Romeo
Can I go forward when my heart is here?
Turn back, dull earth, and find thy center out.
Benvolio
Romeo, my cousin Romeo, Romeo!
Mercutio He is wise
And, on my life, hath stol’n him home to bed.
Benvolio
He ran this way and leapt this orchard wall.
Call, good Mercutio.
Mercutio Nay, I’ll conjure too.
Romeo! Humors! Madman! Passion! Lover!
Appear thou in the likeness of a sigh.
Speak but one rhyme and I am satisfied.
Cry but “Ay me,” pronounce but “love” and
“dove.”
Speak to my gossip Venus one fair word,
One nickname for her purblind son and heir,
Young Abraham Cupid, he that shot so trim
When King Cophetua loved the beggar maid.–
He heareth not, he stirreth not, he moveth not.
The ape is dead, and I must conjure him.–
I conjure thee by Rosaline’s bright eyes,
By her high forehead, and her scarlet lip,
By her fine foot, straight leg, and quivering thigh,
And the demesnes that there adjacent lie,
That in thy likeness thou appear to us.
Benvolio
An if he hear thee, thou wilt anger him.
Mercutio
This cannot anger him. ’Twould anger him
To raise a spirit in his mistress’ circle
Of some strange nature, letting it there stand
Till she had laid it and conjured it down.
That were some spite. My invocation
Is fair and honest. In his mistress’ name,
I conjure only but to raise up him.
Benvolio
Come, he hath hid himself among these trees
To be consorted with the humorous night.
Blind is his love and best befits the dark.
Mercutio
If love be blind, love cannot hit the mark.
Now will he sit under a medlar tree
And wish his mistress were that kind of fruit
As maids call medlars when they laugh alone.–
O Romeo, that she were, O, that she were
An open-arse, thou a pop’rin pear.
Romeo, good night. I’ll to my truckle bed;
This field-bed is too cold for me to sleep.–
Come, shall we go?
Benvolio Go, then, for ’tis in vain
To seek him here that means not to be found.