Romeo and Juliet, Act 1, Scene 4

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

Well, is this speech going to be delivered as our excuse? Or shall we 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'll have no Cupid blindfolded with a scarf, carrying a Tartar's painted bow made of lath, frightening the ladies like a scarecrow; and no memorized prologue either, spoken weakly after the prompter, to announce us. Let them size us up however they like; we'll dance them one dance and then be gone.

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 heavy, 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 nimble soles; I have a soul of lead that pins me to the ground so that 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 use them to soar higher than any 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 soar with his light feathers, and I'm so tied down that I can't spring a single height above heavy sorrow. I sink under love's heavy burden.

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

And by sinking into it you'd be a burden on love — too much weight for something so delicate.

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 crude, 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 for stabbing you, and you'll beat love down. Give me a case to put my face in: [Putting on a mask.] a mask for a mask. What do I care what inquisitive eye takes note of my ugly features? Here are these heavy brows to blush on my behalf.

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 busy with his legs.

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 pleasure-seekers tickle the lifeless floor-rushes with their heels. As for me, I'll go by an old grandfather's saying: I'll be a candle-holder and watch. The game was never better than it is now, 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.

Come on, the mouse is grey — that's the constable's own phrase. If you're a stuck horse, we'll haul 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, hey.

Nay, that’s not so.

No, that's not right.

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, lighting lamps in the daytime. Take our meaning as we mean it, since our good sense lies five times more in that than in all our five wits.

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

And we mean well by going to this masked ball — but it's not wise to go.

Why, may one ask?

Why, may a person ask?

I dreamt a dream tonight.

I dreamed 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 with you. She is the fairies' midwife, and she comes in a shape no bigger than the agate stone on an alderman's forefinger, drawn by a team of tiny creatures over 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 smallest spider's web; the collars, of the moon's watery beams; 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 picked out of a lazy girl's finger. Her chariot is an empty hazelnut, made by the squirrel joiner or the 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 plagues with blisters, because their breath is tainted with sweets. Sometimes she gallops over a courtier's nose, and then he dreams of sniffing out a petition for profit. And sometimes she comes with the tail of a pig given as tithes and tickles a parson's nose as he lies asleep, and 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, of toasts five fathoms deep; and then right away she drums in his ear, at which he jumps and wakes, and being frightened like that, he swears a prayer or two and goes back to sleep. This is that same Mab who braids the manes of horses in the night, and who cakes filthy, tangled hair into elf-locks, which, once combed out, foretells great misfortune. This is the witch who, when girls lie on their backs, presses down on them and teaches them to bear a weight for the first time, making them women who carry themselves 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 of 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, being offended, blows away from there and turns to face the dew-dropping 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 away from our own business. 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. 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 despised life shut up in my chest, through some vile penalty of untimely death. But let him who steers my course direct my voyage. On, lively gentlemen!

Strike, drum.

Beat the drum.