Romeo and Juliet — Act 2, Scene 3in modern English, side by side

The grey-eyed dawn is smiling on the scowling night, streaking the eastern clouds with light; and the mottled darkness staggers off like a drunk, clearing out of the sun's path as it rises.

Now, before the sun lifts its burning eye to warm the day and dry up the night's damp dew, I need to fill this woven basket of ours with harmful weeds and flowers rich with valuable juice.

The earth, which is nature's mother, is also nature's grave — what serves as her burial ground also serves as her womb.

And out of that womb come all sorts of different children, which we find nursing at her natural breast.

Many plants are excellent for many different healing purposes; none are good for nothing, and yet every single one is different.

Oh, there's tremendous power hidden in plants, herbs, stones, and their true properties.

There's nothing on this earth so lowly that it doesn't offer the earth some special benefit — and nothing so beneficial that, misused, it can't turn harmful and stray from its proper purpose into abuse.

Good qualities themselves can become vices when misapplied, and sometimes vice is dignified by how it's used.

Inside the young skin of this fragile flower lives both poison and healing power.

Smelled, it lifts every part of the body with its scent; tasted, it stops the heart and kills every sense.

This same conflict — two opposing forces camped together — exists in people just as it does in plants: goodness and destructive impulse.

And wherever the worse of the two gains the upper hand, the rot of death soon consumes that living thing.

Good morning, Father.

Bless you!

Who's greeting me so kindly this early?

Young man, it must mean something's troubling your mind, to be up and saying good morning before you've even gone to bed.

Worry keeps watch in every old man's eyes, and wherever worry lives, sleep never settles.

But where untroubled youth with an uncluttered mind lays its body down, peaceful sleep rules.

So your being up this early tells me you've been roused by some kind of trouble — or, if that's not it, then I've guessed right: our Romeo hasn't been to bed at all tonight.

That last guess is right — but I had something sweeter than rest.

God forgive whatever sin that means.

Were you with Rosaline?

With Rosaline, Father? No.

I've forgotten that name, and all the misery that came with it.

That's my good boy.

But where have you been, then?

I'll tell you before you have to ask twice.

I've been feasting with my enemy's family, where suddenly someone wounded me — and I wounded her right back, the same way.

The cure for both of our wounds depends on your help and your holy authority.

I hold no hatred, holy man — in fact, my plea will help my so-called enemy just as much as it helps me.

Speak plainly and simply about what you mean, my son.

A confession full of riddles only gets a riddling absolution in return.

Then plainly: my heart's deepest love now belongs to the beautiful daughter of wealthy Capulet.

And just as my heart belongs to her, her heart belongs to me — everything between us is already settled, except for the one thing only you can settle: joining us in holy marriage.

When, where, and how we met, courted, and exchanged our vows, I'll tell you as we walk.

But here's what I'm asking: please agree to marry us today.

Holy Saint Francis, what a turnaround!

Have you really given up on Rosaline already, the girl you loved so dearly?

Then young men's love must live not in their hearts at all, but only in their eyes.

Good heavens, how many tears soaked your pale cheeks over Rosaline!

And all that salt water wasted, seasoning a love you never even got to taste.

The sun hasn't even finished clearing your old sighs from the sky yet, and your old groans are still ringing in my old ears.

Look — right here on your cheek is the stain of an old tear that hasn't even dried yet.

If you were ever truly yourself, and those sorrows were genuinely yours, then you and your grief belonged entirely to Rosaline.

And now you've simply changed?

Then let this be the verdict: women can hardly be blamed for being fickle, when men have no more strength of resolve than this.

You scolded me plenty of times for loving Rosaline.

For obsessing over her, not for loving her, my student.

And you told me to bury my love.

Not to bury one love in order to dig up another to take its place.

Please don't scold me — the girl I love now returns kindness for kindness and love for love.

The other one never did that.

Oh, she knew perfectly well that your love was all recited from memory, without any real understanding behind it.

But come now, you inconsistent young man, come with me — for one specific reason, I'll help you with this.

This marriage might turn out to be a happy thing, one that could turn the bitter feud between your two families into genuine love.

Oh, let's go — I'm in a sudden hurry.