Romeo and Juliet, Act 1, Scene 1

Gregory, on my word, we’ll not carry coals.

Gregory, I give you my word, we won't put up with insults.

No, for then we should be colliers.

No, because then we'd be coal-carriers.

I mean, if we be in choler, we’ll draw.

I mean, if we get angry, we'll pull out our swords.

Ay, while you live, draw your neck out o’ the collar.

Yes, as long as you live, pull your neck out of the hangman's noose.

I strike quickly, being moved.

I hit fast, once I'm provoked.

But thou art not quickly moved to strike.

But you're not fast to be provoked into hitting.

A dog of the house of Montague moves me.

A dog from the house of Montague provokes me.

To move is to stir; and to be valiant is to stand: therefore, if thou art moved, thou runn’st away.

To be moved is to move off; and to be brave is to stand your ground. So if you're moved, you run away.

A dog of that house shall move me to stand. I will take the wall of any man or maid of Montague’s.

A dog from that house will move me to stand my ground. I'll take the inside of the path from any man or woman of Montague's.

That shows thee a weak slave, for the weakest goes to the wall.

That shows you're a feeble wretch, since the weakest is the one pushed against the wall.

True, and therefore women, being the weaker vessels, are ever thrust to the wall: therefore I will push Montague’s men from the wall, and thrust his maids to the wall.

True, and that's why women, being the weaker containers, are always shoved up against the wall. So I'll push Montague's men off the wall and shove his women against it.

The quarrel is between our masters and us their men.

The fight is between our masters, and us, their servants.

’Tis all one, I will show myself a tyrant: when I have fought with the men I will be civil with the maids, I will cut off their heads.

It makes no difference, I'll behave like a tyrant. When I've fought the men, I'll be polite to the women — I'll cut off their heads.

The heads of the maids?

The heads of the women?

Ay, the heads of the maids, or their maidenheads; take it in what sense thou wilt.

Yes, the heads of the women, or their virginities. Take it whichever way you like.

They must take it in sense that feel it.

The ones who feel it will have to take it with their senses.

Me they shall feel while I am able to stand: and ’tis known I am a pretty piece of flesh.

They'll feel me as long as I can stand up, and everyone knows I'm a fine specimen of a man.

’Tis well thou art not fish; if thou hadst, thou hadst been poor John. Draw thy tool; here comes of the house of Montagues.

It's a good thing you're not a fish; if you were, you'd be a dried salted hake, poor John. Draw your weapon: here come some men of the house of Montague.

My naked weapon is out: quarrel, I will back thee.

My bare blade is out. Start a fight — I'll back you up.

How? Turn thy back and run?

How? By turning your back and running?

Fear me not.

Don't worry about me.

No, marry; I fear thee!

No, really; you're the one I'm worried about!

Let us take the law of our sides; let them begin.

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

I will frown as I pass by, and let them take it as they list.

I'll scowl as I walk past, and let them make of it what they want.

Nay, as they dare. I will bite my thumb at them, which is disgrace to them if they bear it.

No, what they dare. I'll bite my thumb at them, which is an insult to them if they put up with it.

Do you bite your thumb at us, sir?

Are you biting your thumb at us, sir?

I do bite my thumb, sir.

I am biting my thumb, sir.

Do you bite your thumb at us, sir?

Are you biting your thumb at us, sir?

Is the law of our side if I say ay?

Is the law on our side if I say yes?

No.

No.

No sir, I do not bite my thumb at you, sir; but I bite my thumb, sir.

No, sir, I'm not biting my thumb at you, sir; but I am biting my thumb, sir.

Do you quarrel, sir?

Are you trying to pick a fight, sir?

Quarrel, sir? No, sir.

A fight, sir? No, sir.

But if you do, sir, I am for you. I serve as good a man as you.

But if you are, sir, I'm ready for you. I serve a man as good as yours.

No better.

No better, though.

Well, sir.

Well, sir.

Say better; here comes one of my master’s kinsmen.

Say "better" — here comes one of my master's relatives.

Yes, better, sir.

Yes, better, sir.

You lie.

You're lying.

Draw, if you be men. Gregory, remember thy washing blow.

Draw your swords, if you're men. Gregory, remember that slashing stroke of yours.

Part, fools! put up your swords, you know not what you do.

Break it up, you fools! Put your swords away — you don't know what you're doing.

What, art thou drawn among these heartless hinds? Turn thee Benvolio, look upon thy death.

What, you've got your sword out among these cowardly farmhands? Turn around, Benvolio, and look at your death.

