Romeo and Juliet | Page 9

Well, what was yours?
Mercutio. That dreamers often lie.
Romeo. In bed asleep, while they do dream things true.
Mercutio. O, then, I see Queen Mab hath been with you. She is the

fairies' midwife; and she comes In shape no bigger than an agate-stone
On the fore-finger of an alderman, Drawn with a team of little atomies
Athwart men's noses as they lie asleep: Her waggon-spokes made of
long spinners' legs; The cover, of the wings of grasshoppers; The traces,
of the smallest spider's web; The collars, of the moonshine's watery
beams; Her whip, of cricket's bone; the lash, of film; Her waggoner, a
small grey-coated gnat, Not half so big as a round little worm Prick'd
from the lazy finger of a maid: Her chariot is an empty hazel-nut, Made
by the joiner squirrel or old grub, Time out o' mind the fairies'
coachmakers. And in this state she gallops night by night Through
lovers' brains, and then they dream of love; O'er courtiers' knees, that
dream on court'sies straight; O'er lawyers' fingers, who straight dream
on fees; O'er ladies' lips, who straight on kisses dream,-- Which oft the
angry Mab with blisters plagues, Because their breaths with sweetmeats
tainted are: Sometime she gallops o'er a courtier's nose, And then
dreams he of smelling out a suit; And sometime comes she with a
tithe-pig's tail, Tickling a parson's nose as 'a lies asleep, Then dreams
he of another benefice: Sometime she driveth o'er a soldier's neck, And
then dreams he of cutting foreign throats, Of breaches, ambuscadoes,
Spanish blades, Of healths five fathom deep; and then anon Drums in
his ear, at which he starts and wakes; And, being thus frighted, swears a
prayer or two, And sleeps again. This is that very Mab That plats the
manes of horses in the night; And bakes the elf-locks in foul sluttish
hairs, Which, once untangled, much misfortune bodes: This is the hag,
when maids lie on their backs, That presses them, and learns them first
to bear, Making them women of good carriage: This is she,--
Romeo. Peace, peace, Mercutio, peace, Thou talk'st of nothing.
Mercutio. 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 face to the dew-dropping south.
Benvolio. This wind you talk of blows us from ourselves: Supper is
done, and we shall come too late.

Romeo. I fear, too early: for my mind misgives Some consequence, yet
hanging in the stars, Shall bitterly begin his fearful date With this
night's revels; and expire the term Of a despised life, clos'd in my breast,
By some vile forfeit of untimely death: But He that hath the steerage of
my course Direct my sail!--On, lusty gentlemen!
Benvolio. Strike, drum.
[Exeunt.]

Scene V. A Hall in Capulet's House.
[Musicians waiting. Enter Servants.]
1 Servant. Where's Potpan, that he helps not to take away? he shift a
trencher! he scrape a trencher!
2 Servant. When good manners shall lie all in one or two men's hands,
and they unwash'd too, 'tis a foul thing.
1 Servant. Away with the join-stools, remove the court-cupboard, look
to the plate:--good thou, save me a piece of marchpane; and as thou
loves me, let the porter let in Susan Grindstone and Nell.-- Antony! and
Potpan!
2 Servant. Ay, boy, ready.
1 Servant. You are looked for and called for, asked for and sought for
in the great chamber.
2 Servant. We cannot be here and there too.--Cheerly, boys; be brisk
awhile, and the longer liver take all.
[They retire behind.]
[Enter Capulet, &c. with the Guests the Maskers.]

Capulet. Welcome, gentlemen! ladies that have their toes Unplagu'd
with corns will have a bout with you.-- Ah ha, my mistresses! which of
you all Will now deny to dance? she that makes dainty, she, I'll swear
hath corns; am I come near you now? Welcome, gentlemen! I have
seen the day That I have worn a visard; and could tell A whispering tale
in a fair lady's ear, Such as would please;--'tis gone, 'tis gone, 'tis gone:
You are welcome, gentlemen!--Come, musicians, play. A hall--a hall!
give room! and foot it, girls.-- [Music plays, and they dance.] More
light, you knaves; and turn the tables up, And quench the fire, the room
is grown too hot.-- Ah, sirrah, this unlook'd-for sport comes well. Nay,
sit, nay, sit, good cousin Capulet; For you and I are past our dancing
days; How long is't now since last yourself and I Were in a mask?
2 Capulet. By'r Lady, thirty years.
Capulet. What, man! 'tis