Romeo and Juliet, Act 2, Scene 2

He jests at scars that never felt a wound.

He makes fun of scars, who never felt a wound.

But soft, what light through yonder window breaks? It is the east, and Juliet is the sun! Arise fair sun and kill the envious moon, Who is already sick and pale with grief, That thou her maid art far more fair than she. Be not her maid since she is envious; Her vestal livery is but sick and green, And none but fools do wear it; cast it off. It is my lady, O it is my love! O, that she knew she were! She speaks, yet she says nothing. What of that? Her eye discourses, I will answer it. I am too bold, ’tis not to me she speaks. Two of the fairest stars in all the heaven, Having some business, do entreat her eyes To twinkle in their spheres till they return. What if her eyes were there, they in her head? The brightness of her cheek would shame those stars, As daylight doth a lamp; her eyes in heaven Would through the airy region stream so bright That birds would sing and think it were not night. See how she leans her cheek upon her hand. O that I were a glove upon that hand, That I might touch that cheek.

But wait — what light is breaking through that window over there? It is the east, and Juliet is the sun! Rise, lovely sun, and kill the jealous moon, who is already sick and pale with grief because you, her servant, are far more beautiful than she is. Don't be her servant, since she is jealous; the pale green uniform of her virgins is only worn by fools — throw it off. It is my lady, oh, it is my love! Oh, if only she knew she were! She speaks, yet she says nothing. What of that? Her eye is talking; I will answer it. I am too bold — it isn't me she speaks to. Two of the most beautiful stars in the whole sky, having some errand elsewhere, are begging her eyes to shine in their places until they come back. What if her eyes were up there and the stars were in her head? The brightness of her cheek would put those stars to shame, as daylight shames a lamp; her eyes in the sky would pour such brightness through the air that birds would sing and think it was not night. Look how she rests her cheek on her hand. Oh, if only I were a glove on that hand, so that I could touch that cheek.

Ay me.

Oh dear.

She speaks. O speak again bright angel, for thou art As glorious to this night, being o’er my head, As is a winged messenger of heaven Unto the white-upturned wondering eyes Of mortals that fall back to gaze on him When he bestrides the lazy-puffing clouds And sails upon the bosom of the air.

She speaks. Oh, speak again, bright angel, for you are as glorious to this night, up there above my head, as a winged messenger of heaven is to the upturned, white-showing, wondering eyes of mortals who lean back to stare at him as he strides across the slowly drifting clouds and sails on the breast of the air.

O Romeo, Romeo, wherefore art thou Romeo? Deny thy father and refuse thy name. Or if thou wilt not, be but sworn my love, And I’ll no longer be a Capulet.

Oh Romeo, Romeo, why must you be Romeo? Disown your father and give up your name. Or, if you won't, just swear you love me, and I'll stop being a Capulet.

[Aside.] Shall I hear more, or shall I speak at this?

[Aside.] Should I listen to more, or should I speak now?

’Tis but thy name that is my enemy; Thou art thyself, though not a Montague. What’s Montague? It is nor hand nor foot, Nor arm, nor face, nor any other part Belonging to a man. O be some other name. What’s in a name? That which we call a rose By any other name would smell as sweet; So Romeo would, were he not Romeo call’d, Retain that dear perfection which he owes Without that title. Romeo, doff thy name, And for thy name, which is no part of thee, Take all myself.

It's only your name that is my enemy; you are yourself, even if you were not a Montague. What is a Montague? It isn't a hand, or a foot, or an arm, or a face, or any other part belonging to a man. Oh, be some other name. What's in a name? The thing we call a rose would smell just as sweet if we called it something else; so Romeo, if he were not called Romeo, would keep that precious perfection he owns without that title. Romeo, take off your name, and in exchange for your name, which is no part of you, take all of me.

I take thee at thy word. Call me but love, and I’ll be new baptis’d; Henceforth I never will be Romeo.

I take you at your word. Just call me love, and I'll be baptised again; from now on I will never be Romeo.

What man art thou that, thus bescreen’d in night So stumblest on my counsel?

Who are you, hidden like this by the night, who breaks in on my private thoughts?

By a name I know not how to tell thee who I am: My name, dear saint, is hateful to myself, Because it is an enemy to thee. Had I it written, I would tear the word.

I don't know how to tell you who I am by using a name: my name, dear saint, is hateful to me, because it is an enemy to you. If I had it written down, I would tear the word up.

My ears have yet not drunk a hundred words Of thy tongue’s utterance, yet I know the sound. Art thou not Romeo, and a Montague?

My ears haven't yet taken in a hundred words spoken by your tongue, and yet I know the sound of it. Aren't you Romeo, and a Montague?

Neither, fair maid, if either thee dislike.

Neither, lovely girl, if you dislike either one.

How cam’st thou hither, tell me, and wherefore? The orchard walls are high and hard to climb, And the place death, considering who thou art, If any of my kinsmen find thee here.

How did you get here, tell me, and why? The orchard walls are high and hard to climb, and this place is death for you, considering who you are, if any of my relatives find you here.

