ANCHOR WOMAN:

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 crossed lovers take their life,

Whose misadventured piteous overthrows doth with

their death, Bury their parents strife. The fearful

passage of their death marked love, And the

continuance of their parents rage, Which but their

children's end not could remove, Is now the two hours

traffic of our stage.

SAMPSON:

A dog of the house of Capulet moves me!

BENVOLIO:

The quarrel is between our masters.

GREGORY:

And us their men.

SAMPSON:

Bubble, bubble, toil and trouble. And I am a pretty

piece of flesh, I am a pretty piece of Flesh! Here

comes of the house of Capulet!

GREGORY:

Quarrel, I will back thee.

ABRAHAM:

Boo! Ah, ha ha. Ooh. Boo! Ha ha ha.

SAMPSON:

I will bite my thumb at them; which is a disgrace to

them, if they bear it.

ABRAHAM:

Do you bite your thumb at us, sir?

SAMPSON:

I do bite my thumb, sir!

ABRAHAM:

Do you bite your thumb at us? Sir.

SAMPSON:

[Aside to GREGORY]

Is the law on our side, if I say ay?

GREGORY:

No!

SAMPSON:

No, sir, I do not bite my thumb at you, sir, but I

bite my thumb, sir.

GREGORY:

Do you quarrel, sir?

ABRAHAM:

Quarrel sir! no, sir.

SAMPSON:

If you do, sir, I am for you. I serve as good a man

as you.

ABRAHAM:

No better?

SAMPSON:

Uh? Uh?

GREGORY:

Here comes our kinsmen say better!

SAMPSON:

Yes, sir better.

ABRAHAM:

You lie. Draw, if you be men.

BENVOLIO:

Part, fools! you know not what you do. Put up your

swords.

TYBALT:

What, art thou drawn among these heartless hinds?

Turn thee, Benvolio, look upon thy death.

BENVOLIO:

I do but keep the peace. Put up thy sword, Or manage

it to part these men with me.

TYBALT:

Peace. Peace? I hate the word, As I hate hell, all

Montagues, and thee.

BOY:

Bang Bang! Bang Bang!

TYBALT:

Bang.

MONTAGUE:

Give me my long sword, ho!

LADY MONTAGUE:

Thou shalt not stir a foot to seek a foe.

PRINCE:

Rebellious subjects, enemies to peace, Throw your

mistemper'd weapons to the ground! On pain of

torture, from those bloody hands Throw your

mistemper'd weapons to the ground! Three civil

brawls, bred of an airy word, By thee, old Capulet,

and Montague, Have thrice disturb'd the quiet of our

streets, If ever you disturb our streets again, Your

lives shall pay the forfeit of the peace.

LADY MONTAGUE:

O, where is Romeo? saw you him to-day? Right glad I

am he was not at this fray.

BENVOLIO:

Madam, underneath a grove of sycamore so early

walking did I see your son.

MONTAGUE:

Many a morning hath he there been seen, With tears

augmenting the fresh morning dew.

LADY MONTAGUE:

Away from the light steals home my heavy son, And

private in his chamber pens himself, Shuts up his

windows, locks far daylight out And makes himself an

artificial night.