Original subtitles

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.