're wasting our torches, like lamps burning in daytime.
Take my meaning, not my words — sense lives
five times more in meaning than in wit.
Romeo
And we mean well in going to this mask;
But 'tis no wit to go.
Romeo
We mean well by going to this party,
but it isn't wise to go.
Mercutio
Why, may one ask?
Mercutio
And why's that, may I ask?
Romeo
I dream'd a dream to-night.
Romeo
I had a dream last night.
Mercutio
And so did I.
Mercutio
So did I.
Romeo
Well, what was yours?
Romeo
Well, what was yours?
Mercutio
That dreamers often lie.
Mercutio
That dreamers often lie.
Romeo
In bed asleep, while they do dream things true.
Romeo
They lie in bed asleep, while dreaming things that are true.
Mercutio
O, then, I see Queen Mab hath been with you.
She is the fairies' midwife, and she comes
In shape no bigger than an agate-stone
On the fore-finger of an alderman,
Drawn with a team of little atomies
Athwart men's noses as they lie asleep;
Her wagon-spokes made of long spiders' legs,
The cover of the wings of grasshoppers,
The traces of the smallest spider's web,
The collars of the moonshine's watery beams,
Her whip of cricket's bone, the lash of film,
Her wagoner a small grey-coated gnat,
Not so big as a round little worm
Prick'd from the lazy finger of a maid;
Her chariot is an empty hazel-nut
Made by the joiner squirrel or old grub,
Time out o' mind the fairies' coachmakers.
And in this state she gallops night by night
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,
And then dreams he of smelling out a suit;
And sometime comes she with a tithe-pig's tail
Tickling a parson's nose as a' lies asleep,
Then dreams, he of another benefice:
Sometime she driveth o'er a soldier's neck,
And then dreams he of cutting foreign throats,
Of breaches, ambuscadoes, Spanish blades,
Of healths five-fathom deep; and then anon
Drums in his ear, at which he starts and wakes,
And being thus frighted swears a prayer or two
And sleeps again. This is that very Mab
That plats the manes of horses in the night,
And bakes the elflocks in foul sluttish hairs,
Which once untangled, much misfortune bodes:
This is the hag, when maids lie on their backs,
That presses them and learns them first to bear,
Making them women of good carriage:
This is she—
Mercutio
Ah — then Queen Mab has been visiting you.
She's the fairies' midwife, and she comes
no bigger than the agate stone
in a city councillor's ring,
pulled by a team of tiny creatures
right across men's noses as they sleep.
Her wagon spokes are made of long spider legs,
the roof of grasshopper wings,
the harness of the finest spiderweb,
the collars of watery moonbeams,
her whip of cricket bone with a lash of gossamer,
her driver a little grey-coated gnat,
not half the size of the round little worm
picked out of a lazy girl's finger.
Her chariot is an empty hazelnut shell,
carved by a squirrel or an old grub —
the fairies' coach-builders since forever.
And in this style she gallops every night
through lovers' brains, and they dream of love;
over courtiers' knees, and they dream of bowing;
over lawyers' fingers, and they dream of fees;
over ladies' lips, and they dream of kisses —
which angry Mab often plagues with blisters,
because their breath smells of too many sweets.
Sometimes she gallops over a courtier's nose,
and he dreams of sniffing out a favour at court.
And sometimes she comes with the tail of a tax-collected pig
and tickles a priest's nose as he sleeps,
and he dreams of getting another parish.
Sometimes she drives across a soldier's neck,
and he dreams of cutting foreign throats,
of breached walls, ambushes, Spanish swords,
of toasts five fathoms deep — and then suddenly
drums in his ear, and he jolts awake,
and being frightened swears a prayer or two
and goes back to sleep. This is the same Mab
who braids horses' manes at night
and mats filthy hair into tangled elf-locks,
which bring bad luck if you comb them out.
This is the hag who, when girls lie on their backs,
presses down on them and teaches them—
(The joke has curdled. Mercutio's dazzling fantasy has turned dark and crude, which is exactly why Romeo cuts him off.)
This is the one—
Romeo
Peace, peace, Mercutio, peace!
Thou talk'st of nothing.
Romeo
Stop. Stop, Mercutio, stop!
You're talking about nothing.
Mercutio
True, I talk of dreams,
Which are the children of an idle brain,
Begot of nothing but vain fantasy,
Which is as thin of substance as the air
And more inconstant than the wind, who wooes
Even now the frozen bosom of the north,
And, being anger'd, puffs away from thence,
Turning his face to the dew-dropping south.
Mercutio
True — I'm talking about dreams,
which are the children of an idle brain,
born out of nothing but pointless fantasy,
as thin as air
and more changeable than the wind — which right now courts
the frozen north,
then gets annoyed and blows off,
turning to face the dewy south instead.
Benvolio
This wind, you talk of, blows us from ourselves;
Supper is done, and we shall come too late.
Benvolio
This wind you're describing is blowing us off course.
Dinner's over — we're going to be late.
Romeo
I fear, too early: for my mind misgives
Some consequence yet hanging in the stars
Shall bitterly begin his fearful date
With this night's revels and expire the term
Of a despised life closed in my breast
By some vile forfeit of untimely death.
But He, that hath the steerage of my course,
Direct my sail! On, lusty gentlemen.
Romeo
Too early, I'm afraid. Something tells me
that some event still hanging in the stars
will bitterly begin its terrible course
at tonight's party, and will end
this worthless life of mine
with some awful, early death.
But whoever is steering my ship,
let him guide my sail. Onward, gentlemen!
Benvolio
Strike, drum.
Benvolio
Drummer — play.
Exeunt.