Romeo and Juliet — Act 1, Scene 1in modern English, side by side

Gregory, I swear, we won't put up with disrespect from them.

No, because then we'd be the ones taking the coal — that'd make us the coal-haulers, not them.

I mean, if we're angered, we'll draw our swords.

Sure — just make sure you don't get your neck caught before you can pull it out of the noose.

I strike fast once I'm provoked.

But you're not provoked fast.

Any dog from the Montague house provokes me.

To be provoked is to move — and to be brave is to stand your ground.

So if you're provoked, that just means you run away.

A dog from that house will provoke me to stand my ground.

I'll take the inside of the sidewalk from any man or woman of Montague's.

That just proves you're the weak one — the weakest always gets pushed to the wall.

True — and that's why women, being the weaker sex, always get pushed against the wall.

So I'll shove Montague's men off the wall, and push his women against it.

The feud is between our masters and each other — not between us servants.

Doesn't matter to me — I'll act like a tyrant.

Once I've fought the men, I'll be "gentle" with the women — I'll take their heads.

The heads of the women?

Yes — their heads, or their virginity.

Take it however you like.

Whoever feels it will be the one to decide what it means.

They'll feel me, all right, as long as I'm still standing —

and everyone knows I'm a fine specimen of a man.

Good thing you're not a fish — if you were, you'd be a scrawny, dried-up one.

Draw your weapon — here come some of the Montagues.

My sword's already out and ready.

Start something — I'll back you up.

What, you'll turn your back and run?

Don't worry about me.

No, I really am worried — about you!

Let's stay within the law — let them start it.

I'll scowl as I walk past them, and let them take that however they want.

No — however they dare.

I'll bite my thumb at them — that's an insult, and it's on them if they let it stand.

Are you biting your thumb at us, sir?

I am biting my thumb, sir.

Are you biting your thumb at us, sir?

(to Gregory) Is the law on our side if I say yes?

No.

No, sir, I'm not biting my thumb at you, sir — but I am biting my thumb, sir.

Are you looking for a fight, sir?

A fight, sir? No, sir.

But if you are, sir, I'm ready for you.

I serve a master as good as yours.

Not better.

Well, sir.

Say "better" — here comes one of my master's relatives.

Yes, better, sir.

You're lying.

Draw your swords, if you're men.

Gregory, remember that hard swing of yours.

Stop fighting, you fools! Put your swords away — you don't know what you're doing.

What — drawing your sword against these cowardly servants?

Turn around, Benvolio, and face your death.

I'm only keeping the peace. Put your sword away, or use it to help me break up this fight.

What — sword drawn, and talking about peace?

I hate that word the way I hate hell, and all Montagues, and you.

Take this, coward!

Clubs and pikes and spears!

Attack! Beat them down!

Down with the Capulets! Down with the Montagues!

What's all this noise?

Bring me my long sword!

A crutch is more like it!

Why do you need a sword?

My sword, I said!

Old Montague is here, and he's waving his blade just to spite me.

You villain, Capulet!

Let go of me — let me at him!

You will not take one step toward that fight.

Who started this old feud all over again?

Speak up, nephew — were you here when it began?

The servants of your enemy and your own servants were already fighting hard by the time I arrived.

I drew my sword to separate them, and just then, the hot-tempered Tybalt showed up, sword already drawn, and while he was shouting insults at me, he swung it around his head and slashed at the air — which, unhurt, only hissed back at him in mockery.

While we were trading thrusts and blows, more men kept arriving on both sides and joined the fight, until the Prince came and pulled everyone apart.

Oh, where is Romeo? Have you seen him today?

I'm very glad he wasn't caught up in this fight.

Madam, an hour before the sun first peeked over the golden edge of the eastern sky, my restless mind drove me to go out walking.

There, beneath the grove of sycamore trees that grows west of the city, I saw your son out early as well.

I walked toward him, but he noticed me and slipped away into the cover of the woods.

Since I judged his feelings by my own — wanting most to be where no one else was — I followed my own mood instead of chasing him, and gladly avoided someone who clearly wanted to avoid me.

