FATHER LAWRENCE: O, mighty is
the powerful grace that lies in plants, herbs, stones, and their
true qualities. For nought so vile that the earth doth live but
to the earth some special good doth give; Nor aught so good, but
strain'd from that fair use, revolts from true birth, stumbling
on abuse, Virtue itself turns vice, being misaplied; and vice
sometimes by action dignified. Within the infant rind of this
weak flower poision is resident and medicine power: for this,
being smelt, with that part cheers each part; being tasted, slays
all senses with the heart. Two such empossed kings encamp them
still in man as well as herbs, grace and rude will; and where
the worser is predominant, full soon the canker death eats up
that plant.
ROMEO: Good marrow, Father!
FATHER LAWERENCE: Benedicite!
What early tounge so sweet saludeth me?
ALTAR BOYS: Good marrow, Romeo.
ROMEO: Good marrow.
FATHER LAWRENCE: Young son, it
argues a distemper'd head so soon to bid good marrow to thy bed:
or if not so so, then here I hit it right, our Romeo hath not
seen his bed tonight.
ROMEO: The last is true; the sweeter
rest was mine.
FATHER LAWRENCE: God pardon sin,
was thou with Rosaline!?
ROMEO: Rosaline? My ghostly father
no, I have forgot that name, and that name's woe.
FATHER LAWRENCE: That's my good
son: but where hast thou been?
ROMEO: I have been feasting with
mine enemy, where on a sudden one hath wounded me, that's by me
wounded; both our remeidies within thy help and holy physic lies.
FATHER LAWERENCE: Be plain, good
son, and homely in thy drift; riddling confession finds but riddling
shrift.
ROMEO: Then plainly know my hearts
dear love is set, on the fair daughter of Rich Capulet. We met,
we wooed, we made extange of vow. I'll tell thee as we pass; but
this I pray, that thou consent to marry us today.
FATHER LAWRENCE: Holy Saint Fancis,
what a change is here! Is Rosaline that thou didst love so dear
so soon forsaken? Young men's love then lies not truly in their
hearts but in their eyes.
ROMEO: Thou chid'st me oft for
loving Rosaline.
FATHER LAWRENCE: For doting; not
for loving, pupil mine.
ROMEO: I pray thee, chide me not;
who I love now doth grace for grace and love for love allow; the
other did not so.
FATHER LAWRENCE: O, she new well.
Thy love read by rote and could not spell. Come, young waverer,
come, go with me, In one respect i'll thy assistant be; for this
alliance may so happy prove, to turn you household rachor to pure
love.
ROMEO: O, let us hence; I stand
on sudden haste.
FATHER LAWRENCE: Wisely and slow;
they stumble that run fast.
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