All language subtitles for LEromeo.and.juliet.1954.720p.Eng

Will you speak
well of him that

kill'd your cousin?

Shall I speak ill
of him that is

my husband?

Ah, poor my lord,
what tongue shall

smooth thy name,
When I,

thy three-hours wife,
have mangled it?

But, wherefore,
villain, didst thou

kill my cousin?

Romeo that spoke
him fair, bade him

bethink How nice the
quarrel was, and

urged withal Your
high displeasure: all

this uttered With
gentle breath, calm

look, knees humbly
bow'd, Could not take

truce with the unruly
spleen Of Tybalt deaf

to peace, but that he
tilts With piercing

steel at bold
Mercutio's breast,

Who all as hot, turns
deadly point to

point, Romeo he
cries aloud,

'Hold, friends!

friends, part!'

and, swifter than his
tongue, His agile arm

beats down their
fatal points, And

'twixt them rushes;
underneath whose arm

An envious thrust
from Tybalt hit the

life Of stout
Mercutio,

He is a kinsman
to the Montague;

Affection makes him
false; he speaks not

true: Some twenty of
them fought in this

black strife, And all
those twenty could

but kill one life.

I beg for justice,
which thou, prince,

must give; Romeo slew
Tybalt, Romeo must

not live.

Romeo slew him, he
slew Mercutio; Who

then the price of his
dear blood doth owe?

Not Romeo, prince,
he was Mercutio's

friend; His fault
concludes but what

the law should end,
The life of Tybalt.

Mercy but murders,
pardoning those

that kill.

I bring thee
tidings of the

prince's doom.

A gentler judgment
vanish'd from his

lips, Not body's
death, but body's

banishment.

Banishment!

Ha, banishment!

be merciful, say
'death;' For exile

hath more terror in
his look, Much more

than death: do not
say 'banishment.'

Hence from Verona
art thou banished:

Be patient, for the
world is broad

and wide.

There is no world
without Verona walls,

But purgatory,
torture, hell itself.

Heaven is here, Where
Juliet lives; and

every cat and dog And
little mouse, every

unworthy thing, Live
here in heaven and

may look on her; But
Romeo may not: he is

banished: Hadst thou
no poison mix'd, no

sharp-ground knife,
No sudden mean of

death, though
ne'er so mean,

But 'banished' to kill me?

--'banished'?

Hear me but
speak a word.

Thou canst not
speak of that thou

dost not feel:

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,

Juliet's nurse.

Shh, shhh, shh.

Leave us.

I come from
Lady Juliet.

Welcome, then.

O holy friar, O,
tell me, holy friar,

Where is my lady's
lord, where's Romeo?

There on the
ground, with his own

tears made drunk.

O, he is even in
my mistress' case,

Just in her case

Spakest
thou of Juliet?

how is it with her?

Doth she not think me
an old murderer, Now

I have stain'd the
childhood of our joy

With blood removed
but little from

her own?

Where is she?

and how doth she?

and what says My
conceal'd lady to our

cancell'd love?

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.

Stand up, stand up;
stand, and you be a

man: For Juliet's
sake, for her sake,

rise and stand; Why
should you fall into

so deep an O?

Art thou a man?

thy form cries out
thou art: Thy tears

are womanish;

Go, get thee to thy
love, as was decreed,

But look thou stay
not till the watch be

set, For then thou
canst not pass to

Mantua; Where thou
shalt live, till we

can find a time To
blaze your marriage,

reconcile your
friends, Beg pardon

of the prince, and
call thee back With

twenty hundred
thousand times more

joy Than thou went'st
forth in lamentation.

Make haste.

Balthasar.

Thank you my lord.

Romeo!

She's there.

Back, foolish
tears, back to your

native spring; Your
tributary drops

belong to woe, Which
you, mistaking,

offer up to joy.

My husband lives,
that Tybalt would

have slain; And
Tybalt's dead, that

would have slain my
husband: All this is

comfort; wherefore
weep I then?

