Romeo and Juliet, Act 1, Scene 4

What, shall this speech be spoke for our excuse? Or shall we on without apology?

Well, shall we make this speech to excuse ourselves? Or shall we just go in without any apology?

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.

That kind of long-windedness is out of fashion. We won't have a Cupid with his eyes blindfolded by a scarf, carrying a painted Tartar's bow made of thin wood, frightening the ladies like a scarecrow; and no memorised prologue either, delivered weakly after the prompter, to get us in. Let them size us up however they like — we'll dance them one dance and be off.

Give me a torch, I am not for this ambling; Being but heavy I will bear the light.

Give me a torch, I'm not in the mood for this strolling about. Since I'm weighed down, I'll carry the light.

Nay, gentle Romeo, we must have you dance.

No, dear Romeo, we must have you dance.

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.

Not me, believe me. You have dancing shoes with quick soles; I have a soul of lead that pins me to the ground so I can't move.

You are a lover, borrow Cupid’s wings, And soar with them above a common bound.

You're a lover — borrow Cupid's wings and fly with them higher than an ordinary leap.

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.

I'm too painfully pierced by his arrow to fly with his light feathers, and I'm so tied down that I can't spring a single step above heavy sorrow. I sink under love's heavy load.

And, to sink in it, should you burden love; Too great oppression for a tender thing.

And if you sank into love, you'd be a weight on it — too much pressure for such a delicate thing.

Is love a tender thing? It is too rough, Too rude, too boisterous; and it pricks like thorn.

Is love a delicate thing? It's too rough, too harsh, too violent, and it stabs like a thorn.

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: [Putting on a mask.] A visor for a visor. What care I What curious eye doth quote deformities? Here are the beetle-brows shall blush for me.

If love is rough with you, be rough with love. Stab love back for stabbing you, and you'll knock love flat. Give me a case to put my face in: [Putting on a mask.] a mask for an ugly face. What do I care what a prying eye notes down as my defects? These heavy overhanging brows will do my blushing for me.

Come, knock and enter; and no sooner in But every man betake him to his legs.

Come on, knock and go in; and the moment we're inside, let every man get his legs moving.

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.

A torch for me. Let the carefree ones, light of heart, brush the lifeless floor-reeds with their heels. As for me, I'll live by an old grandfather's saying: I'll hold the candle and watch. The fun was never better, and I'm finished.

Tut, dun’s the mouse, the constable’s own word: If thou art dun, we’ll draw thee from the mire Or save your reverence love, wherein thou stickest Up to the ears. Come, we burn daylight, ho.

Nonsense, keep quiet as a mouse, as the constable himself says. If you're a stuck horse, we'll pull you out of the mud — or rather, saving your respect, out of this love you're stuck in up to your ears. Come on, we're burning daylight, come on!

Nay, that’s not so.

No, that isn't so.

I mean sir, in delay We waste our lights in vain, light lights by day. Take our good meaning, for our judgment sits Five times in that ere once in our five wits.

I mean, sir, that by delaying we waste our torches for nothing, like lighting lamps in the daytime. Take what we mean, because our sense lies in our meaning five times more than in our literal words.

And we mean well in going to this mask; But ’tis no wit to go.

And we mean well in going to this masked party, but it isn't sensible to go.

Why, may one ask?

Why, may I ask?

I dreamt a dream tonight.

I had a dream last night.

And so did I.

So did I.

Well what was yours?

Well, what was yours?

That dreamers often lie.

That dreamers often lie.

In bed asleep, while they do dream things true.

Lie in bed asleep, while they dream things that are true.

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 Over men’s noses as they lie asleep: Her waggon-spokes made of long spinners’ legs; The cover, of the wings of grasshoppers; Her 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 waggoner, a small grey-coated gnat, Not half so big as a round little worm Prick’d from the lazy finger of a maid: Her chariot is an empty hazelnut, 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 curtsies 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, ambuscados, 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 elf-locks 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,—

Oh, then I see Queen Mab has been visiting you. She's the fairies' midwife, and she comes in a shape no bigger than the agate stone set in a city councillor's ring, drawn by a team of tiny creatures across men's noses as they lie asleep. The spokes of her wagon are made of long spiders' legs; the roof, of grasshoppers' wings; her harness straps, of the finest spider's web; the collars, of the watery beams of moonlight; her whip of cricket's bone, the lash of gossamer; her driver a little grey-coated gnat, not half as big as the small round worm dug out of a lazy girl's finger. Her carriage is an empty hazelnut shell, made by a squirrel carpenter or an old grub, who have been the fairies' coachmakers since before anyone can remember. And in this splendour she gallops night after night through lovers' brains, and then they dream of love; over courtiers' knees, and they dream at once of bowing; over lawyers' fingers, and they dream at once of fees; over ladies' lips, and they dream at once of kisses — lips that angry Mab often torments with blisters, because their breath is spoiled by sweets. Sometimes she gallops over a courtier's nose, and then he dreams of sniffing out a profitable favour. And sometimes she comes with the tail of a pig paid in church dues and tickles a parson's nose while he lies asleep; then he dreams of another church appointment. Sometimes she drives over a soldier's neck, and then he dreams of cutting foreign throats, of breaches in walls, ambushes, Spanish swords, toasts thirty feet deep; and then all at once drums beat in his ear, at which he flinches and wakes, and, frightened like this, swears a prayer or two and goes back to sleep. This is that same Mab who braids horses' manes at night and mats the hair of dirty, untidy people into tangles that, once combed out, foretell great misfortune. This is the witch who, when girls lie on their backs, presses down on them and teaches them for the first time to bear a man's weight, making them women who can carry well. This is she—

Peace, peace, Mercutio, peace, Thou talk’st of nothing.

Quiet, quiet, Mercutio, quiet. You're talking about nothing.

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 woos Even now the frozen bosom of the north, And, being anger’d, puffs away from thence, Turning his side to the dew-dropping south.

True, I'm talking about dreams, which are the children of an idle brain, fathered by nothing but empty imagination, which is as thin in substance as the air, and more changeable than the wind, which right now courts the frozen breast of the north, and then, getting annoyed, blows away from there and turns its face to the dripping, dewy south.

This wind you talk of blows us from ourselves: Supper is done, and we shall come too late.

This wind you're talking about is blowing us off our purpose. Supper is over, and we'll arrive too late.

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, clos’d in my breast By some vile forfeit of untimely death. But he that hath the steerage of my course Direct my suit. On, lusty gentlemen!

Too early, I'm afraid; because my mind has a foreboding of some outcome still hanging in the stars, which will bitterly begin its dreadful course with tonight's festivities, and bring to an end the term of a hated life shut up in my chest, through some hideous penalty of an untimely death. But let the one who steers my voyage guide my course. On you go, spirited gentlemen!

Strike, drum.

Beat the drum.