Two households, both alike in dignity,
In fair Verona, where we lay our scene,
From ancient grudge break to new mutiny,
Where civil blood makes civil hands unclean.
From forth the fatal loins of these two foes
A pair of star-cross'd lovers take their life;
Whose misadventured piteous overthrows
Do with their death bury their parents' strife.
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;
Enter SAMPSON and GREGORY, of the house of Capulet, armed with swords and bucklers
Gregory, o' my word, we'll not carry coals.
I mean, an we be in choler, we'll draw.
I strike quickly, being moved.
A dog of the house of Montague moves me.
A dog of that house shall move me to stand...
True; and therefore women, being the weaker vessels...
'Tis all one, I will show myself a tyrant...
Ay, the heads of the maids, or their maidenheads...
Me they shall feel while I am able to stand...
My naked weapon is out: quarrel, I will back thee.
Fear me not.
Nay, as they dare. I will bite my thumb at them...
I do bite my thumb, sir.
[Aside to GREGORY] Is the law of our side, if I say ay?
No, sir, I do not bite my thumb at you...
If you do, sir, I am for you: I serve as good a man as you.
Well, sir.
Yes, better, sir.
Draw, if you be men. Gregory, remember thy swashing blow.
No, for then we should be colliers.
Ay, while you live, draw your neck out o' the collar.
But thou art not quickly moved to strike.
To move is to stir; and to be valiant is to stand...
That shows thee a weak slave...
The quarrel is between our masters and us their men.
The heads of the maids?
They must take it in sense that feel it.
'Tis well thou art not fish...
How! turn thy back and run?
No, marry; I fear thee!
I will frown as I pass by...
No.
Do you quarrel, sir?
Say 'better:' here comes one of my master's kinsmen.
Do you bite your thumb at us, sir?
Do you bite your thumb at us, sir?
Quarrel sir! no, sir.
No better.
You lie.
Part, fools! Put up your swords...
I do but keep the peace...
Here were the servants of your adversary...
What, art thou drawn among these heartless hinds?...
What, drawn, and talk of peace! I hate the word...
What noise is this? Give me my long sword, ho!
My sword, I say! Old Montague is come...
A crutch, a crutch! why call you for a sword?
Thou villain Capulet,--Hold me not, let me go.
Who set this ancient quarrel new abroach?...
Thou shalt not stir a foot to seek a foe.
O, where is Romeo? saw you him to-day?...
Rebellious subjects, enemies to peace...
Three civil brawls, bred of an airy word...
If ever you disturb our streets again...