Wilt thou be gone?

it is not yet near
day: It was the

nightingale, and
not the lark, That

pierced the fearful
hollow of thine ear;

Nightly she sings on
yon pomegranate-tree:

Believe me, love, it
was the nightingale.

It was the lark,
the herald of the morn,

Night's candles are
burnt out, and jocund

day Stands tiptoe
on the misty

mountain tops.

I must be gone
and live, or stay

and die.

Yon light is not
day-light, I know it,

I: Therefore stay
yet; thou need'st not

to be gone.

Let me stay here, let
me be ta'en and die;

I am content, so thou
wilt have it so.

I'll say yon grey is
not the morning's

eye, 'Tis but the
pale reflex of

Cynthia's brow; Nor
that is not the lark,

whose notes do beat
The vaulty heaven so

high above our heads:
I have more care to

stay than will to
go: Come, death,

and welcome!

Juliet wills it so.

How is't, my soul?

let's talk;
it is not day.

It is, it is: hie
hence, be gone, away!

It is the lark that
sings so out of tune,

Straining harsh
discords and

unpleasing sharps.

O, now be gone;
more light and

light it grows.

More light and
light, more dark

and dark it grows

Madam!

Nurse?

The day is broke;
be wary, look about.

Then, window,
let day in,

and let life out.

Farewell, farewell!

one kiss, and
I'll descend.

I must hear from
thee every day in the

hour, For in a minute
there are many days:

I will omit
no opportunity

O think'st thou
we shall ever

meet again?

I doubt it not;
and all these woes

shall serve For sweet
discourses in our

time to come.

O God, I have an
ill-divining soul!

thou look'st pale.'

And trust me,
love, in my eye so

do you: Dry sorrow
drinks our blood.

Adieu, adieu!

It is late, my lord.

Things have
fall'n out, sir, so

unluckily, That we
have had no time to

move our daughter:
Look you, she loved

her kinsman Tybalt
dearly, And so did

I:--Well, we were
born to die.

These times of woe
afford no time to woo

But, soft!

what day is this?

Monday, my lord,

Monday!

Well, Wednesday is
too soon, O' Thursday

let it be: o'
Thursday, tell her,

She shall be married
to this noble earl.

Will you be ready?

do you like this haste?

We'll keep no great
ado,--a friend or

two; For, hark you,
Tybalt being slain so

late, It may be
thought we held him

carelessly, Being our
kinsman, if we revel

much: Therefore we'll
have some half a

dozen friends,
And there an end.

But what say
you to Thursday?

My lord, I would
that Thursday

were to-morrow.

Senior Paris.

I think she will be
ruled In all respects

by me; nay, more,
I doubt it not.

Why, how now, Juliet!

Madam, I am not well.

Evermore weeping for

your cousin's death?

some grief shows much
of love; But much of

grief shows still
some want of wit.

Yet let me
weep for such a

feeling loss.

Well, girl, thou
weep'st not so much

for his death, As
that the villain

lives which
slaughter'd him.

What villain madam?

That same villain, Romeo.

God Pardon him!

I do, with all my
heart; And yet no

man like he doth
grieve my heart.

O, how my heart
abhors To hear him

named, and cannot
come to him.

To wreak the love
I bore my cousin,

Tybolt, Upon his body
that slaughter'd him!

We will have
vengeance for it,

fear thou not:
Then weep no more.

But now I'll tell
thee joyful tidings,

girl.

And joy comes well
in such a needy time:

What are they,

I beseech your ladyship?

Well, well, thou
hast a careful

father, child; One
who, to put thee from

thy heaviness, Hath
sorted out a sudden

day of joy, That thou
expect'st not nor

I look'd not for.

Madam, in happy time,

what day is that?

Marry, my child,
early next Thursday

morn, The gallant,
rich and noble

gentleman, The County
Paris, at Saint

Peter's Church, Shall
happily make thee

there a joyful bride.

I wonder at this
haste; that I must

wed Ere he, that
should be husband,

comes to woo.

