William Shakespeare (baptised 26 April 1564) was an English poet and playwright, widely regarded as the greatest writer in the English language and the world's pre-eminent dramatist. He is often called England's national poet and the 'Bard of Avon' (or simply "The Bard"). His surviving works consist of 37 plays, 154 sonnets, two long narrative poems, and several other poems. His plays have been translated into every major living language. Shakespeare was born and raised in Stratford-upon-Avon. Scholars believe that he died on his fifty-second birthday, coinciding with St George’s Day. At the age of 18 he married Anne Hathaway, who bore him three children: Susanna, twins Hamnet and Judith. Between 1585 and 1592 he began a successful career in London as an actor, writer, and part owner of the playing company the Lord Chamberlain's Men, later known as the King's Men. He appears to have retired to Stratford around 1613, where he died three years later. Shakespeare produced most of his known work between 1590 and 1613. His early plays were mainly comedies and histories, genres he raised to the peak of sophistication and artistry by the end of the sixteenth century. Next he wrote mainly tragedies until about 1608. He was a respected poet and playwright in his own day, but his reputation did not rise to its present heights until the nineteenth century. The Romantics, in particular, acclaimed Shakespeare's genius, and the Victorians hero-worshipped Shakespeare. In the twentieth century, his work was repeatedly adopted and rediscovered by new movements in scholarship and performance. His plays remain highly popular today and are consistently performed and reinterpreted in diverse cultural and political contexts throughout the world.

Act 1

Scene 1. 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, if we be in choler, we’ll draw.

GREGORY : Ay, while you live, draw your neck out of collar.

SAMPSON : I strike quickly, being moved.

GREGORY : But thou art not quickly moved to strike.

SAMPSON : A dog of the house of Mountague moves me.

GREGORY : To move is to stir, and to be valiant is to stand: therefore if thou art moved thou runn’st away.

SAMPSON : A dog of that house shall move me to stand: I will take the wall of any man or maid of Mountague’s.

GREGORY : That shows thee a weak slave, for the weakest goes to the wall.

SAMPSON : ’Tis true, and therefore women, being the weaker vessels, are ever thrust to the wall: therefore I will push Mountague’s men from the wall, and thrust his maids to the wall.

GREGORY : The quarrel is between our masters, and us their men.

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

GREGORY : The heads of the maids?

SAMPSON : Ay, the heads of the maids, or their maidenheads; take it in what sense thou wilt.

GREGORY : They must take it in sense that feel it.

SAMPSON : Me they shall feel while I am able to stand, and ’tis known I am a pretty piece of flesh.

GREGORY : ’Tis well thou art not fish; if thou hadst, thou hadst been poor John. Draw thy tool: here comes two of the house of Mountagues.

Enter ABRAM and another SERVANT.

SAMPSON : My naked weapon is out: quarrel; I will back thee.

GREGORY : How? Turn thy back and run?

SAMPSON : Fear me not.

GREGORY : No, marry: I fear thee!

SAMPSON : Let us take the law of our sides: let them begin.

GREGORY : I will frown as I pass by, and let them take it as they list.

SAMPSON : Nay, as they dare. I will bite my thumb at them, which is disgrace to them if they bear it.

ABRAM : Do you bite your thumb at us, sir?

SAMPSON : I do bite my thumb, sir.

ABRAM : Do you bite your thumb at us, sir?

SAMPSON : [aside to Gregory:] Is the law of our side if I say ay?

GREGORY : No.

SAMPSON : [to Abram:] No, sir, I do not bite my thumb at you, sir, but I bite my thumb, sir.

GREGORY : Do you quarrel, sir?

ABRAM : Quarrel, sir? No, sir.

SAMPSON : But if you do, sir, I am for you: I serve as good a man as you.

ABRAM : No better.

SAMPSON : Well, sir.

Enter BENVOLIO on one side, TYBALT on the other.

GREGORY : [aside to Sampson, on seeing Tybalt:] Say ‘better’: here comes one of my master’s kinsmen.

SAMPSON : [to Abram:] Yes, better, sir.

ABRAM : You lie.

SAMPSON : Draw, if you be men. Gregory, remember thy washing blow.

[They fight.

BENVOLIO : [drawing:] Part, fools!

Put up your swords; you know not what you do.