He's been seen there many a morning, adding his tears to the morning dew and piling up more clouds with his heavy sighs.

But as soon as the sun — which cheers everyone else — begins to draw back the shadowy curtains from the east at dawn, my gloomy son steals away from the light, home to his room, shuts himself in privately, closes his windows, blocks out the beautiful daylight, and makes his own artificial night.

This mood of his is bound to turn dark and dangerous, unless someone can talk him out of whatever's causing it.

My good uncle, do you know the cause?

I don't know it, and I can't get him to tell me.

Have you tried pressing him about it?

Both I myself and many friends have tried.

But he keeps his own feelings locked up in himself — I won't say how honestly — but he's so secretive and closed off, so far from opening up or being understood, that he's like a flower bud bitten by an envious worm before it can ever spread its petals to the air or show its beauty to the sun.

If only we could learn where his sorrow comes from, we'd be just as eager to cure it as to understand it.

Look — here he comes.

Please step aside; I'll find out what's troubling him, or be flatly refused.

I only wish you'd have the luck to hear him truly confide in you.

Come, my lady, let's go.

Good morning, cousin.

Is it still so early in the day?

It just struck nine.

Ah, sad hours feel so long.

Was that my father who just hurried off?

It was.

What sadness is stretching out Romeo's hours?

Not having the thing that, if I had it, would make them short.

You're in love?

Out.

Out of love?

Out of favor with the woman I love.

It's a shame that love, which looks so gentle, turns out to be so cruel and rough once you're actually in it.

No, cousin — it makes me want to cry.

Kind soul — but why?

Because your kind heart is so weighed down.

Well, that's just what love does to a person.

My own griefs already sit heavy in my chest, and by sharing your sympathy you're only going to press them down harder with more grief of your own.

This love you've shown me only adds more sorrow to the sorrow I already carry.

Love is a kind of smoke made from the fumes of sighs.

Once it clears, it's a fire that sparkles in lovers' eyes.

When it's troubled, it's a sea fed by lovers' tears.

What else is it?

A very rational kind of madness, a bitter, choking substance, and a sweet one that somehow preserves you.

Farewell, cousin.

Wait — I'll come with you.

It would be wrong of you to leave me like this.

Tut — I've lost myself; I'm not even here.

This isn't Romeo — he's off somewhere else.

Tell me seriously — who is it you love?

What, should I groan it out for you?

Groan? No — just tell me seriously, who.

Ask a sick man to seriously write his will — that's a poor request to make of someone so ill.

Seriously, cousin, I'm in love with a woman.

I guessed pretty close when I figured you were in love.

A fine marksman — and yes, she's beautiful, the woman I love.

A fair target, dear cousin, is the easiest one to hit.

Well, there you're wrong —

she won't be hit. She has Diana's wit and won't be struck by Cupid's arrow at all.

She's well protected by a strong commitment to purity, and lives entirely untouched by love's feeble, childish bow.

She won't put up with romantic pursuit, or endure being stared at with longing, or even open her lap to gold, which can seduce even saints.

Oh, she's rich in beauty — but poor in this one way: that when she dies, all that beauty dies with her, unused.

So she's sworn to stay a virgin forever?

She has — and by holding back like that, she wastes so much.

Because beauty starved by her own strict self-denial cuts off that beauty from ever being passed on.

She's too beautiful, too wise — wise enough to know her beauty is what makes me despair, and never grants herself the reward of it.

She's sworn off love entirely, and because of that vow, I'm living a kind of death, alive only to tell you about it now.

Take my advice — stop thinking about her.

Oh, teach me how to stop thinking, then.

By letting your eyes wander freely — go look at other beautiful women.

That would only make me think of hers, the finest of all, even more.

Those pretty masks that brush against beautiful women's foreheads — being black, they only remind us there's beauty hidden underneath.

A man struck blind can never forget the precious sight he's lost.

Show me the most stunningly beautiful woman there is — what good is her beauty except as a reminder of the woman who surpassed even her?

Farewell — you can't teach me to forget.

I'll prove that teaching right, or die trying.