Where is mercutio monologue

Everything he complains about regarding his friend Benvolio's character does not apply to the young man. Benvolio is agreeable and good-natured throughout the play. Mercutio is the one most likely to pick a quarrel for no good reason! Some might say that Mercutio is actually describing himself. Actively scan device characteristics for identification. Use precise geolocation data. Select personalised content. Create a personalised content profile.

Measure ad performance. Select basic ads. Create a personalised ads profile. You are a lover; borrow Cupid's wings, And soar with them above a common bound. I am too sore enpierced with his shaft To soar with his light feathers, and so bound, I cannot bound a pitch above dull woe: Under love's heavy burden do I sink.

And, to sink in it, should you burden love; Too great oppression for a tender thing. Is love a tender thing?

If love be rough with you, be rough with love; Prick love for pricking, and you beat love down. Give me a case to put my visage in: A visor for a visor! Here are the beetle brows shall blush for me. A torch for me: let wantons light of heart Tickle the senseless rushes with their heels, For I am proverb'd with a grandsire phrase; I'll be a candle-holder, and look on.

The game was ne'er so fair, and I am done. Tut, dun's the mouse, the constable's own word: If thou art dun, we'll draw thee from the mire Of this sir-reverence love, wherein thou stick'st Up to the ears.

Come, we burn daylight, ho! I mean, sir, in delay We waste our lights in vain, like lamps by day. Take our good meaning, for our judgment sits Five times in that ere once in our five wits. And we mean well in going to this mask; But 'tis no wit to go. In bed asleep, while they do dream things true.

O, then, I see Queen Mab hath been with you. She is the fairies' midwife, and she comes In shape no bigger than an agate-stone On the fore-finger of an alderman, Drawn with a team of little atomies Athwart men's noses as they lie asleep; Her wagon-spokes made of long spiders' legs, The cover of the wings of grasshoppers, The traces of the smallest spider's web, The collars of the moonshine's watery beams, Her whip of cricket's bone, the lash of film, Her wagoner a small grey-coated gnat, Not so big as a round little worm Prick'd from the lazy finger of a maid; Her chariot is an empty hazel-nut Made by the joiner squirrel or old grub, Time out o' mind the fairies' coachmakers.

And in this state she gallops night by night Through lovers' brains, and then they dream of love; O'er courtiers' knees, that dream on court'sies straight, O'er lawyers' fingers, who straight dream on fees, O'er ladies ' lips, who straight on kisses dream, Which oft the angry Mab with blisters plagues, Because their breaths with sweetmeats tainted are: Sometime she gallops o'er a courtier's nose, And then dreams he of smelling out a suit; And sometime comes she with a tithe-pig's tail Tickling a parson's nose as a' lies asleep, Then dreams, he of another benefice: Sometime she driveth o'er a soldier's neck, And then dreams he of cutting foreign throats, Of breaches, ambuscadoes, Spanish blades, Of healths five-fathom deep; and then anon Drums in his ear, at which he starts and wakes, And being thus frighted swears a prayer or two And sleeps again.

This is that very Mab That plats the manes of horses in the night, And bakes the elflocks in foul sluttish hairs, Which once untangled, much misfortune bodes: This is the hag, when maids lie on their backs, That presses them and learns them first to bear, Making them women of good carriage: This is she—. Peace, peace, Mercutio, peace! Thou talk'st of nothing. True, I talk of dreams, Which are the children of an idle brain, Begot of nothing but vain fantasy, Which is as thin of substance as the air And more inconstant than the wind, who wooes Even now the frozen bosom of the north, And, being anger'd, puffs away from thence, Turning his face to the dew-dropping south.

He is wise; And, on my lie, hath stol'n him home to bed. He ran this way, and leap'd this orchard wall: Call, good Mercutio. Nay, I'll conjure too. Appear thou in the likeness of a sigh: Speak but one rhyme, and I am satisfied; Cry but 'Ay me! He heareth not, he stirreth not, he moveth not; The ape is dead, and I must conjure him.

I conjure thee by Rosaline's bright eyes, 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! And if he hear thee, thou wilt anger him. This cannot anger him: 'twould anger him To raise a spirit in his mistress' circle Of some strange nature, letting it there stand Till she had laid it and conjured it down; That were some spite: my invocation Is fair and honest, and in his mistress' name I conjure only but to raise up him.

Come, he hath hid himself among these trees, To be consorted with the humorous night: Blind is his love and best befits the dark. If love be blind, love cannot hit the mark. Now will he sit under a medlar tree, And wish his mistress were that kind of fruit As maids call medlars, when they laugh alone. Romeo, that she were, O, that she were An open et caetera, thou a poperin pear!

Romeo, good night: I'll to my truckle-bed; This field-bed is too cold for me to sleep: Come, shall we go? Where the devil should this Romeo be? Came he not home to-night? Not to his father's; I spoke with his man. Ah, that same pale hard-hearted wench, that Rosaline. Torments him so, that he will sure run mad. Sometimes she gallops o'er a courtier's nose, And then dreams he of smelling out a suit; And sometimes comes she with a tithe-pig's tail Tickling a parson's nose as 'a lies asleep, Then dreams he of another benefice.

Sometimes she driveth o'er a soldier's neck, And then dreams he of cutting foreign throats, Of breaches, ambuscadoes, Spanish blades, Of healths five fathom deep; and then anon Drums in his ear, at which he starts and wakes, And being thus frighted, swears a prayer or two And sleeps again. The monologue is tricky because of its density of imagery and double meanings. But that is what also makes it extraordinarily enjoyable to watch or perform.

I would encourage an actor to focus on one thought at a time and let the piece grow and build on itself. Some experts have regarded Mercutio as the character that Shakespeare was writing in preparation for Hamlet. Some have noted that Shakespeare had to kill Mercutio off otherwise his energy and bravado very well may take over the rest of the play!

On the surface it may appear that Mercutio is simply a ranting lunatic. There have certainly been many portrayals of him in this light. While every interpretation is valid, for me, a maniac who rants for the sake of ranting misses the mark. Mercutio uses Queen Mab as the vehicle that delivers to sleeping people, their deepest desires in the form of dreams. But all dreams, perhaps being too good to be true, must come to an end. No matter the dreamer; everyone must eventually wake to discover that they are neither a valiant hero, rich courtiers, or kissing beautiful women, but snivelling wrecks, poor and diseased or simply themselves.

A point that he becomes desperately intent on making. Which, in a sense, turns out to be true. Damien Strouthos is an actor, writer and director.