_Capulet._ Will you tell me that?
His son was but a ward two years ago. 

_Romeo._ [_To a Servingman_] What lady is that, which doth enrich the hand
Of yonder knight? 

_Servingman._ I know not, sir. 

_Romeo._ O, she doth teach the torches to burn bright!
Her beauty hangs upon the cheek of night
Like a rich jewel in an Ethiope's ear;
Beauty too rich for use, for earth too dear!
So shows a snowy dove trooping with crows
As yonder lady o'er her fellows shows.
The measure done, I'll watch her place of stand,
And, touching hers, make blessed my rude hand.
Did my heart love till now? forswear it, sight!
For I ne'er saw true beauty till this night._Tybalt._ This, by his voice, should be a Montague.-- Fetch me my rapier, boy.--What dares the slave Come hither, cover'd with an antic face, To fleer and scorn at our solemnity? Now, by the stock and honour of my kin, To strike him dead I hold it not a sin. _Capulet._ Why, how now, kinsman! wherefore storm you so? _Tybalt._ Uncle, this is a Montague, our foe, A villain that is hither come in spite, To scorn at our solemnity this night. _Capulet._ Young Romeo is it? _Tybalt._ 'Tis he, that villain Romeo. _Capulet._ Content thee, gentle coz, let him alone. He bears him 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 note of him. It is my will, the which if thou respect, Show a fair presence and put off these frowns, An ill-beseeming semblance for a feast. _Tybalt._ It fits when such a villain is a guest; I'll not endure him. _Capulet._ He shall be endur'd; 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! You will set cock-a-hoop! you'll be the man! _Tybalt._ Why, uncle, 'tis a shame. _Capulet._ Go to, go to; You are a saucy boy.--Is 't so, indeed?-- This trick may chance to scathe you,--I know what. You must contrary me! marry, 'tis time.-- Well said, my hearts!--You are a princox; go! Be quiet, or--More light, more light!--For shame! I'll make you quiet. What!--Cheerly, my hearts! _Tybalt._ Patience perforce with wilful choler meeting Makes my flesh tremble in their different greeting. I will withdraw; but this intrusion shall, Now 

 Prev. P 24/235 next