I do but keep the peace, put up thy sword, Or manage it to part these men with me.

I'm only keeping the peace. Put your sword away, or else use it to help me separate these men.

What, drawn, and talk of peace? I hate the word As I hate hell, all Montagues, and thee: Have at thee, coward.

What, your sword's out and you talk of peace? I hate that word the way I hate hell, all Montagues, and you. Take that, coward.

Clubs, bills and partisans! Strike! Beat them down! Down with the Capulets! Down with the Montagues!

Clubs, axes and spears! Strike! Knock them down! Down with the Capulets! Down with the Montagues!

What noise is this? Give me my long sword, ho!

What's all this noise? Bring me my long sword, now!

A crutch, a crutch! Why call you for a sword?

A crutch, a crutch is what you need! Why are you calling for a sword?

My sword, I say! Old Montague is come, And flourishes his blade in spite of me.

My sword, I said! Old Montague has arrived, and he's waving his blade around to defy me.

Thou villain Capulet! Hold me not, let me go.

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

Thou shalt not stir one foot to seek a foe.

You won't take a single step to go looking for an enemy.

Rebellious subjects, enemies to peace, Profaners of this neighbour-stained steel,— Will they not hear? What, ho! You men, you beasts, That quench the fire of your pernicious rage With purple fountains issuing from your veins, On pain of torture, from those bloody hands Throw your mistemper’d weapons to the ground And hear the sentence of your moved prince. Three civil brawls, bred of an airy word, By thee, old Capulet, and Montague, Have thrice disturb’d the quiet of our streets, And made Verona’s ancient citizens Cast by their grave beseeming ornaments, To wield old partisans, in hands as old, Canker’d with peace, to part your canker’d hate. If ever you disturb our streets again, Your lives shall pay the forfeit of the peace. For this time all the rest depart away: You, Capulet, shall go along with me, And Montague, come you this afternoon, To know our farther pleasure in this case, To old Free-town, our common judgement-place. Once more, on pain of death, all men depart.

You rebellious subjects, enemies of peace, you who defile your swords with your neighbours' blood — won't they listen? Hey, you there! You men, you animals, who put out the fire of your destructive rage with the red fountains pouring from your own veins — on pain of torture, drop those badly tempered weapons from your bloody hands to the ground and hear the judgement of your angry prince. Three street brawls, born out of a mere word of nothing, started by you, old Capulet, and by you, Montague, have three times now disturbed the quiet of our streets, and made Verona's elderly citizens throw off the dignified clothes that suit them, to take up ancient spears in hands just as ancient, rusted from long peace, in order to break up your rusted hatred. If you ever disturb our streets again, your lives will be the penalty you pay for breaking the peace. For now, all the rest of you go away. You, Capulet, will come with me; and Montague, you come this afternoon to old Free-town, where we hold our public judgements, to learn what more we decide in this matter. Once more, on pain of death, everyone leave.

Who set this ancient quarrel new abroach? Speak, nephew, were you by when it began?

Who started this old quarrel up again? Tell me, nephew, were you here when it began?

Here were the servants of your adversary And yours, close fighting ere I did approach. I drew to part them, in the instant came The fiery Tybalt, with his sword prepar’d, Which, as he breath’d defiance to my ears, He swung about his head, and cut the winds, Who nothing hurt withal, hiss’d him in scorn. While we were interchanging thrusts and blows Came more and more, and fought on part and part, Till the Prince came, who parted either part.

Your enemy's servants and yours were here, fighting hand to hand before I arrived. I drew my sword to separate them, and at that moment in came hot-tempered Tybalt with his sword ready, which, while he breathed threats in my ears, he swung around his head and slashed at the wind, which, not hurt at all by it, hissed at him in contempt. While we were exchanging thrusts and blows, more and more people came and fought on one side or the other, until the Prince came and separated both sides.

O where is Romeo, saw you him today? Right glad I am he was not at this fray.

Oh, where is Romeo? Have you seen him today? I'm very glad he wasn't in this brawl.

Madam, an hour before the worshipp’d sun Peer’d forth the golden window of the east, A troubled mind drave me to walk abroad, Where underneath the grove of sycamore That westward rooteth from this city side, So early walking did I see your son. Towards him I made, but he was ware of me, And stole into the covert of the wood. I, measuring his affections by my own, Which then most sought where most might not be found, Being one too many by my weary self, Pursu’d my humour, not pursuing his, And gladly shunn’d who gladly fled from me.