I pray you, tell my
lord and father,

madam, I will not
marry yet; and, when

I do, I swear, It
shall be Romeo, whom

you know I hate,
Rather than Paris.

Tell him so yourself,

And see how he will

take it at your hands.

Do as you will.

For it have done well.

How now, wife!

Have you not told
her our decree?

Ay, sir; but she
will none, she gives

you thanks.

I would the fool were
married to her grave.

Soft! take me with you,

take me with you, wife.

How! will she none?

doth she not
give us thanks?

Is she not proud?

doth she not count
her blest, Unworthy

as she is, that we
have wrought So

worthy a gentleman to
be her bridegroom?

Not proud, you
have; but thankful,

that you have: Proud
can I never be of

what I hate; But
thankful even for

hate, that is
meant love.

How now, how
now, chop-logic!

What is this?

'Proud,' and 'I thank
you,' and 'I thank

you not;' And yet
'not proud,' mistress

minion, you, Thank me
no thankings, nor,

proud me no prouds,
But fettle your fine

joints 'gainst
Thursday next, To go

with Paris to Saint
Peter's Church, Or I

will drag thee on
a hurdle thither.

You tallow-face

Fie, fie!

what, are you mad?

Good father, I
beseech you on my

knees, Hear me with
patience but to

speak a word.

Hang thee,
young baggage!

disobedient wretch!

I tell thee what: get
thee to church o'

Thursday, Or never
after look me in the

face: Speak not,
reply not, do not

answer me; My
fingers itch.

Wife, we scarce
thought us blest That

God had lent us but
this only child; But

now I see this one
is one too much, And

that we have a curse
in having her:

Out on her, hilding!

God in heaven
bless her!

You are to blame, my
lord, to rate her so.

And why, my
lady wisdom?

hold your tongue,
Good prudence;

smatter with your
gossips, go.

I speak no treason.

O, God ye god-den.

May not one speak?

You are too hot

God's bread!

it makes me mad: Day,
night, late, early,

at home, abroud.

Alone, in company,
waking and sleeping.

still my care hath
been To have her

match'd: and having
now provided A

gentleman of princely
parentage, Of fair

demesnes, rich,
and nobly train'd,

Stuff'd, as they
say, with honourable

parts, Proportion'd
as one's thought

would wish a man;
And then to have a

wretched puling fool,
A whining mammet, in

her fortune's tender,
To answer 'I'll not

wed; I cannot love, I
am too young; I pray

you, pardon me.'

But, as you will not
wed, I'll pardon you:

Look to't, think
on't, I do not use

to jest.

Thursday is near;
lay hand on heart,

advise:

O, sweet my
mother, cast me

not away!

Delay this marriage
for a month, a week;

Talk not to me,
for I'll not speak

a word:

O God!

--O nurse, how shall
this be prevented?

My husband is on
earth, my faith

in heaven;

Alack, alack, that
heaven should

practise stratagems
Upon so soft a

subject as myself!

What say'st thou?

hast thou not
a word of joy?

Some comfort, nurse.

Faith, here it is.

Romeo is banish'd;
and all the world to

nothing, That he
dares ne'er come back

to challenge you; Or,
if he do, it needs

must be by stealth.

Then, since the case
so stands as now it

doth, I think it best
you married with

the county.

Speakest thou
from thy heart?

And from my soul too;

O, he's a lovely
gentleman!

Romeo's a dishclout
to him: an eagle,

madam, Hath not so
green, so quick,

so fair an eye
As Paris hath.

Beshrew my very
heart, I think you

are happy in this
second match, For it

excels your first:

Well, thou
hast comforted me

marvellous much.

Good father pardon,
I beseech you!

Henceforward I am
ever ruled by you.

But now let me go,
having displeased

you, to Laurence'
cell, To make

confession and
to be absolved.

This is
wisely done.

Where is
Friar Laurence?

There.

(Speaking in Latin)

O shut the door!

and when thou hast
done so, Come weep

with me; past hope,
past cure, past help!

