Romeo and Juliet

Romeo and Juliet by William Shakespeare Presented by Paul W. Collins © Copyright 2005 by Paul W. Collins Romeo and Juliet By William Shakespeare Presented by Paul W. Collins All rights reserved under the International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this work may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, audio or video recording, or other, without the prior written permission of the copyright owner. Contact: [email protected] Note: Spoken lines from Shakespeare’s drama are in the public domain, as is the Globe (1864) edition of his plays, which provided the basic text of the speeches in this new version of Romeo and Juliet. But Romeo and Juliet, by William Shakespeare: Presented by Paul W. Collins, is a copyrighted work, and is made available for your personal use only, in reading and study. Student, beware: This is a presentation of Romeo and Juliet, not a scholarly work, so you should be sure your teacher, instructor or professor considers it acceptable as a reference before quoting characters’ comments or thoughts from it in your report or term paper. 2 Chapter One Cold Fire he distinguished gentleman who comes forward as Prologue speaks solemnly. T “Two households, both alike in dignity in fair Verona, where we lay our scene, from ancient grudge break to new mutiny—uncivil blood makes civil hands unclean!” He moves closer. “From forth the fatal loins of these two foes, a pair of star-crossed lovers take their life—whose misadventured, piteous overthrow doth with their death bury their parents’ strife. “The fearful passage of their death-marked love in the continuance of their parents’ rage— that nought but children’s end could remove—is now the two hours’ traffic of our stage. “The which, if you with patient ears attend, what they shall miss, our toil will strive to mend….” n a northern Italian city one sunny July afternoon during the 16th century, two young I serving-men, both employed by the powerful House of Capulet, saunter proudly onto a public street just outside its lord’s tall mansion. Belligerent defiance is a chronic posture against the always imminent—if only imagined— threat posed by a rival Veronese family, the Montagues. Sampson, sixteen, cocky and perpetually aggrieved, today declares, “Gregory, o’ my word, we’ll not carry coals!”—suppress anger. “No. For then we should be colliers.” In popular perception, coal men are uncouth and cowardly. “I mean, if we be in choler, we’ll draw!” Both are armed with rapier and dagger, and each carries a buckler, a small shield, on his arm. Gregory, eighteen, again replies with a quip: “Aye. While you live, draw your neck out o’ the collar.” He knows that Sampson’s sword—a fancy one—has been unsheathed only for practice. “I strike quickly, being moved!” says Sampson. “But thou art not quickly moved to strike,” notes the older lad. “A dog of the House of Montague moves me!” Gregory is inured to the old feud’s hot but pointless rhetoric—and his wit tends toward the ribald: “To move is to stir, and to be valiant is to stand; therefore, if thou art moved, thou runn’st away!”—dribble, after ejaculating. “A dog of that house shall move me to stand! I will make a wall against any man or maid of Montague’s!” “That shows thee a weak slave,” counters Gregory, “for the weakest ‘goes to the wall’”— walks a safe distance from street traffic. “True—and therefore women, being the weaker vessels, are ever thrust to the wall! So I will push Montague’s men from the wall, and thrust his maids to the wall!” Gregory, who has a sister, frowns. “The quarrel is between our masters and us, their men.” “’Tis all one. I will show myself a tyrant!” says the bellicose boy. “When I have fought with the men, I will be cruel with the maids, and cut off their heads!” “The heads of the maids?” Now Sampson, too, waxes sensual. “Aye, the heads of the maids!—or their maidenheads; take it in what sense thou wilt!” “They must take it in sense who feel it.” Sampson smirks. “Me they shall feel while I am able to stand!—and ’tis known I am a pretty piece of flesh!” “’Tis well thou art not fish, Gregory gibes. “Thou hadst been poor-John!”—stiff, but as is the dried-and-salted fish. He grins as an opportunity arises. “Draw thy tool! Here come two from the House of the Montagues!” 