he starts and wakes, and being thus frighted, fwears a Prayer or two, and fleeps again. This is that very Mab that plats the Manes of Horfes in the Night, and bakes the Elf locks in foul fluttish Hairs, which once intangled, much Misfortunes bodes. This is the Hag, when Maids lye on their Backs, Rom. Peace, peace, Mercutio, peace; Mer. True, I talk of Dreams; Which are the Children of an idle Brain, Ben. This Wind you talk of, blows us from our felvės; Rom. I fear too early; for my mind mifgives, Some confequence ftill hanging in the Stars, With this Night's Revels, and expire the term They march about the Stage, and Servants come forth with their Napkins. 1 Ser. Where's Porpan, that he helps not to take away? He shift a Trencher! He scrape a Trencher! Ser. When good Manners fhall lye in one or two Mens Hands, and they unwash'd too, 'tis a foul thing. 1 Ser. Away with the Joint-tools, remove the Court-cupboard, look to the Plate: Good thou, fave me a piece of March-pane; and as thou loveft me, let the Porter let in VOL. V. G Sufan Suffan Grindstone, and Nell, Anthony, and Potpan. 2 Ser. Ay, Boy, ready, 1 Ser. You are look'd for, call'd for, ask'd for, and fought for, in the great Chamber. 2 Ser. We cannot be here and there too; chearly Boys; Be brisk a while, and the longer liver take all. [Exeunt. Enter all the Guests and Ladies to the Maskers. 1 Cap. Welcome, Gentlemen; Ladies that have their Toes Unplagu'd with Corns, will walk about with you. you all Will now deny to Dance? She that makes dainty, 2 Cap. By'r Lady, thirty Years. I Cap. What, Man! 'tis not fo much, 'tis not so much; 'Tis fince the Nuptial of Lucentio, Come Pentecoft, as quickly as it will, Some five and twenty Years, and then we Mask'd. 2 Cap. 'Tis more, 'tis more, his Son is Elder, Sir: His Son is Thirty. I Cap. Will you tell me that? His Son was but a Ward two Years ago. Rom. What Lady is that which doth enrich the Hand Of yonder Knight? Sir. I know not, Sir. Rom. O fhe doth teach the Torches to burn bright; Her Beauty hangs upon the cheek of Night, Like a rich Jewel in an Ethiop's Ear: The Measure done, I'll watch her place of ftand, Tib. This by his Voice fhould be a Mountague. Tib. Uncle, this is a Mountague, our Foe: Cap. Young Romeo, is it? Tib. 'Tis he, that Villain Romeo. Cap. Content thee, gentle Coz, let him alone, Tib. It fits, when fuch a Villain is a Guest, Cap. He fhall be indur'd. What, Goodman-boy-I fay he fhall. Go to- You'll not endure him! God fhall mend my Soul, Cad. Go to, go to. You are a faucy Boy'tis fo indeed This trick may chance to fcathe you; I know what, I'll make you quiet. What, cheerly, my Hearts. Rom. If I prophane with my unworthieft Hand,[To Juliet. This holy Shrine, the gentle fin is this, My Lips two blufhing Pilgrims ready ftard,. You do wrong your Hand too much, For Saints have Hands-the Pilgrim's Hands do touch, And Plam to Palm, is holy Palmer's Kiss. Rom. Have not Saints Lips, and holy Palmers too? Jl. Ay, Pilgrim, Lips that they muft ufe in Prayer. Rom. O then, dear Saint, let Lips do what Hands do, They pray (grant thou) left Faith turn to Defpair. Jul. Saints do not move, Though grant for Prayers fake. Rom. Then move not while my Prayers effect do take: Thus from my Lips, by thine my fin is purg'd. [Kiffing her. Jul. Then have my Lips the fin that they have took. Rom. Sin from my Lips! O trefpafs fweetly urg'd: Give me my fin again. Jul. You kifs by th' Book. Nur. Madam, your Mother craves a word with you. Rom. What is her Mother? Nur. Marry, Batchelor, Her Mother is the Lady of the House, Rom. Is the a Capulet? O dear Account! My Life is my Foe's debt. Ben Ben. Away, be gone, the sport is at the best. I'll to my reft. Jul. Come hither, Nurfe. What is yond' Gentleman? Nur. The Son and Heir of old Tyberio. [Exeunt. Jul. What's he that now is going out of Door? Jul. What's he that follows here, that would not dance? Jul. Go ask his Name. If he be Married, My Grave is like to be my wedding Bed. Nur. His Name is Romeo, and a Mountague, The only Son of our great Enemy. Jul. My only Love fprung from my only Hate! Too early feen, unknown, and known too late; Prodigious birth of Love it is to me, That I must love a loathed Enemy. Nur. What's this? what's this? Of one I danc'd withal. Nur. Anon, anon: [One calls within, Juliet. [Exeunt. Come, let's away, the Strangers all are gone. NO OW old Defire doth in his Death-bed lye, Alike 1 |