(Speaking in Latin)

God join'd my
heart and Romeo's,

thou our hands; And
ere this hand, by

thee to Romeo seal'd,
Shall be the label to

another deed, Or
my true heart with

treacherous revolt
Turn to another, this

shall slay them both:

I do spy a kind of
hope, Which craves as

desperate an execution.

As that is
desperate which we

would prevent.

If, rather than to
marry County Paris,

Thou hast the
strength of will

to slay thyself,

O, bid me leap,
rather than marry

Paris, From off the
battlements of yonder

tower; Or walk in
thievish ways; or

bid me lurk Where
serpents are; chain

me with roaring
bears; Or shut me

nightly in a
charnel-house,

Hold, then;

To-morrow night look
that thou lie alone;

Let not thy nurse lie
in thy chamber: Take

thou this vial, being
then in bed, And this

distilled liquor
drink thou off; When

presently through all
thy veins shall run A

cold and drowsy
humour, for no pulse

Shall keep his
native progress, but

surcease: No warmth,
no breath, shall

testify thou livest;

Each part, deprived
of supple government,

Shall, stiff and
stark and cold,

appear like death:
And in this borrow'd

likeness of shrunk
death Thou shalt

continue two and
forty hours,

Now, when the
bridegroom in the

morning comes To
rouse thee from thy

bed, there art thou
dead: Then, as the

manner of our country
is, In thy best robes

uncover'd on the bier
Thou shalt be borne

to that same ancient
vault Where all the

kindred of the
Capulets lie.

Things that, to
hear them told, have

made me tremble; And
I will do it without

fear or doubt, To
live an unstain'd

wife to
my sweet love.

In the mean time,
against thou shalt

awake, Shall Romeo
by my letter

know our drift,

Then I will watch
thou waking, and

secretely hither to
bring the to this

cell until the
chapter day.

Which we in Mantua
each year do hold

at Easter time.

Wtih all the friars
confused I'll have

its wearing, I'll
bear the hense,

to Romeo.

But tell me, wilt
thou not fear thy

newly entombed
cousin Tybalt?

Give me, give me!

O, tell
not me of fear!

Love give me
strength!

and strength shall
help afford.

Farewell, dear
father!

See where she
comes from shrift

with merry look.

Come.

How now, my
headstrong!

where have you
been gadding?

Where I have
learn'd me to

repent the sin
of disobedient

opposition To you and
your behests, and am

enjoin'd By holy
Laurence to fall

prostrate here, And
beg your pardon:

Why, I am glad
on't; this is well:

stand up: Stand up.

Now, afore God!

this reverend holy
friar, Our whole city

is much bound to him.

To Mantua?

(Speaking in Latin)

Hello there,

this way to Mantua?

Yes father.

There.

Come.

The wedding dress.

Is it not beautiful?

Hie, indeed.

Poor soul, thy
face is much abused

with tears.

The tears have
got small victory by

that; For it was
bad enough before

their spite.

Thou wrong'st it,
more than tears, with

that report.

That is no
slander, sir,

which is a truth;

Hie, father.

This will help
you father.

Holy father,
come quickly.

The man's dying.

The man's dyimg and
wiches to confess.

Hold my
brother's donkey.

OOH, ml letter.

Come, come

What is it
my good man?

Five days he
lies in bed, with a

strange sickness.

His body is
racked with pain.

I fear he dies!

He wants a ftaher
confessor for

his sins.

But will not have
a doctor for ail.

He fears death,
bnut he fears the

doctor more.

Charge will the
soul he may unburden

to one who also
knows of medicine

and be it so.

For body ailments
often mirrows a

sickness of the soul.

But this is plaque!

Water, water.

Water.

Hold, hold
the door.

My letter, my letter,
open up here.

My letter for Romeo!

Nay, nay!

I pray thee,
leave me to my self

to-night, For I have
need of many orisons

To move the heavens
to smile upon my

state, Which, well
thou know'st, is

cross, and
full of sin.

