Wednesday, February 19, 2014

from Romeo and Juliet


Friar Laurence: 

The earth that’s nature’s mother is her tomb; 
What is her burying grave 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. 

O, mickle is the powerful grace that lies 
In herbs, plants, stones, and their true qualities: 
For nought so vile that on the earth doth live 
But to the earth some special good doth give, 
Nor aught so good but strain’d from that fair use 
Revolts from true birth, stumbling on abuse: 
Virtue itself turns vice, being misapplied; 
And vice sometimes by action dignified. 

Within the infant rind of this small flower 
Poison hath residence and medicine power: 
For this, being smelt, with that part cheers each part; 
Being tasted, slays all senses with the heart. 
Two such opposed kings encamp them still 
In man as well as herbs, grace and rude will; 
And where the worser is predominant,
Full soon the canker death eats up that plant.






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