|
 |
|
| | BENVOLIO |
| 105 |
This wind you talk of, blows us from ourselves. |
| |
Supper is done, and we shall come too late. |
|
| BENVOLIO |
|
The wind you're talking about is blowing us off our
course. Dinner is over, and we're going to get there too
late. |
|
| | ROMEO |
| |
I fear too early, for my mind misgives |
| |
Some consequence yet hanging in the stars |
| |
Shall bitterly begin his fearful date |
| 110 |
With this night's revels, and expire the term |
| |
Of a despisèd life closed in my breast |
| |
By some vile forfeit of untimely death. |
| |
But he that hath the steerage of my course, |
| |
Direct my sail. On, lusty gentlemen. |
|
| ROMEO |
|
I'm worried we'll get there too early. I have a
feeling this party tonight will be the start of something bad,
something that will end with my own death. But whoever's in
charge of where my life's going can steer me wherever they
want. Onward, lover boys! |
|
| | BENVOLIO |
| 115 |
Strike, drum. |
|
|
| March about the stage and exeunt |
|
| They march about the stage and
exit. |
|
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