The grey-eyed morn smiles on the frowning night,
     Chequering the eastern clouds with streaks of light,
     And flecked darkness like a drunkard reels
     From forth day's path and Titan's fiery wheels:
     Now, ere the sun advance his burning eye,
     The day to cheer and night's dank dew to dry,
     I must up-fill this osier cage of ours
     With baleful weeds and precious-juiced flowers.
     The earth that's nature's mother is her tomb;
     What is her burying grave that is her womb,
     And from her womb children of divers kind
     We sucking on her natural bosom find,
     Many for many virtues excellent,
     None but for some and yet all different.
     O, mickle is the powerful grace that lies
     In herbs, plants, stones, and their true qualities:
     For nought so vile that on 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 misapplied;
     And vice sometimes by action dignified.
     Within the infant rind of this small flower
     Poison hath residence and medicine power:
     For this, being smelt, with that part cheers each part;
     Being tasted, slays all senses with the heart.
     Two such opposed 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.

     Enter ROMEO

ROMEO

     Good morrow, father.

FRIAR LAURENCE

     Benedicite!
     What early tongue so sweet saluteth me?
     Young son, it argues a distemper'd head
     So soon to bid good morrow to thy bed:
     Care keeps his watch in every old man's eye,
     And where care lodges, sleep will never lie;
     But where unbruised youth with unstuff'd brain
     Doth couch his limbs, there golden sleep doth reign:
     Therefore thy earliness doth me assure
     Thou art up-roused by some distemperature;
     Or if not so, then here I hit it right,
     Our Romeo hath not been in bed to-night.

ROMEO

     That last is true; the sweeter rest was mine.

FRIAR LAURENCE

     God pardon sin! wast thou with Rosaline?

ROMEO

     With Rosaline, my ghostly father? no;
     I have forgot that name, and that name's woe.

FRIAR LAURENCE

     That's my good son: but where hast thou been, then?

ROMEO

     I'll tell thee, ere thou ask it me again.
     I have been feasting with mine enemy,
     Where on a sudden one hath wounded me,
     That's by me wounded: both our remedies
     Within thy help and holy physic lies:
     I bear no hatred, blessed man, for, lo,
     My intercession likewise steads my foe.

FRIAR LAURENCE

     Be plain, good son, and homely in thy drift;
     Riddling confession finds but riddling shrift.

ROMEO

     Then plainly know my heart's dear love is set
     On the fair daughter of rich Capulet:
     As mine on hers, so hers is set on mine;
     And all combined, save what thou must combine
     By holy marriage: when and where and how
     We met, we woo'd and made exchange of vow,
     I'll tell thee as we pass; but this I pray,
     That thou consent to marry us to-day.