What, are
you busy, ho?

need you my help?

No, madam; we
have cull'd such

necessaries As are
behoveful for our

state to-morrow: So
please you, let me

now be left alone,
And let the nurse

this night sit up
with you; For, I am

sure, you have your
hands full all,

In this so
sudden business.

Good night: Get
thee to bed, and

rest; for thou
hast need.

Farewell

God knows when we
shall meet again.

I have a faint cold
fear thrills through

my veins, That almost
freezes up the heat

of life: I'll call
them back again to

comfort me:

My dismal scene I
needs must act alone

What if this mixture
do not work at all?

Shall I be
married then

to-morrow morning?

What if it be a
poison, which the

friar Subtly hath
minister'd to have me

dead, Lest in this
marriage he should be

dishonour'd, Because
he married me before

to Romeo?

How if, when I am
laid into the tomb,

I wake before the
time the holy

friar come to
redeem me?

Shall I not, then, be
stifled in the vault,

To whose foul mouth
no healthsome air

breathes in,

Or, if I live, is it
not very like, The

horrible conceit of
death and night,

Together with the
terror of the

place,-- As in a
vault, an ancient

receptacle, Where,
for these many

hundred years, the
bones Of all my

buried ancestors are
packed: Where bloody

Tybalt, yet but
green in earth, Lies

festering in his
shroud; O, look!

methinks I see my
cousin's ghost

Seeking out Romeo,
stay, Tybalt, stay!

Romeo, I come!

this do I
drink to thee.

Hold, take these
keys, and fetch more

spices, nurse.

They call for
dates and quinces

in the pastry.

What, ho!

What, nurse, I say!

Go waken Juliet, go
and trim her up;

Mistress!

why, mistress!

Juliet!

fast, I warrant her,
she: Why, lamb!

why, lady! fie,

you slug-a-bed!

What, not a word

She's dead, She's
dead, She's dead!

If I may trust the
flattering truth of

sleep, My dreams
presage some joyful

news at hand: My
bosom's lord sits

lightly on his
throne; And all this

day an unaccustom'd
spirit Lifts me above

the ground with
cheerful thoughts.

I dreamt my lady came
and found me dead--

Strange dream, that
gives a dead man

leave to think!

-- And breathed such
life with kisses in

my lips, That I
revived, and was

an emperor.

Ah me!

how sweet is love
itself possess'd,

When but love's
shadows are so

rich in joy!

Welcome Balthasar.

News from Verona!

--How now, Balthasar!

Dost thou not bring
me letters from

the friar?

How doth my lady?

Is my father well?

How fares my Juliet?

that I ask again; For
nothing can be ill,

if she be well.

Then she is well,
and nothing can

be ill:

O, pardon me for
bringing these ill

news, Since you did
leave it for my

office, sir.

Ill news I sense?

Her body sleeps in
Capel's monument, And

her immortal part
with angels lips.

I saw this and
presently took post

to tell it you:

I do beseech you,
sir, have patience:

Your looks are pale
and wild,

and do import Some
misadventure.

Tush, thou
art deceived:

Hast thou no letters
to me from the friar?

No, my good lord.

No matter:
get thee gone,

then I defy
you, stars!

My lord.

No, no my
good lord!

Well, Juliet,
I will lie with

thee to-night.

Friar Laurence?

But he is morning
at a funeral.

where?

At the main church.

Death lies on her
like an untimely

frost Upon the
sweetest flower of

all the field.

O lamentable day!

But one, poor one,
one poor and loving

child, But one thing
to rejoice and solace

in, And cruel death
hath catch'd it from

my sight!

Confusion's
cure lives not In

these confusions.

Heaven and yourself
Had part in this fair

maid; now heaven hath
all, And all the

better is it
for the maid:

Sir, go you in; and,
madam, go with him;

The heavens do lour
upon you for some

ill; Move them no
more by crossing

their high will.

Nurse.

Holy
Franciscan friar!

brother, ho!

Welcome from Mantua:

what says Romeo?