With love’s light wings did I o’erperch these walls, For stony limits cannot hold love out, And what love can do, that dares love attempt: Therefore thy kinsmen are no stop to me.

I flew over these walls on love's light wings, for stone barriers cannot keep love out, and whatever love can do, love dares to try: so your relatives are no obstacle to me.

If they do see thee, they will murder thee.

If they see you, they will murder you.

Alack, there lies more peril in thine eye Than twenty of their swords. Look thou but sweet, And I am proof against their enmity.

Oh, there is more danger in your eye than in twenty of their swords. Just look on me kindly, and I am armoured against their hatred.

I would not for the world they saw thee here.

I would not for anything have them see you here.

I have night’s cloak to hide me from their eyes, And but thou love me, let them find me here. My life were better ended by their hate Than death prorogued, wanting of thy love.

I have night's cloak to hide me from their eyes, and as long as you love me, let them find me here. My life would be better ended by their hatred than my death put off while I lack your love.

By whose direction found’st thou out this place?

Who directed you to find this place?

By love, that first did prompt me to enquire; He lent me counsel, and I lent him eyes. I am no pilot; yet wert thou as far As that vast shore wash’d with the farthest sea, I should adventure for such merchandise.

Love, who first urged me to ask; he gave me advice, and I gave him my eyes. I am no ship's pilot; yet if you were as distant as that huge shore washed by the farthest sea, I would risk the voyage for such goods.

Thou knowest the mask of night is on my face, Else would a maiden blush bepaint my cheek For that which thou hast heard me speak tonight. Fain would I dwell on form, fain, fain deny What I have spoke; but farewell compliment. Dost thou love me? I know thou wilt say Ay, And I will take thy word. Yet, if thou swear’st, Thou mayst prove false. At lovers’ perjuries, They say Jove laughs. O gentle Romeo, If thou dost love, pronounce it faithfully. Or if thou thinkest I am too quickly won, I’ll frown and be perverse, and say thee nay, So thou wilt woo. But else, not for the world. In truth, fair Montague, I am too fond; And therefore thou mayst think my ’haviour light: But trust me, gentleman, I’ll prove more true Than those that have more cunning to be strange. I should have been more strange, I must confess, But that thou overheard’st, ere I was ’ware, My true-love passion; therefore pardon me, And not impute this yielding to light love, Which the dark night hath so discovered.

You know the mask of night is on my face, or else a girl's blush would paint my cheek for what you have heard me say tonight. I would gladly keep to proper manners, gladly, gladly take back what I have said; but forget politeness. Do you love me? I know you will say yes, and I will take your word for it. Yet if you swear, you may turn out to be false. They say Jove laughs at lovers' broken oaths. Oh gentle Romeo, if you do love me, say so honestly. Or if you think I am won too easily, I'll frown and be difficult and say no to you, so that you will court me. But otherwise, not for anything. Truly, fine Montague, I am too foolish, and so you may think my behaviour is loose; but trust me, sir, I will prove more faithful than those who have more skill at keeping their distance. I should have been more distant, I must admit, except that you overheard, before I knew it, my true, loving passion; so forgive me, and don't put this surrender down to cheap love, which the dark night has revealed like this.

Lady, by yonder blessed moon I vow, That tips with silver all these fruit-tree tops,—

Lady, I swear by that blessed moon over there, which touches all these fruit-tree tops with silver—

O swear not by the moon, th’inconstant moon, That monthly changes in her circled orb, Lest that thy love prove likewise variable.

Oh, don't swear by the moon, the changeable moon, that changes every month in her circling orbit, in case your love should prove just as changeable.

What shall I swear by?

What should I swear by?

Do not swear at all. Or if thou wilt, swear by thy gracious self, Which is the god of my idolatry, And I’ll believe thee.

Don't swear at all. Or, if you must, swear by your own gracious self, which is the god I worship, and I'll believe you.

If my heart’s dear love,—

If my heart's dear love—

Well, do not swear. Although I joy in thee, I have no joy of this contract tonight; It is too rash, too unadvis’d, too sudden, Too like the lightning, which doth cease to be Ere one can say “It lightens.” Sweet, good night. This bud of love, by summer’s ripening breath, May prove a beauteous flower when next we meet. Good night, good night. As sweet repose and rest Come to thy heart as that within my breast.

Well, don't swear. Although you are my joy, I take no joy in this agreement tonight; it is too hasty, too ill-considered, too sudden, too much like the lightning, which is gone before one can say "It's lightning." Sweet, good night. This bud of love, with summer's ripening breath, may turn out to be a beautiful flower the next time we meet. Good night, good night. May sleep and rest come to your heart as sweetly as they come to mine.

O wilt thou leave me so unsatisfied?

Oh, will you leave me so unsatisfied?

What satisfaction canst thou have tonight?

What satisfaction can you have tonight?

Th’exchange of thy love’s faithful vow for mine.

The exchange of your faithful vow of love for mine.

I gave thee mine before thou didst request it; And yet I would it were to give again.