TYBALT : What, art thou drawn among these heartless hinds?

Turn thee, Benvolio; look upon thy death.

BENVOLIO : I do but keep the peace: put up thy sword,

Or manage it to part these men with me.

Tybalt : What, drawn, and talk of peace? I hate the word,

As I hate hell, all Mountagues, and thee:

Have at thee, coward.

They fight. Enter three or four CITIZENS with clubs or partisans, and an OFFICER.

OFFICER : Clubs, bills, and partisans! Strike, beat them down!

Down with the Capulets, down with the Mountagues!

Enter old CAPULET in his gown, and his WIFE.

CAPULET : What noise is this? Give me my long sword, ho!

C.’S WIFE : A crutch, a crutch! Why call you for a sword?

Enter old MOUNTAGUE and his WIFE.

CAPULET : My sword, I say! Old Mountague is come,

And flourishes his blade in spite of me.

MOUNT. : Thou villain Capulet! – Hold me not, let me go.

M.’S WIFE : Thou shalt not stir one foot to seek a foe.

Enter PRINCE ESCALUS with his train.

PRINCE : Rebellious subjects, enemies to peace,

Profaners of this neighbour-stainèd steel –

Will they not hear? – What ho! You men, you beasts,

That quench the fire of your pernicious rage

With purple fountains issuing from your veins:

On pain of torture, from those bloody hands

Throw your mistempered weapons to the ground,

And hear the sentence of your moved Prince.

Three civil brawls, bred of an airy word,

By thee, old Capulet and Mountague,

Have thrice disturbed the quiet of our streets,

And made Verona’s ancient citizens

Cast by their grave-beseeming ornaments

To wield old partisans, in hands as old,

Cankered with peace, to part your cankered hate.

If ever you disturb our streets again,

Your lives shall pay the forfeit of the peace.

For this time, all the rest depart away:

You, Capulet, shall go along with me;

And, Mountague, come you this afternoon,

To know our farther pleasure in this case,

To old Freetown, our common judgment-place.

Once more, on pain of death, all men depart.

[Exeunt all but Mountague, his wife, and Benvolio.

MOUNT. : Who set this ancient quarrel new abroach?

Speak, nephew, were you by when it began?

BENVOLIO : Here were the servants of your adversary

And yours, close fighting ere I did approach:

I drew to part them; in the instant came

The fiery Tybalt, with his sword prepared,

Which, as he breathed defiance to my ears,

He swung about his head, and cut the winds,

Who, nothing hurt withal, hissed him in scorn.

While we were interchanging thrusts and blows,

Came more and more, and fought on part and part,

Till the Prince came, who parted either part.

M.’S WIFE : O where is Romeo? Saw you him today?

Right glad I am he was not at this fray.

BENVOLIO : Madam, an hour before the worshipped sun

Peered forth the golden window of the east,

A troubled mind drave me to walk abroad,

Where, underneath the grove of sycamore

That westward rooteth from this city’s side,

So early walking did I see your son:

Towards him I made, but he was ware of me,

And stole into the covert of the wood.

I, measuring his affections by my own,

Which then most sought where most might not be found,

Being one too many by my weary self,

Pursued my humour, not pursuing his,

And gladly shunned who gladly fled from me.

MOUNT. : Many a morning hath he there been seen,

With tears augmenting the fresh morning’s dew,

Adding to clouds more clouds with his deep sighs;

But all so soon as the all-cheering sun

Should in the farthest east begin to draw

The shady curtains from Aurora’s bed,

Away from light steals home my heavy son,

And private in his chamber pens himself,

Shuts up his windows, locks fair daylight out,

And makes himself an artificial night.

Black and portentous must this humour prove,

Unless good counsel may the cause remove.

BENVOLIO : My noble uncle, do you know the cause?

MOUNT. : I neither know it, nor can learn of him.

BENVOLIO : Have you impórtuned him by any means?

MOUNT. : Both by myself and many other friends:

But he, his own affections’ counsellor,

Is to himself – I will not say how true –

But to himself so secret and so close,

So far from sounding and discovery,

As is the bud bit with an envious worm

Ere he can spread his sweet leaves to the air

Or dedicate his beauty to the sun.

Could we but learn from whence his sorrows grow,

We would as willingly give cure as know.