Page:Shakespeare’s Plays, v.3 (playswithhislife03shakuoft).djvu/40

Rom. And stay, good nurse, behind the abbey- wall: Within this hour my man shall be with thee, And bring thee cords made like a tackled stair; Which to the high top-gallant of my joy Must be my convoy in the secret night. Farewell! Be trusty, and I'll quite thy pains. Farewell! Commend me to thy mistress.

Nurse. Now, God in heaven bless thee!-Hark you, sir.

Rom. What say'st thou, my dear nurse?

Nurse. Is your man secret! Did you ne'er hear say, Two may keep counsel, putting one away?

Rom. I warrant thee; my man's true as steel.

Nurse. Well, sir; my mistress is the sweetest lady Lord, lord!-when 'twas a little prating thing,―O!-There's a nobleman in town, one Paris, that would fain lay knife aboard; but she, good soul, had as lieve see a toad, a very toad, as see him. I anger her sometimes, and tell her that Paris is the properer man; but, I'll warrant you, when I say so, she looks as pale as any clout in the varsal world. Doth not rosemary and Romeo begin both with a letter?

Rom. Ay, nurse; What of that? both with an R.

Nurse. Ah, mocker! that's the dog's name. R is for thee? no: I know it begins with some other letter; and she has the prettiest sententious of it, of you and rosemary, that it would do you good to hear it.

Rom. Commend me to thy lady.

Nurse. Ay, a thousand times.-Peter!

Pet. Anon?

Nurse. Peter, take my fan, and go before.

[Exit.

[Exeunt.

Jul. The clock struck nine, when 1 did send the nurse; In half an hour she promis'd to return. Perchance, she cannot meet him :—that's not so.— O! she is lamelove's heralds should be thoughts, Which ten times faster glide than the sun's beams Driving back shadows over lowering hills: Therefore do nimble-pinion'd doves draw love, And therefore hath the wind-swift Cupid wings. Now is the sun upon the highmost hill Of this day's journey; and from nine till twelve Is three long hours, yet she is not come. Had she affections, and warm youthful blood, She'd be as swift in motion as a ball; My words would bandy her to my sweet love, And his to me: But old folks, many feign as they were dead; Unwieldy, slow, heavy, and pale as lead.

O God! she comes.-O honey nurse! what news? Hast thou met with him? Send thy man away.

Nurse. Peter, stay at the gate. [Exit PETER.

Jul. Now, good sweet nurse, -O lord! why look'st thou sad? Though news be sad, yet tell them merrily; If good, thou sham'st the music of sweet news By playing it to me with so sour a face.

Nurse. I am aweary, give me leave awhile. Fie, how my bones ache! What a jaunt have I had!

Jul. I would, thou hadst my bones, and I thy news: Nay, come, I pray thee, speak ;-good, good nurse, speak.