ROMEO & JULIET. Уильям Шекспир
Thy old groans ring yet in mine ancient ears;
Lo, here upon thy cheek the stain doth sit
Of an old tear that is not wash’d off yet:
If e’er thou wast thyself, and these woes thine,
Thou and these woes were all for Rosaline;
And art thou chang’d? Pronounce this sentence then,—
Women may fall, when there’s no strength in men.
Romeo.
Thou chidd’st me oft for loving Rosaline.
Friar.
For doting, not for loving, pupil mine.
Romeo.
And bad’st me bury love.
Friar.
Not in a grave
To lay one in, another out to have.
Romeo.
I pray thee chide not: she whom I love now
Doth grace for grace and love for love allow;
The other did not so.
Friar.
O, she knew well
Thy love did read by rote, that could not spell.
But come, young waverer, come go with me,
In one respect I’ll thy assistant be;
For this alliance may so happy prove,
To turn your households’ rancour to pure love.
Romeo.
O, let us hence; I stand on sudden haste.
Friar.
Wisely, and slow; they stumble that run fast.
[Exeunt.]
SCENE IV. A Street.
[Enter Benvolio and Mercutio.]
Mercutio.
Where the devil should this Romeo be?—
Came he not home tonight?
Benvolio.
Not to his father’s; I spoke with his man.
Mercutio.
Ah, that same pale hard-hearted wench, that Rosaline,
Torments him so that he will sure run mad.
Benvolio.
Tybalt, the kinsman to old Capulet,
Hath sent a letter to his father’s house.
Mercutio.
A challenge, on my life.
Benvolio.
Romeo will answer it.
Mercutio.
Any man that can write may answer a letter.
Benvolio. Nay, he will answer the letter’s master, how he dares, being dared.
Mercutio. Alas, poor Romeo, he is already dead! stabbed with a white wench’s black eye; shot through the ear with a love song; the very pin of his heart cleft with the blind bow-boy’s butt-shaft: and is he a man to encounter Tybalt?
Benvolio.
Why, what is Tybalt?
Mercutio. More than prince of cats, I can tell you. O, he’s the courageous captain of compliments. He fights as you sing prick-song—keeps time, distance, and proportion; rests me his minim rest, one, two, and the third in your bosom: the very butcher of a silk button, a duellist, a duellist; a gentleman of the very first house,—of the first and second cause: ah, the immortal passado! the punto reverso! the hay.—
Benvolio.
The what?
Mercutio. The pox of such antic, lisping, affecting fantasticoes; these new tuners of accents!—‘By Jesu, a very good blade!—a very tall man!—a very good whore!’—Why, is not this a lamentable thing, grandsire, that we should be thus afflicted with these strange flies, these fashion-mongers, these pardonnez-moi’s, who stand so much on the new form that they cannot sit at ease on the old bench? O, their bons, their bons!
Benvolio.
Here comes Romeo, here comes Romeo!
Mercutio. Without his roe, like a dried herring.—O flesh, flesh, how art thou fishified!—Now is he for the numbers that Petrarch flowed in: Laura, to his lady, was but a kitchen wench,—marry, she had a better love to berhyme her; Dido, a dowdy; Cleopatra, a gypsy; Helen and Hero, hildings and harlots; Thisbe, a gray eye or so, but not to the purpose,—
[Enter Romeo.]
Signior Romeo, bon jour! there’s a French salutation to your
French slop. You gave us the counterfeit fairly last night.
Romeo.
Good morrow to you both. What counterfeit did I give you?
Mercutio.
The slip, sir, the slip; can you not conceive?
Romeo. Pardon, good Mercutio, my business was great; and in such a case as mine a man may strain courtesy.
Mercutio. That’s as much as to say, such a case as yours constrains a man to bow in the hams.
Romeo.
Meaning, to court’sy.
Mercutio.
Thou hast most kindly hit it.
Romeo.
A most courteous exposition.
Mercutio.
Nay, I am the very pink of courtesy.
Romeo.
Pink for flower.
Mercutio.
Right.
Romeo.
Why, then is my pump well-flowered.
Mercutio. Well said: follow me this jest now till thou hast worn out thy pump;that, when the single sole of it is worn, the jest may remain, after the wearing, sole singular.
Romeo.
O single-soled jest, solely singular for the singleness!
Mercutio.
Come between us, good Benvolio; my wits faint.
Romeo.
Swits and spurs, swits and spurs; or I’ll cry a match.
Mercutio. Nay, if thy wits run the wild-goose chase, I have done; for thou hast more of the wild-goose in one of thy wits than, I am sure, I have in my whole five: was I with you there for the goose?
Romeo. Thou wast never with me for anything when thou wast not there for the goose.
Mercutio.
I will bite thee by the ear for that jest.
Romeo.
Nay, good goose, bite not.
Mercutio. Thy wit is a very bitter sweeting; it is a most sharp sauce.
Romeo.
And is it not, then, well served in to a sweet goose?
Mercutio. O, here’s a wit of cheveril, that stretches from an inch narrow to an ell broad!
Romeo. I stretch it out for that word broad: which added to the goose, proves thee far and wide a broad goose.
Mercutio. Why, is not this better now than groaning for love? now art thou sociable, now art thou Romeo; not art thou what thou art, by art as well as by nature: for this drivelling love is like a great natural, that runs lolling up and down to hide his bauble in a hole.
Benvolio.
Stop there, stop there.