Romeo, Benvolio, and their friend Mercutio arrive at the Capulet party in style. Romeo tells his friends that he doesn’t plan on dancing tonight — he’s too sad. Plus, he had a dream the night before that gave him a bad feeling about the party. Mercutio teasingly thinks his dream is the result of a visit from Queen Mab. She’s the miniature “fairies' midwife,” who visits people in their sleep and fulfills their desires (however good or bad) in dreams. After his speech, Mercutio points out to Romeo that dreams are “nothing but vain fantasy.” As they head into the party, Romeo says he has a strange feeling that what happens next will lead to his untimely death, but adds he’s ready to accept whatever Fate brings.
Modern English:So, should we make a little speech to excuse our being here, or should we just go straight in without an apology?
I think that kind of theatrical wordiness is old-fashioned. We don’t have one of us dressed up as blindfolded Cupid, scaring the ladies half to death with a plywood bow and arrow he borrowed from the theater props. Nor have we memorized a prologue and designated a prompter for the lines. They can judge us however they want. We’re just here for a few dances and then we’ll take off.
Give me one of the torches to hold. I’m not in the mood for dancing, and since I’m feeling heavy I may as well hold up the light.
No, no, Romeo, you’ve got to dance.
I’m not going to dance, believe me. You have dancing shoes with nimble soles. I have a soul as heavy as lead that weighs me to the ground so I can’t move.
You’re a lover: go borrow Cupid’s wings and you’ll be able to soar above the rest of us.
I’m too sore after the wound from Cupid’s arrow to soar with his feathers. I’m so bound by this burden of love that I can’t go bounding around happily. I am weighed down with woe. I sink under this heavy burden of love.
You would indeed burden love if you were to sink inside of it, which is too much for a tender little thing.
Is love a tender thing? No, it’s rough, abrupt, harsh, and it pricks like a thorn.
If it’s rough with you, then you should be rough with love. Give love a prick for pricking you — that’ll beat love down. Someone give me a mask for my face. As the saying goes, “a beautiful visor will hide an ugly face.” But what do I care if some nosy onlooker finds me ugly? Here’s a surly-looking mask; it can blush on my behalf.
Here we are. Let’s knock and enter. As soon as we’re inside everyone should start dancing.
Not me. Just give me a torch. Those of you with light-hearted and carefree spirits can get out there and burn up the dance floor. I’m reminded of two old proverbs: the worst shall hold the candle, and it’s best to quit while you’re ahead, so I should be done.
Hey, come on, man! Being “dun” is for dull brown mice. Of course if you meant “dun” like a drab horse, we’ll pull you out of that swamp you seem to be trapped in. Come on, we’re wasting daylight here.
No, that’s not true, it’s already dark.
I meant that we’re wasting our torches, which are as useless as lamps in the daytime if we’re just going to stand here. Come on, don’t misunderstand my good intentions here. Using your judgment is usually five times as helpful as relying on your five senses.
I know we don’t have any bad intentions going to this party, but I think it’s not smart to go.
Why, may one ask?
I had a dream last night.
Well, what was yours?
That dreamers often lie.
Right, they “lie” in bed dreaming true dreams.
If you think that you’re dreams are true, then I see you’ve been visited by Queen Mab. She’s the fairy’s midwife of dreams, and she appears no bigger than a precious stone in an official’s ring. She’s drawn in her carriage by a team of tiny creatures across men’s noses as the sleep.
Her wagon-spokes are made of spider’s legs, the wagon cover is made of grasshopper wings, the harness comes from the smallest spider’s web, the horse collars are made out of moonbeams, her whip is a cricket shell, her lash is a gossamer thread. Her driver is a small gnat with a grey coat; he’s not half as wide as the tiny mite which you could prick from scabies of a lazy maid who doesn’t keep herself clean. Her carriage is an empty hazelnut shell, made by a squirrel or maybe an old grub worm, the traditional fairy coach-makers since a time no one remembers.
And in this majestic state she gallops every night through lovers’ brains, and then they dream of love. She gallops over noblemen’s knees, who dream of receiving curtsies; over lawyers’ fingers, who dream of counting their fees; over ladies’ lips, who dream of kisses, though an angry Queen Mab often puts blisters on their lips when she smells dessert on their breath. Sometime she gallops over a courtier’s nose, who then smells a commission from representing someone at court. And sometimes she tickles the nose of the priest with the tail of a pig given by a parishioner as tithe, so that the priest dreams of taking more from the church.
Sometimes she drives over a soldier’s neck, and he dreams of cutting enemy throats, of breaching castle walls, of ambushes, of Spanish swords, of drinking deep to toasts, and then she drums in his ear, which startles him. He wakes, says a prayer or two, and goes back to sleep. But this is the same fairy Mab that puts knots in the manes of horses, that puts magic tangles in a prostitute’s hair, whose untangling causes much misfortune. This Mab is that hag who lies on top of young girls sleeping and teaches them to bear so much weight, so they may carry things well. This Mab is the one —
Stop, Mercutio, stop! You talk nonsense.
True, I talk of dreams, which are the children of an idle brain, born from nothing except frivolous imaginations. They are just as insubstantial as air, and as fickle as the wind, which one moment blows from the frozen north, and then gets angry and goes and blows from the humid south.
All this hot air you’re talking about is blowing us in the wrong direction. The dinner’s over and we’re going to be too late.
I’m afraid we’re going to be too early. I have some weird apprehension that something bad is going to begin tonight at this party, something that will only end with my untimely death. But I’ll let destiny take the wheel now! Let’s go, friends.