Madam, an hour before the honoured sun looked out of the golden window of the east, a troubled mind drove me out to walk, and there, under the grove of sycamores that grows west of this side of the city, I saw your son out walking that early. I headed towards him, but he noticed me and slipped away into the cover of the trees. I judged his feelings by my own — mine at that time wanting most to be where I'd be least likely to be found, since my own tired self was one person too many — so I followed my own mood rather than following his, and was glad to avoid the one who was glad to run from me.

Many a morning hath he there been seen, With tears augmenting the fresh morning’s dew, Adding to clouds more clouds with his deep sighs; But all so soon as the all-cheering sun Should in the farthest east begin to draw The shady curtains from Aurora’s bed, Away from light steals home my heavy son, And private in his chamber pens himself, Shuts up his windows, locks fair daylight out And makes himself an artificial night. Black and portentous must this humour prove, Unless good counsel may the cause remove.

He's been seen there many a morning, adding his tears to the fresh morning dew and piling more clouds on the clouds with his deep sighs. But as soon as the all-cheering sun starts, in the farthest east, to draw back the shadowy curtains from Aurora's bed, my gloomy son steals away home out of the light and shuts himself up alone in his room, closes his shutters, locks out the lovely daylight and makes himself an artificial night. This mood of his is bound to turn out dark and ominous, unless good advice can remove the cause.

My noble uncle, do you know the cause?

My noble uncle, do you know what the cause is?

I neither know it nor can learn of him.

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

Have you importun’d him by any means?

Have you pressed him about it in any way at all?

Both by myself and many other friends; But he, his own affections’ counsellor, Is to himself—I will not say how true— But to himself so secret and so close, So far from sounding and discovery, As is the bud bit with an envious worm Ere he can spread his sweet leaves to the air, Or dedicate his beauty to the sun. Could we but learn from whence his sorrows grow, We would as willingly give cure as know.

Both myself and many other friends have. But he, being the only adviser of his own feelings, is to himself — I won't say how faithful an adviser — but to himself so secretive and so closed up, so far from being probed or discovered, as a flower bud bitten by a spiteful worm before it can spread its sweet leaves to the air or offer its beauty to the sun. If only we could learn where his sorrows come from, we'd be as willing to cure them as to know them.

See, where he comes. So please you step aside; I’ll know his grievance or be much denied.

Look, here he comes. Please step aside; I'll learn what's troubling him, unless he flatly refuses me.

I would thou wert so happy by thy stay To hear true shrift. Come, madam, let’s away,

I hope you're lucky enough, by staying, to hear a true confession. Come, madam, let's go.

Good morrow, cousin.

Good morning, cousin.

Is the day so young?

Is the day still so young?

But new struck nine.

It has only just struck nine.

Ay me, sad hours seem long. Was that my father that went hence so fast?

Oh dear, unhappy hours seem long. Was that my father who went off so quickly?

It was. What sadness lengthens Romeo’s hours?

It was. What sorrow makes Romeo's hours so long?

Not having that which, having, makes them short.

Not having the thing that, if I had it, would make them short.

In love?

In love?

Out.

Out.

Of love?

Out of love?

Out of her favour where I am in love.

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

Alas that love so gentle in his view, Should be so tyrannous and rough in proof.

It's a pity that love, which looks so gentle, should be so cruel and harsh when you actually try it.

Alas that love, whose view is muffled still, Should, without eyes, see pathways to his will! Where shall we dine? O me! What fray was here? Yet tell me not, for I have heard it all. Here’s much to do with hate, but more with love: Why, then, O brawling love! O loving hate! O anything, of nothing first create! O heavy lightness! serious vanity! Misshapen chaos of well-seeming forms! Feather of lead, bright smoke, cold fire, sick health! Still-waking sleep, that is not what it is! This love feel I, that feel no love in this. Dost thou not laugh?

It's a pity that love, whose eyes are always blindfolded, should be able to see, without eyes, the ways to get what it wants! Where shall we have dinner? Oh no! What fight happened here? But don't tell me, for I've heard it all. There's plenty of hatred at work here, but more of love. Well, then, quarrelling love! Loving hatred! Anything at all, made out of nothing in the first place! Heavy lightness! Solemn foolishness! Deformed chaos made of shapes that look beautiful! Feather made of lead, bright smoke, cold fire, sick health, sleep that is always awake — it is not what it is! This is the love I feel, though I feel no love in any of this. Aren't you laughing?

No coz, I rather weep.

No, cousin, I'd sooner cry.

Good heart, at what?

Good soul, at what?

At thy good heart’s oppression.

At the weight pressing on your good heart.

