_Rom._ Steady, my boy, you’re really getting dry. My stars! old fellow, what’s that in the sky?
_Rom._ There’s the other there (_points to Juliet_).
_Mer._ Another? Bless me! ’tis too brilliant far. Call that a moon? It is a glorious star.
_Rom._ Call that a star? by what arrangement, pray?
_Mer._ Why, don’t you know? The star of our new play.
_Rom._ You speak in _meteor_-phor, now pray have done. What is’t o’clock?
_Song, “Juliet.” Air, “Five o’clock in the Morning.”_
My father is snugly in his bed, Taking his morning nap; My aunt has stuffed her waterfall Under her snow-white cap; The crickets are singing merrily; While I, all danger scorning, Sit quietly eating pickled limes, At two o’clock in the morning.
Then what care I for costly gems, Or silks and satins fine? I know full well when daylight comes That those will all be mine. Alone on my father’s balcony, Far, far, from fashion’s warning, I’m happier far with my pickled limes, At two o’clock in the morning.
_Rom._ Mercutio, it’s really getting late: You know that your mamma for you will wait; You’d better go.
_Mer._ Oh, no! I thank you, chum! My ma will look for me when I’m to _hum_. I’ll stay a while.
_Rom._ Mercutio, listen now, ’Tis not the time of night to pick a row. There’s an old proverb, really ’tis well done, That two is company, and three is none. Now, pray consider--
_Mer._ You are right, ’tis so: As two is company, you’d better go.
_Rom._ Oh, pshaw! Mercutio have no more such fun.
_Mer._ He’s scared at jests who never made a pun.
_Rom._ But, soft! what light in yonder window lies? It is the (_y_)east.
_Rom._ It is the east, and Juliet is the sun-- Arise! fair sun.
_Mer._ Oh, murder! do have done; Of grammar you are making fearful slaughter. What gender makes a son of Capulet’s daughter?
_Rom._ Arise, fair sun, and kill the envious moon--
_Mer._ You are getting to the killing part too soon.
_Rom._ Who is already sick and pale with grief--
_Mer._ Then give it a dose of Radway’s Ready Relief.
_Rom._ She speaks, yet she says nothing--
_Mer._ Nary word; Upon my life, such silence ne’er was heard.
_Rom._ See how she leans her cheek upon her hand!
_Mer._ Because she’s tired: can’t you understand?
_Rom._ Oh! would I were some gloves upon thy--