What does dexterity mean in romeo and juliet

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What does scourge mean as used in the passage? Griefs of mine own lie heavy in my breast, Which thou wilt propagate, to have it prest With more of thine: this love that thou hast shown Doth add more grief to too much of mine own.

Love is a smoke raised with the fume of sighs; Being purged , a fire sparkling in lovers' eyes; Being vex'd a sea nourish'd with lovers' tears:. A grave? Death, lie thou there, by a dead man interr'd. Alack, alack, what blood is this, which stains The stony entrance of this sepulchre? What mean these masterless and gory swords To lie discolour'd by this place of peace?

I conjure thee by Rosaline's bright eyes,. I know thou wilt say 'Ay,' And I will take thy word: yet if thou swear'st, Thou mayst prove false; at lovers' perjuries.

If that thy bent of love be honourable, Thy purpose marriage, send me word to-morrow, By one that I'll procure to come to thee,. I protest unto thee But He, that hath the steerage of my course,. Ah, dear Juliet, Why art thou yet so fair?

Go thou to Juliet, help to deck up her. See, there she lies, Flower as she was, deflowered by him. By her high forehead and her scarlet lip, By her fine foot, straight leg, and quivering thigh, And the demesnes that there adjacent lie, That in thy likeness thou appear to us!

All this- uttered With gentle breath, calm look, knees humbly bow'd- Could not take truce with the unruly spleen Of Tybalt deaf to peace, but that he tilts With piercing steel at bold Mercutio's breast; Who, all as hot, turns deadly point to point, And, with a martial scorn, with one hand beats Cold death aside and with the other sends It back to Tybalt, whose dexterity Retorts it.

Thy noble shape is but a form of wax Digressing from the valour of a man; Thy dear love sworn but hollow perjury, Killing that love which thou hast vow'd to cherish; Thy wit, that ornament to shape and love, Misshapen in the conduct of them both, Like powder in a skilless soldier's flask, is get afire by thine own ignorance, And thou dismemb'red with thine own defence.

All things that we ordained festival Turn from their office to black funeral- Our instruments to melancholy bells, Our wedding cheer to a sad burial feast; Our solemn hymns to sullen dirges change; Our bridal flowers serve for a buried corse; And all things change them to the contrary.

I would not for the wealth of all this town Here in my house do him disparagement. Put this in any liquid thing you will And drink it off, and if you had the strength Of twenty men, it would dispatch you straight. Is it more sin to wish me thus forsworn, Or to dispraise my lord with that same tongue Which she hath prais'd him with above compare So many thousand times?

There's no trust, No faith, no honesty in men; all perjur'd, All forsworn, all naught, all dissemblers. Young son, it argues a distempered head So soon to bid good morrow to thy bed. What is her burying gave, that is her womb; And from her womb children of divers kind We sucking on her natural bosom find; Many for many virtues excellent, None but for some, and yet all different.

Romeo, doff thy name; And for that name, which is no part of thee, Take all myself. New Testament day at the end of time following Armageddon when God will decree the fates of all individual humans according to the good and evil of their earthly lives.

What less than doomsday is the Prince's doom? Didst thou not fall out with a tailor for wearing his new doublet before Easter, with another for tying his new shoes with an old riband? Laura, to his lady, was but a kitchen wench marry, she had a better love to berhyme her , Dido a dowdy , Cleopatra a gypsy, Helen and Hero hildings and harlots, This be a gray eye or so, but not to the purpose.

I'll send to one in Mantua, Where that same banish'd runagate doth live, Shall give him such an unaccustom'd dram That he shall soon keep Tybalt company; And then I hope thou wilt be satisfied.

I am the drudge , and toil in your delight; But you shall bear the burthen soon at night. He fights as you sing pricksong-keeps time, distance, and proportion; rests me his minim rest, one, two, and the third in your bosom! O sweet Juliet, Thy beauty hath made me effeminate And in my temper soft'ned valour's steel Enter Benvolio. Where for this many hundred years the bones Of all my buried ancestors are pack'd; Where bloody Tybalt, yet but green in earth, Lies fest'ring in his shroud; where, as they say, At some hours in the night spirits resort- Alack, alack, is it not like that I, So early waking- what with loathsome smells, And shrieks like mandrakes torn out of the earth, That living mortals, hearing them, run mad- O, if I wake, shall I not be distraught, Environed.

Tell me, good my friend, What torch is yond that vainly lends his light To grubs and eyeless skulls? O for a falconer 's voice To lure this tassel-gentle back again! Ah, sirrah, by my fay , it waxes late; I'll to my rest. An I were so apt to quarrel as thou art, any man should buy the fee simple of my life for an hour and a quarter.

Had she affections and warm youthful blood, She would be as swift in motion as a ball; My words would bandy her to my sweet love, And his to me, But old folks, many feign as they were dead- Unwieldy, slow, heavy and pale as lead. Mistress minion you, Thank me no thankings, nor proud me no prouds, But fettle your fine joints 'gainst Thursday next To go with Paris to Saint Peter's Church, Or I will drag thee on a hurdle thither.

