Lines Flashcards
(44 cards)
Lord Montague:
A crutch, a crutch! Why call you for a sword?
My sword, I say! Old Montague is come,
And flourishes his blade in spite of me.
Act I Scene II
But Montague is bound as well as I,
In penalty alike: and ‘tis not hard, I think,
For those so old as we to keep the peace
Paris:
Of honorable reckoning are you both;
And pity ‘this you lived at odds so long.
But now, my lady, what say you to my suit?
But saying o’er what I have said before:
My child is yet a stranger in the world;
She hath not seen the change of sixteen years,
Let two more summers wither in their pride,
Ere we may think her ripe to be a bride.
Paris:
Younger than she are happy mothers made.
And too soon marred are those so early made.
The earth hath swallowed all my hopes but she,
She is the hopeful lady of my earth:
But woo her, gentle Paris, get her heart,
My will to her consent is but a part;
An she agree, within her scope of choice
Lies my consent and fair according voice.
This night I hold an old accustom’d feast,
Where to I have invited many a guest,
Such as I love; and you, among the store,
One more, most welcome, makes my number more.
/To servant, giving paper/
Go, sirrah, trudge about
Through fair Verona; find these persons out
Whose names are written there, and to them say,
My house and welcome on their pleasure stay.
Act I Scene V
Welcome, gentlemen! I have seen the day
That I have worn a visor and could tell
A whispering tale in a gentleman’s ear,
Such as would please: ‘tis gone, ‘tis gone, ‘tis gone:
You are welcome, gentlemen! Come, musicians, play.
A hall, hall! Give room! And foot it, girls!
More light, you knaves; and turn the tables up,
And quench the fire, the room is grown too hot.
Ah, husband, this unlook’d-for sport comes well.
Nay sit, nay sit, good cousin Capulet;
For you and I are past our dancing days:
How long is’t now since last yourself and I
Were in a mask?
Cousin Capulet:
By’ lady, thirty years.
What, man! ‘Tis not so much, ‘tis not so much:
‘Tis since the nuptial of Lucentio,
Come pentecost as quickly as it will,
Some five and twenty years; and then we mask’d.
Cousin Capulet:
‘Tis more, ‘tis more, his son is elder, lady;
His son is thirty.
Will you tell me that?
His son was but a ward two years ago.
Tybalt:
This, by his voice, should be a Montague.
Fetch me my blade, boy. What dates the slave
Come hither, cover’d by an antic face,
To flee and scorn at our solemnity?
Now, by the stock and honor of my kin,
To strike him dead, I hold it not a sin
Why, how now, kinsman! Wherefore storm you so?
Tybalt:
Auntie, this is a Montague, our foe,
A villain that is hither come in spite,
To scorn at our solemnity this night.
Young Romeo is it?
Tybalt:
‘Tis he, that villain Romeo
Content thee, gentle coz, let him alone;
/He/ bears himself like a portly gentleman;
And, to say truth, Verona brags of /him/
To be a virtuous and well-govern’d youth:
I would not for the wealth of all the town
Here in my house do him disparagement:
Therefore be patient, take no more of him:
It is my will, the which if thou respect,
Show a fair presence and put off these frowns,
And ill-beseeming semblance for a feast.
Tybalt:
It fits, when such a villain is a guest:
I’ll not endure him.
He shall be endured:
What, goodman boy! I say, he shall: go to;
Am I the master here, or you? Go to.
You’ll not endure him! God shall mend my soul!
You’ll make a mutiny among my guests!
Tybalt:
Why, auntie, ‘tis a shame.
Go to, go to; you are a saucy boy: is’t so indeed?
Be quiet, or for shame I’ll make you quiet.
Romeo:
Ay, so I fear, the more is my unrest.
Nay, gentlemen, prepare not to be gone:
We have a trifling foolish banquet towards.
Is it e’en so? Why then, I thank you all.
I thank you, honest gentlemen; good night.
More torches here! Come on, let’s to bed.
Ah, sirrah, by my fay, it waxes late:
I’ll to my rest.
Act III Scene IV
Things have fall’n out, sir, so unluckily.
That we have had no time to move our daughter:
Look you, she loved her kinsman Tybalt dearly,
And so did I: – Well, we were born to die.
‘Tis very late, she’ll not come down to-night:
I promise you, but for your company,
I would have been a-bed an hour ago.
Lord Capulet:
I will, and know her mind early to-morrow;
To-night she is mew’d up to her heaviness.
Sir Paris, I will make a desperate tender
Of my child’s love: I think she will be ruled
In all respects by me; nay, more, I doubt it not.
Husband, go you to here ere you go to bed;
And bid her, mark you me, on Wednesday next–
But soft! What day is this?
Paris:
Monday, m’lady.
Monday! Ha ha! Well, Wednesday is too soon.
O’ Thursday let it be: o’ Thursday, tell her,
She shall be married to this noble earl.
Will you be ready? Do you like this haste?
We’ll keep no great ado,–a friend or two;
For, hark you, Tybalt being slain so late.
It may be thought we held him carelessly,
Being our kinsman, if we revel much:
Therefore we’ll have some half a dozen friends,
And there an end. But what say you to Thursday?
Paris:
My lady, I would that Thursday were to-morrow.
Well, get you gone; o’ Thursday be it, then.
Go you to Juliet, ere you go to bed,
Prepare her, Husband, against this wedding-day.
Farewell, my lord. Light to my chamber, ho!
Afore me! It is so very very late,
That we may call it early by and by.
Good night.
Lord Capulet:
Here comes your mother; tell her so yourself,
And see how she will take it at your hands.
How now! A conduit, girl? What, still in tears?
Have you deliver’d to her our decree?
Tybalt:
What, drawn and talk of peace! I hate the word,
As I hate hell, all Montagues, and thee:
Have at thee, coward!
What noise is this? Give me my long sword, ho!
Lord Capulet:
Ay, mam; but she will none, she gives you thanks.
I would the fool were married to her grave!
Soft! Take me with you, take me with you, husband.
How! Will she none? Doth she not give us thanks?
Is she not proud? Doth she not count her blest,
Unworthy as she is, that we have wrought
So worthy a gentleman to be her bridegroom?
Juliet:
Not proud, you have; but thankful, that you have:
Proud can I never be of what I hate;
But thankful even for hate, that is meant love.
How now, how now, chop-logic! What is this?
‘Proud’ and ‘I thank you,’ and ‘I thank you not,’
And yet ‘not proud,’ mistress minion, you,
Thank me no thankings, nor proud me no prouds,
But fettle your fine joints ‘gainst Thursday next,
To go with Paris to St. Peter’s Church,
Or I will drag thee on a hurdle thither,
Out, you green-sickness carrion! Out, you baggage! You tallow-face!
Juliet:
Good mother, I beseech you on my knees,
Hear me with patience but to speak a word.
Hang thee, young baggage! Disobedient wretch!
I tell thee what: get thee to church o’ Thursday,
Or never after look me in the face:
Speak not, reply not, do not answer me!
Nurse:
God in heaven, bless her!
You are to blame, my lady, to rate her so.
And why, my lady wisdom? Hold you tongue,
Good prudence, smarter with your gossips, go.
Nurse:
May not one speak?
Peace, you mumbling fool!
Utter your gravity o’er a gossips bowl;
For here we need it not.