Why such is love’s transgression. Griefs of mine own lie heavy in my breast, Which thou wilt propagate to have it prest With more of thine. This love that thou hast shown Doth add more grief to too much of mine own. Love is a smoke made with the fume of sighs; Being purg’d, a fire sparkling in lovers’ eyes; Being vex’d, a sea nourish’d with lovers’ tears: What is it else? A madness most discreet, A choking gall, and a preserving sweet. Farewell, my coz.

Why, that's the way love wrongs us. My own griefs already lie heavy in my chest, and you would make them grow by pressing them down with more of yours. This affection you've shown me only adds more grief to the far too much I have already. Love is a smoke made from the vapour of sighs; when it clears, it's a fire sparkling in lovers' eyes; when it's crossed, it's a sea fed by lovers' tears. What else is it? A madness that is perfectly sensible, a bitterness that chokes, and a sweetness that keeps you alive. Goodbye, cousin.

Soft! I will go along: And if you leave me so, you do me wrong.

Wait! I'll come with you. If you leave me like that, you do me an injury.

Tut! I have lost myself; I am not here. This is not Romeo, he’s some other where.

Come on! I've lost myself; I'm not here. This isn't Romeo — he's somewhere else.

Tell me in sadness who is that you love?

Tell me seriously, who is it you love?

What, shall I groan and tell thee?

What, shall I groan and tell you?

Groan! Why, no; but sadly tell me who.

Groan! Why, no; just tell me seriously who it is.

Bid a sick man in sadness make his will, A word ill urg’d to one that is so ill. In sadness, cousin, I do love a woman.

You might as well tell a sick man, seriously, to make his will — a badly chosen thing to say to someone who is that ill. Seriously, cousin, I'm in love with a woman.

I aim’d so near when I suppos’d you lov’d.

I got that close to the mark when I guessed you were in love.

A right good markman, and she’s fair I love.

A fine shot indeed. And the one I love is beautiful.

A right fair mark, fair coz, is soonest hit.

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

Well, in that hit you miss: she’ll not be hit With Cupid’s arrow, she hath Dian’s wit; And in strong proof of chastity well arm’d, From love’s weak childish bow she lives uncharm’d. She will not stay the siege of loving terms Nor bide th’encounter of assailing eyes, Nor ope her lap to saint-seducing gold: O she’s rich in beauty, only poor That when she dies, with beauty dies her store.

Well, in that shot you miss: she won't be hit by Cupid's arrow. She has Diana's mind, and, armed in the strong armour of chastity, she lives untouched by love's weak childish bow. She won't put up with a siege of loving words, or endure the attack of eyes assaulting her, or open her lap to gold that can seduce even saints. Oh, she's rich in beauty, and poor only in this: that when she dies, her whole store of beauty dies with her.

Then she hath sworn that she will still live chaste?

So she has sworn she'll always live chaste?

She hath, and in that sparing makes huge waste; For beauty starv’d with her severity, Cuts beauty off from all posterity. She is too fair, too wise; wisely too fair, To merit bliss by making me despair. She hath forsworn to love, and in that vow Do I live dead, that live to tell it now.

She has, and by that hoarding she causes an enormous waste; for beauty starved by her severity cuts beauty off from all future generations. She's too beautiful, too wise — wisely too beautiful — to earn heaven by driving me to despair. She has sworn never to love, and because of that vow I live dead, even as I live to tell you about it now.

Be rul’d by me, forget to think of her.

Let me guide you: learn to stop thinking about her.

O teach me how I should forget to think.

Oh, teach me how I should stop thinking at all.

By giving liberty unto thine eyes; Examine other beauties.

By setting your eyes free; look at other beautiful women.

’Tis the way To call hers, exquisite, in question more. These happy masks that kiss fair ladies’ brows, Being black, puts us in mind they hide the fair; He that is strucken blind cannot forget The precious treasure of his eyesight lost. Show me a mistress that is passing fair, What doth her beauty serve but as a note Where I may read who pass’d that passing fair? Farewell, thou canst not teach me to forget.

That's exactly the way to make her exquisite beauty come to mind even more. Those lucky masks that kiss beautiful ladies' foreheads, being black, remind us that they're hiding something beautiful. A man struck blind can't forget the precious treasure of the sight he's lost. Show me a mistress who is surpassingly beautiful: what does her beauty do but serve as a note where I can read about the one who surpassed that surpassing beauty? Goodbye. You can't teach me to forget.

I’ll pay that doctrine, or else die in debt.

I'll teach you that lesson, or else die owing it to you.