3 “My naked weapon is out,” says Sampson—meaning he’s up for a fight. “Quarrel,” he urges. “I will back thee!” Gregory teases: “How? Turn thy back, and run?” “Fear not for me!” “No, marry!” laughs Gregory. “I fear thee!” The boy is too impulsive. “Let us take the law on our sides,” says Sampson, growing more cautious as the others near. “Let them begin.” “I will frown as they pass by, and let them take it as they list.” “Nay—as they dare! I will bite my thumb at them—which is a disgrace to them, if they bear it!” As two of their Montague counterparts, Abram and Balthasar, walk past, Sampson snaps the nail of his right thumb from his upper front teeth. Abram stops. “Do you bite your thumb at us, sir?” “I do bite my thumb, sir.” “Do you bite your thumb at us, sir?” Sampson quietly asks Gregory: “Is the law of our side, if I say aye?” “No.” “No, sir, I do not bite my thumb at you, sir,” says Sampson, “—but I bite my thumb, sir!” Gregory presses the confrontation. “Do you quarrel, sir?” “Quarrel, sir?” asks Abram. “No, sir.” “If you do, sir, I am for you!” says Sampson. “I serve as good a man as you!”—an unintentionally ambiguous challenge. “No better,” Abram retorts. Sampson only mutters. “Well, sir.” “Say ‘better!’” demands Gregory. “Here comes one of my master’s kinsmen!” Sampson, seeing the young nobleman, now insists, “Yes, ‘better,’ sir!” Abram steps toward them, scowling. “You lie!” “Draw, if you be men!” cries Sampson, drawing his sword. “Gregory, remember thy swashing blow!” Benvolio, Lord Montague’s nephew, reaches them just as the four begin to flail ineptly, their clashing rapiers bounced back by the others’ clumsy counter-strokes. “Part, fools!” he cries, irked; the public scuffle will likely bring trouble to both families from the city’s authorities. “Put up your swords; you know not what you do!” Skilled with his own weapon, he beats down their lighter ones. But then Lord Capulet’s nephew, Tybalt, arrives. “What?—art thou drawn among these artless hinds?” he asks the other scion scornfully, drawing his blade. “Turn thee, Benvolio! Look upon thy death!” “I do but keep the peace!” protests the Montague. “Put up thy sword, or manage it with me to part these men!” “What?—drawn, and talk of peace! I hate the word, as I hate Hell, all Montagues, and thee! Have at thee, coward!” And so they, too, fight. Soon, other serving-men from both houses have come out to join the ignoble conflict. The tumult draws indignant citizens from the vicinity. Intrusions of the neighbors’ eight-foot- long, wide-bladed partisans, and blows of their heavy clubs add painful emphasis to their displeasure with this latest disturbance. “Strike! Beat them down!” they cry. “Down with the Capulets!” “Down with the Montagues!” Grey-bearded Lord Capulet hurries down the wide stone steps from his house to the street, followed by Lady Capulet and a servant. “What noise is this?” He sees the combat. “Give me my long sword, ho!” he demands. His wife scowls. “A crutch, a crutch! Why call you for a sword?” 4 “My sword, I say!” cries Capulet, pointing across the way: “Old Montague is come, and flourishes his blade in despite of me!” Indeed, Lord and Lady Montague have heard the commotion, and, followed by a stream of servants, are rushing down to the pavement. “Thou villain, Capulet!” shouts Montague, struggling with a heavy broadsword. “Hold me not, let me go!” he tells his serving-men—although no one is restraining him. Lady Montague, frowning, blocks him from entering the boisterous battle. “Thou shalt not stir a foot to seek a foe!” And then into the municipal square rides an angry Prince Escalus, lord of Verona, with his armed attendants in train on foot. “Rebellious subjects!” shouts the prince, dismounting, “enemies to peace, profaners of this neighbour-stainèd steel!” Despite his call, they continue fighting. “Will they not hear?” He is furious. “What, ho! You men—you beasts that quench the fire of your pernicious rage with purple fountains issuing from your veins! On pain of torture, from those bloody hands throw your mistempered weapons to the ground, and hear the sentence of your movèd prince!” The rioters, out of breath, separate and, one by one, drop their blades. The prince glares at them all. “Three civil brawls, bred of any airy word by thee, old Capulet and Montague, have thrice disturbed the quiet of our streets, and made Verona’s ancient citizens cast aside their gravely beseeming ornaments to wield old partisans—in hands as old, cankered with peace—to part your cankered hate!” Rage is resonant in his stern voice: “If ever you disturb our streets again, your lives shall pay the forfeit of the peace! “For this time, all the rest depart away! You, Capulet, shall go along with me; and, Montague, come you this afternoon, to know our further pleasure in this case, to old Free-town, our common judgment-place.

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