1 Madam, your mother craves a word with you.
2 Ay, while you live, draw your neck out o the collar.
3 His name is Romeo, and a Montague, The only son of your great enemy.
4 By my count I was your mother much upon these years That you are now a maid.
5 Here were the servants of your adversary And yours, close fighting ere I did approach.
6 I am the drudge, and toil in your delight; But you shall bear the burden soon at night.
7 Now comes the wanton blood up in your cheeks, They'll be in scarlet straight at any news.
8 I must another way, To fetch a ladder by the which your love Must climb a bird's nest soon when it is dark.
9 Either withdraw unto some private place, And reason coldly of your grievances, Or else depart; here all eyes gaze on us.
10 I'll look to like, if looking liking move: But no more deep will I endart mine eye Than your consent gives strength to make it fly.
11 Come, come with me, and we will make short work, For, by your leaves, you shall not stay alone Till holy church incorporate two in one.
12 Tut, dun's the mouse, the constable's own word: If thou art dun, we'll draw thee from the mire Or save your reverence love, wherein thou stickest Up to the ears.
13 But come young waverer, come go with me, In one respect I'll thy assistant be; For this alliance may so happy prove, To turn your households' rancour to pure love.
14 Good pilgrim, you do wrong your hand too much, Which mannerly devotion shows in this; For saints have hands that pilgrims' hands do touch, And palm to palm is holy palmers' kiss.
15 He rests his minim rest, one, two, and the third in your bosom: the very butcher of a silk button, a duellist, a duellist; a gentleman of the very first house, of the first and second cause.
16 Madam, an hour before the worshipp'd sun Peer'd forth the golden window of the east, A troubled mind drave me to walk abroad, Where underneath the grove of sycamore That westward rooteth from this city side, So early walking did I see your son.
17 Three civil brawls, bred of an airy word, By thee, old Capulet, and Montague, Have thrice disturb'd the quiet of our streets, And made Verona's ancient citizens Cast by their grave beseeming ornaments, To wield old partisans, in hands as old, Canker'd with peace, to part your canker'd hate.
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