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 carry coals.

No, for then we should be colliers.

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

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

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

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

Yes, as long as you live, keep drawing your neck out of the hangman's collar.

I strike quickly, being moved.

I hit fast when I'm provoked.

But thou art not quickly moved to strike.

But you're not provoked fast 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 side of the wall from any man or woman of Montague's.

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

That proves you're a weak slave, because the weakest gets pushed to 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 vessels, are always shoved up against the wall. So I'll push Montague's men away from the wall, and shove his women against it.

The quarrel is between our masters and us their men.

The quarrel is between our masters and us, their men.

’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's all the same, I'll show myself a tyrant: when I've fought with the men I'll be considerate with 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 maidenheads; 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 in the appropriate sense.

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; and it's well known I'm a fine piece of flesh.

’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 fish; if you were, you'd have been poor John. Draw your weapon; here come some of the house of the Montagues.

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

My bare weapon 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, honestly — it's you 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 frown as I walk past, and let them take it however they please.

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

No, however 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 as good a man as you do.

No better.

No better.

Well, sir.

All right, 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, if you're men. Gregory, remember your slashing blow.

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

Break it up, you fools! Put away your swords, 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 drawn your sword among these cowardly servants? 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 away your sword, or 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 is drawn and you talk of peace? I hate that word as 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, bills and spears! Strike! Beat them down! Down with the Capulets! Down with the Montagues!

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

What's this noise? Give me my long sword, quickly!

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

A crutch, a crutch! 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 say! Old Montague has come, and he's waving his blade to spite 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 will not take one 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.

Rebellious subjects, enemies of peace, you who defile your swords with your neighbours' blood — won't they listen? What, there! You men, you beasts, who put out the fire of your deadly rage with purple 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 sentence of your angry prince. Three street brawls, started by a thoughtless word from you, old Capulet, and you, Montague, have three times disturbed the quiet of our streets, and made Verona's old citizens throw off the dignified clothes that suit them and take up old spears in hands just as old, rusted with peace, to break up your rusted hatred. If you ever disturb our streets again, your lives will be the price you pay for breaking the peace. For this time, everyone else go away. You, Capulet, will come with me; and Montague, you come this afternoon to old Free-town, the hall where we give judgement, 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 flowing 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 came near. I drew my sword to separate them, and at that moment the hot-tempered Tybalt arrived with his sword ready. As he breathed insults in my ears, he swung it around his head and slashed the air, which, being unhurt by it, hissed at him in scorn. While we were trading thrusts and blows, more and more men came and joined in on both sides, 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 fight.

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 worshipped sun looked out through the golden window of the east, a troubled mind drove me out walking. There, under the grove of sycamores that grows west of this side of the city, I saw your son walking so early. I headed towards him, but he noticed me and slipped away into the cover of the trees. I, judging his feelings by my own — which at that time most wanted to be where they could least be found, since even my own weary self was one person too many — followed my own mood instead of following him, and gladly avoided someone who gladly ran away 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.

Many a morning he's been seen there, adding his tears to the fresh morning dew and adding more clouds to the clouds with his deep sighs. But as soon as the all-cheering sun begins in the farthest east to draw back the shady curtains from Aurora's bed, my gloomy son steals away home from the light, shuts himself alone in his room, closes his windows, locks out the beautiful daylight and makes himself an artificial night. This mood must turn out black and ominous, unless good advice can remove its cause.

My noble uncle, do you know the cause?

My noble uncle, do you know the cause?

I neither know it nor can learn of him.

I don't know it, and I can't learn it from him.

Have you importun’d him by any means?

Have you pressed him about it in any way?

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, the only adviser of his own feelings, is to himself — I won't say how faithful — but to himself so secretive and so closed up, so far from being probed or found out, as a bud bitten by a jealous 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, or be firmly refused.

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

Good morrow, cousin.

Good morning, cousin.

Is the day so young?

Is the day still so new?

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, sad hours seem long. Was that my father who went off so quickly?

It was. What sadness lengthens Romeo’s hours?

It was. What sadness is making 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 shame 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 shame that love, whose eyes are always blindfolded, should still be able, without eyes, to find the way to what it wants! Where shall we eat? Oh no! What fight happened here? No, don't tell me, I've heard it all already. There's a lot of hate in it, but more of love. Why then, oh brawling love! Oh loving hate! Oh anything, made out of nothing at all! Oh heavy lightness! Serious foolishness! Deformed chaos of shapes that look so fine! Feather of lead, bright smoke, cold fire, sick health! Sleep that is always awake, that is not what it is! This is the love I feel, who feel no love in any of it. Aren't you laughing?

No coz, I rather weep.

No, cousin, I'd sooner cry.

Good heart, at what?

Good heart, 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 how love does its wrong. My own sorrows lie heavy in my chest, and you would make them spread by pressing them down with more of yours. This affection you've shown me only adds more grief to my own, which is already too much. Love is a smoke made from the vapour of sighs; when it's cleared, it's a fire sparkling in lovers' eyes; when it's thwarted, a sea fed by lovers' tears. What else is it? A madness that's perfectly sensible, a choking bitterness, 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 this, you're treating me badly.

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

Nonsense! 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 who, seriously.

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 so ill. Seriously, cousin, I love a woman.

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

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

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

A very good marksman. And the one I love is beautiful.

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

A nice clear target, fair cousin, is the easiest one 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, with that shot you miss: she won't be hit by Cupid's arrow, she has Dian's mind; and armed strongly in proof-armour of chastity, she lives untouched by love's weak childish bow. She won't endure a siege of loving words, or stand up to the attack of eyes assaulting her, or open her lap to gold that seduces saints. Oh, she's rich in beauty, 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's sworn she will go on living chastely?

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 saving herself like that she creates enormous waste; for beauty starved by her harshness cuts beauty off from all future generations. She is too beautiful, too wise; too wisely beautiful, to earn heaven by driving me to despair. She has sworn off love, and because of that vow I live as a dead man, though I'm alive to tell you about it now.

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

Take my advice: stop thinking about her.

O teach me how I should forget to think.

Oh, teach me how to stop thinking.

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 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 hide something fair. A man struck blind can't forget the precious treasure of the sight he's lost. Show me a mistress who is supremely beautiful: what does her beauty do except act as a note where I can read of someone who surpasses that supreme 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 die owing it to you.