1 To see now how a jest shall come about.
2 O now be gone, more light and light it grows.
3 A rhyme I learn'd even now Of one I danc'd withal.
4 By my count I was your mother much upon these years That you are now a maid.
5 She hath forsworn to love, and in that vow Do I live dead, that live to tell it now.
6 Tis no less, I tell ye; for the bawdy hand of the dial is now upon the prick of noon.
7 I pray thee chide me not, her I love now Doth grace for grace and love for love allow.
8 Well, think of marriage now: younger than you, Here in Verona, ladies of esteem, Are made already mothers.
9 O, now I would they had chang'd voices too, Since arm from arm that voice doth us affray, Hunting thee hence with hunt's-up to the day.
10 O, she says nothing, sir, but weeps and weeps; And now falls on her bed, and then starts up, And Tybalt calls, and then on Romeo cries, And then down falls again.
11 Sure wit, 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, solely singular.
12 I pray thee, good Mercutio, let's retire: The day is hot, the Capulets abroad, And if we meet, we shall not scape a brawl, For now these hot days, is the mad blood stirring.
13 Now old desire doth in his deathbed lie, And young affection gapes to be his heir; That fair for which love groan'd for and would die, With tender Juliet match'd, is now not fair.
14 Wert thou as young as I, Juliet thy love, An hour but married, Tybalt murdered, Doting like me, and like me banished, Then mightst thou speak, then mightst thou tear thy hair, And fall upon the ground as I do now, Taking the measure of an unmade grave.
15 Tut, you saw her fair, none else being by, Herself pois'd with herself in either eye: But in that crystal scales let there be weigh'd Your lady's love against some other maid That I will show you shining at this feast, And she shall scant show well that now shows best.
16 The fearful passage of their death-mark'd love, And the continuance of their parents' rage, Which, but their children's end, nought could remove, Is now the two hours' traffic of our stage; The which, if you with patient ears attend, What here shall miss, our toil shall strive to mend.
17 True, I talk of dreams, Which are the children of an idle brain, Begot of nothing but vain fantasy, Which is as thin of substance as the air, And more inconstant than the wind, who wooes Even now the frozen bosom of the north, And, being anger'd, puffs away from thence, Turning his side to the dew-dropping south.
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