A lane by the wall of Capulet’s orchard.
(Romeo; Benvolio; Mercutio)
Romeo, feeling unable to leave, jumps over the wall to Capulet’s orchard to escape Benvolio and Mercutio. Mercutio’s acid mockery of Romeo’s lovesickness as he calls for him for some reason does not make Romeo appear, and Benvolio convinces the wild joker to go to bed, since Romeo clearly does not wish to be found. (45 lines)
Enter Romeo alone.
Can I go forward when my heart is here?
Turn back, dull earth, and find thy centre out.
Enter Benvolio with Mercutio. Romeo withdraws.
Romeo! My cousin Romeo! Romeo!
He is wise,
And, on my life, hath stol’n him home to bed.
He ran this way and leapt this orchard wall.
Call, good 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 lov’d 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!
And if he hear thee, thou wilt anger him.
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 conjur’d it down.
That were some spite. My invocation
Is fair and honest; in his mistress’ name
I conjure only but to raise up him.
Come, he hath hid himself among these trees
To be consorted with the humorous night.
Blind is his love and best befits the dark.
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?
Go then, for ’tis in vain
To seek him here that means not to be found.
Exit with Mercutio.