O Fortune, Fortune! Here's my fiddlestick ; here's that shall make you dance. The grey-ey'd morn smiles on the frowning night, Check'ring the Eastern clouds with streaks of light; And flecked darkness like a drunkard reels From forth day's path and Titan's fiery wheels.

Old Montague is come And flourishes his blade in spite of me. What she bid me say, I will keep to myself; but first let me tell ye, if ye should lead her into a fool's paradise , as they say, it were a very gross kind of behaviour, as they say; for the gentlewoman is young; and therefore, if you should deal double with her, truly it were an ill thing to be off'red to any gentlewoman, and very weak dealing.

She hath forsworn to love, and in that vow Do I live dead that live to tell it now. Right glad I am he was not at this fray. Come, gentle night; come, loving, black-brow'd night; Give me my Romeo; and, when he shall die, Take him and cut him out in little stars, And he will make the face of heaven so fine That all the world will be in love with night And pay no worship to the garish sun.

A piteous corse, a bloody piteous corse; Pale, pale as ashes, all bedaub'd in blood, All in gore -blood. A lover may bestride the gossamer That idles in the wanton summer air, And yet not fall; so light is vanity. Good thou, save me a piece of marchpane and, as thou loves me, let the porter let in Susan Grindstone and Nell. Hence will I to my ghostly father's cell, His help to crave and my dear hap to tell. Ah, the immortal passado!

Not I; unless the breath of heartsick groans, Mist-like infold me from the search of eyes. Was that my father that went hence so fast? That I mean to make bold withal, and, as you shall use me hereafter , dry-beat the rest of the eight. When the devout religion of mine eye Maintains such falsehood, then turn tears to fires; And these, who, often drown'd, could never die, Transparent heretics , be burnt for liars!

Without his roe, like a dried herring. Then hie you hence to Friar Laurence' cell; There stays a husband to make you a wife. What, dares the slave Come hither , cover'd with an antic face, To fleer and scorn at our solemnity?

No hare, sir; unless a hare, sir, in a lenten pie, that is something stale and hoar ere it be spent He walks by them and sings. By my holy order , I thought thy disposition better temper'd. I am the greatest, able to do least, Yet most suspected, as the time and place Doth make against me, of this direful murther; And here I stand, both to impeach and purge Myself condemned and myself excus'd.

O, here Will I set up my everlasting rest And shake the yoke of inauspicious stars From this world-wearied flesh. I bear no hatred, blessed man, for, lo, My intercession likewise steads my foe.

Now, sir, her father counts it dangerous That she do give her sorrow so much sway, And in his wisdom hastes our marriage To stop the inundation of her tears, Which, too much minded by herself alone, May be put from her by society.

That were some spite; my invocation Is fair and honest: in his mistress' name, I conjure only but to raise up him. An 'a speak anything against me, I'll take him down, an 'a were lustier than he is, and twenty such jacks ; and if I cannot, I'll find those that shall. He jests at scars that never felt a wound. Night's candles are burnt out, and jocund day Stands tiptoe on the misty mountain tops.

This is my daughter's jointure , for no more Can I demand. More light, you knaves! Tybalt's death Was woe enough, if it had ended there; Or, if sour woe delights in fellowship And needly will be rank'd with other griefs, Why followed not, when she said 'Tybalt's dead,' Thy father, or thy mother, nay, or both, Which modern lamentation might have mov'd?

Even or odd, of all days in the year, Come Lammas Eve at night shall she be fourteen. Tut, man, one fire burns out another's burning; One pain is lessoned by another's anguish; Turn giddy, and be holp by backward turning; One desperate grief cures with another's languish.

It was the nightingale, and not the lark , That pierc'd the fearful hollow of thine ear. Away to heaven respective lenity , And fire-ey'd fury be my conduct now! Alas, my liege , my wife is dead to-night! Read o'er the volume of young Paris' face, And find delight writ there with beauty's pen; Examine every married lineament , And see how one another lends content; And what obscur'd in this fair volume lies Find written in the margent of his eyes, This precious book of love, this unbound lover, To beautify him only lacks a cover.

Her vestal livery is but sick and green, And none but fools do wear it. From forth the fatal loins of these two foes A pair of star-cross'd lovers take their life; Whose misadventur'd piteous overthrows Doth with their death bury their parents' strife.

Ay, the heads of the maids, or their maidenheads. Come, civil night, Thou sober-suited matron, all in black, And learn me how to lose a winning match, Play'd for a pair of stainless maidenhoods.

As in a vault, an ancient receptacle Where for this many hundred years the bones Of all my buried ancestors are pack'd; Where bloody Tybalt, yet but green in earth, Lies fest'ring in his shroud; where, as they say, At some hours in the night spirits resort- Alack, alack, is it not like that I, So early waking- what with loathsome smells, And shrieks like mandrakes torn out of the earth, That living mortals, hearing them, run mad- O, if I wake, shall I not.

Ah, poor my lord, what tongue shall smooth thy name When I, thy three-hours wife, have mangled it?