I gave you mine before you asked for it; and yet I wish it were still mine to give.

Would’st thou withdraw it? For what purpose, love?

Would you take it back? Why, my love?

But to be frank and give it thee again. And yet I wish but for the thing I have; My bounty is as boundless as the sea, My love as deep; the more I give to thee, The more I have, for both are infinite. I hear some noise within. Dear love, adieu. [Nurse calls within.] Anon, good Nurse!—Sweet Montague be true. Stay but a little, I will come again.

Only to be generous and give it to you again. And yet I only want what I already have; my generosity is as boundless as the sea, my love as deep; the more I give you, the more I have, for both are endless. I hear a noise inside. Dear love, goodbye. [The Nurse calls from inside.] Coming at once, good Nurse! — Sweet Montague, be true. Wait just a little; I will come back.

O blessed, blessed night. I am afeard, Being in night, all this is but a dream, Too flattering sweet to be substantial.

Oh blessed, blessed night. I am afraid that, since it is night, all this is only a dream, too flatteringly sweet to be real.

Three words, dear Romeo, and good night indeed. If that thy bent of love be honourable, Thy purpose marriage, send me word tomorrow, By one that I’ll procure to come to thee, Where and what time thou wilt perform the rite, And all my fortunes at thy foot I’ll lay And follow thee my lord throughout the world.

Three words, dear Romeo, and then good night for real. If your love is aimed at honourable things, and marriage is your purpose, send me word tomorrow by someone I'll arrange to come to you, telling me where and at what time you will perform the ceremony, and I will lay all my fortunes at your feet and follow you, my lord, throughout the world.

[Within.] Madam.

[From inside.] Madam.

I come, anon.— But if thou meanest not well, I do beseech thee,—

I'm coming right away. — But if you don't mean well, I beg you—

[Within.] Madam.

[From inside.] Madam.

By and by I come— To cease thy strife and leave me to my grief. Tomorrow will I send.

I'm coming in a moment — to stop your courting and leave me to my sorrow. Tomorrow I will send.

So thrive my soul,—

So may my soul prosper—

A thousand times good night.

A thousand times good night.

A thousand times the worse, to want thy light. Love goes toward love as schoolboys from their books, But love from love, towards school with heavy looks.

A thousand times worse, to be without your light. Love goes toward love as eagerly as schoolboys run from their books, but love parting from love goes like a boy heading to school with a heavy face.

Hist! Romeo, hist! O for a falconer’s voice To lure this tassel-gentle back again. Bondage is hoarse and may not speak aloud, Else would I tear the cave where Echo lies, And make her airy tongue more hoarse than mine With repetition of my Romeo’s name.

Psst! Romeo, psst! Oh, for a falconer's voice to call this fine male hawk back again. Being confined makes me hoarse and I can't speak loudly, or else I would rip open the cave where Echo lies, and make her airy voice hoarser than mine by repeating my Romeo's name.

It is my soul that calls upon my name. How silver-sweet sound lovers’ tongues by night, Like softest music to attending ears.

It is my soul that calls out my name. How silver-sweet lovers' voices sound at night, like the softest music to listening ears.

Romeo.

Romeo.

My dear?

My dear?

What o’clock tomorrow Shall I send to thee?

At what time tomorrow should I send to you?

By the hour of nine.

By nine o'clock.

I will not fail. ’Tis twenty years till then. I have forgot why I did call thee back.

I won't fail. It's twenty years until then. I have forgotten why I called you back.

Let me stand here till thou remember it.

Let me stand here until you remember it.

I shall forget, to have thee still stand there, Remembering how I love thy company.

I'll keep forgetting, so as to have you go on standing there, while I remember how much I love your company.

And I’ll still stay, to have thee still forget, Forgetting any other home but this.

And I'll keep standing here, so as to have you go on forgetting, forgetting that I have any home but this.

’Tis almost morning; I would have thee gone, And yet no farther than a wanton’s bird, That lets it hop a little from her hand, Like a poor prisoner in his twisted gyves, And with a silk thread plucks it back again, So loving-jealous of his liberty.

It's almost morning; I would have you go, and yet no farther than a spoiled girl's pet bird, which she lets hop a little way from her hand, like a poor prisoner in his twisted chains, and then pulls back again with a silk thread, so lovingly jealous of its freedom.

I would I were thy bird.

I wish I were your bird.

Sweet, so would I: Yet I should kill thee with much cherishing. Good night, good night. Parting is such sweet sorrow That I shall say good night till it be morrow.

Sweet, so do I; and yet I would kill you with too much petting. Good night, good night. Parting is such sweet sorrow that I could say good night until it is morning.

Sleep dwell upon thine eyes, peace in thy breast. Would I were sleep and peace, so sweet to rest. Hence will I to my ghostly Sire’s cell, His help to crave and my dear hap to tell.

May sleep rest on your eyes, and peace in your breast. I wish I were sleep and peace, to rest so sweetly. From here I'll go to my spiritual father's cell, to ask for his help and tell him of my precious good luck.