I could
not find him.

The searchers of
the town, suspecting

that I was in a house
where the infectious

pestilence did reign,
Seal'd up the doors,

and would not let us
forth; So that my

speed to Mantua
there was stay'd.

Who bare my
letter, then,

to Romeo?

I could not send
it,--here it is

again,-- Nor get a
messenger to bring it

thee, So fearful were
they of infection.

Unhappy fortune.

By my brotherhood,
The letter was not

nice but full of
charge of dear

import, and the
neglecting it may

do much danger.

Friar John, go hence;
Get me an iron crow,

and bring it straight
unto my cell.

Stop thy
unhallow'd toil,

vile Montague!

Can vengeance be
pursued further

than death?

Condemned villain, I
do apprehend thee:

Obey, and go with me;
for thou must die.

I must indeed;
and therefore

came I hither.

Good gentle youth,
tempt not a

desperate man;

I beseech thee,
youth, Put not

another sin upon my
head, By urging me

to fury: O, be gone!

Stay not, be gone;
live, and hereafter

say, A madman's mercy
bade thee run away.

I do defy thy
conjurations,

And apprehend thee
for a felon here.

If thou be
merciful,

Open the tomb,

lay me with Juliet.

In faith, I will.

What said my man,
when my betossed soul

Did not attend him

I think he told me
Paris should have

married Juliet:
Said he not so?

or did I dream it so?

Or am I mad, hearing
him talk of Juliet,

To think it was so?

O, give me thy hand,
One writ with me

in sour
misfortune's book!

I'll bury thee in a
triumphant grave;

How oft when men are
at the point of death

Have they been merry!

which their keepers
call A lightning

before death: O,
how may I Call

this a lightning?

O my love!

my wife!

Death, that hath
suck'd the honey of

thy breath, Hath had
no power yet upon

thy beauty:

Thou art not
conquer'd; beauty's

ensign yet Is crimson
in thy lips and in

thy cheeks, And
death's pale flag is

not advanced there.

Tybalt, liest thou
there in thy

bloody sheet?

O, what more favour
can I do to thee,

Than with that hand
that cut thy youth in

twain To sunder his
that was thine enemy?

Forgive me, cousin!

Ah, dear Juliet, Why
art thou yet so fair?

Shall I believe That
unsubstantial death

is amorous, And that
the lean abhorred

monster keeps Thee
here in dark to be

his paramour?

For fear of that, I
still will stay with

thee; And never from
this palace of dim

night depart again:

here, here
will I remain

And shake the yoke of
inauspicious stars

From this
world-wearied flesh.

Eyes,

look your last!

Arms,

take your
last embrace!

and, lips, O you The
doors of breath, seal

with a righteous kiss
A dateless bargain to

engrossing death!

Come, bitter
conduct, come,

unsavoury guide!

Thou desperate pilot,
now at once run on

the dashing rocks thy
sea-sick weary bark!

Oh.

Romeo,

Romeo!

ROMEO!

Romeo

O, pale

O comfortable
friar!

where is my lord?

I do remember well
where I should be,

And there I am.

Where is my Romeo?

Lady, come from
that nest Of death,

contagion, and
unnatural sleep:

Come, come.

A greater power than
we can contradict

hath thwarted
our intents.

Come, come away.

Come, go,
good Juliet,

I dare no
longer stay.

Thy lips are warm.

This is thy sheath;

there rust,
and let me die.

O me!

this sight of death
is as a bell, that

warns my old age
to a sepulchre.

O thou untaught!

what manners
is in this?

To press before thy
father to a grave?

Capulet!

Montague!

See, what a scourge
is laid upon your

hate, That heaven
finds means to kill

your joys with love.

O brother Montague,

give me thy hand.

A glooming peace
this morning with it

brings; The sun, for
sorrow, will not

show his head:

Go hence, to have
more talk of these

sad things; Some
shall be pardon'd,

and some punished:

For never was a story
of more woe than this

of Juliet and
her Romeo.