Yes; he is now master of events; the stars cannot alter

his course:

"Thou know'st my lodgings: get me ink and paper,

And hire post-horses; I will hence to-night.

Balthasar. I do beseech you, sir, have patience; Your looks are pale and wild, and do import Some misadventure.

Romeo.

Tush thou art deceiv'd.

Leave me, and do the thing I bid thee do.
Hast thou no letters for me from the Friar?
Balthasar. No, my good lord.

Romeo.

No matter: get thee gone,

And hire those horses; I'll be with thee straight."

"Nothing," as Maginn has observed, "can be more quiet than his final determination, 'Well, Juliet, I will lie with thee to night.' . . . It is plain Juliet. There is nothing about Cupid's arrow' or 'Dian's wit;' no honeyed word. escapes his lips, nor again does any accent of despair. His mind is made up; the whole course of the short remainder of his life so unalterably fixed that it is perfectly useless to think more about it." These words because they are the simplest are amongst the most memorable that Romeo utters. Is this indeed the same Romeo who sighed, and wept, and spoke sonnet-wise, and penned himself in his chamber, shutting the daylight out for love of Rosaline? Now passion, imagination, and will are fused together, and Romeo who was weak has at length become strong.

ROMEO AND JULIET.

PROLOGUE.

Two households, both alike in dignity,

In fair Verona, where we lay our scene,
From ancient grudge break to new mutiny,
Where civil blood makes civil hands unclean.
From forth the fatal loins of these two foes
A pair of star-cross'd lovers take their life,
Whose misadventur'd piteous overthrows

Doth with their death bury their parents' strife.
The fearful passage of their death-mark'd love,
And the continuance of their parents' rage,
Which, but their children's end, nought could remove,
Is now the two hours' traffic of our stage;
The which if you with patient ears attend,
What here shall miss, our toil shall strive to mend.

ACT I.

SCENE I. Verona. A Public Place.

Enter SAMPSON and GREGORY, of the house of Capulet, with swords and bucklers.

Sampson. Gregory, on my word, we 'll not carry coals.
Gregory. No, for then we should be colliers.

Sampson. I mean, an we be in choler, we 'll draw. Gregory. Ay, while you live, draw your neck out o' the collar.

Sampson. I strike quickly, being moved.

Gregory. But thou art not quickly moved to strike. Sampson. A dog of the house of Montague moves me: Gregory. To move is to stir, and to be valiant is to stand; therefore, if thou art moved, thou runn'st away.

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Sampson. A dog of that house shall move me to stand; I will take the wall of any man or maid of Montague's.

Gregory. That shows thee a weak slave; for the weakest goes to the wall.

Sampson. True; and therefore women, being the weaker vessels, are ever thrust to the wall: therefore I will push Montague's men from the wall, and thrust his maids to the wall.

Gregory. The quarrel is between our masters and us their

men.

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Sampson. "Tis all one, I will show myself a tyrant; when I have fought with the men, I will be cruel with the maids, and cut off their heads.

Gregory. Draw thy tool; here comes two of the house of the Montagues.

Sampson. My naked weapon is out; quarrel, I will back thee.

Gregory. How? turn thy back and run?
Sampson. Fear me not.