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 |
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|
| | JULIET |
| |
The clock struck nine when I did send the Nurse. |
| |
In half an hour she promised to return. |
| |
Perchance she cannot meet him. That's not so. |
| |
Oh, she is lame! Love's heralds should be thoughts, |
| 5 |
Which ten times faster glide than the sun's beams, |
| |
Driving back shadows over louring hills. |
| |
Therefore do nimble-pinioned doves draw love |
| |
And therefore hath the wind-swift Cupid wings. |
| |
Now is the sun upon the highmost hill |
| 10 |
Of this day's journey, and from nine till twelve |
| |
Is three long hours, yet she is not come. |
| |
Had she affections and warm youthful blood, |
| |
She would be as swift in motion as a ball. |
| |
My words would bandy her to my sweet love, |
| 15 |
And his to me. |
| |
But old folks, many feign as they were dead, |
| |
Unwieldy, slow, heavy, and pale as lead. |
|
| JULIET |
|
I sent the Nurse at nine o'clock. Maybe she
can't find him. That can't be. Oh, she's
slow! Love's messengers should be thoughts, which fly ten
times faster than sunbeams. They should be strong enough to push
shadows over the dark hills. That's the way doves carry
Venus so fast, and that's why Cupid has wings that let him
fly as fast as the wind. Now it's noon. That's
three hours since nine o'clock, but she hasn't
come back. If she was young and passionate, she'd move as
fast as a ball. My words would bounce her to my sweet love, and his
words would bounce her back to me. But a lot of old people act like
they're already dead—sluggish, slow, fat, and
colorless, like lead. |
|
|
| The NURSE and PETER
enter. |
|
| |
O God, she comes.—O honey Nurse, what news? |
| |
Hast thou met with him? Send thy man away. |
|
|
Oh my God, here she comes! Oh sweet Nurse, what news do you bring?
Have you spoken to him? Send your man away. |
|
| | NURSE |
| 20 |
Peter, stay at the gate. |
|
| NURSE |
|
Peter, wait for me at the gate. |
|
|
|
| | JULIET |
| |
Now, good sweet Nurse— O Lord, why look'st
thou sad? |
| |
Though news be sad, yet tell them merrily. |
| |
If good, thou shamest the music of sweet news |
| |
By playing it to me with so sour a face. |
|
| JULIET |
|
Now, good sweet Nurse—Oh Lord, why do you look so sad?
Even if the news is sad, tell me with a smile on your face. If the
news is good, you're ruining the sweet news by playing a
trick with a sour face like that. |
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