FRIAR LAWRENCE enters by himself, carrying a basket.
The gray-eyed morn smiles on the frowning night, Checkering the eastern clouds with streaks of light, And fleckled darkness like a drunkard reels From forth day’s path and Titan’s fiery wheels. Now, ere the sun advance his burning eye, The day to cheer and night’s dank dew to dry, I must upfill this osier cage of ours With baleful weeds and precious-juicèd flowers. The earth, that’s natu re’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. Oh, mickle is the powerful grace that lies In herbs, plants, stones, and their true qualities. For naught so vile that on the earth doth live But to the earth some special good doth give. Nor aught so good but, strained from that fair use Revolts from true birth, stumbling on abuse. Virtue itself turns vice, being misapplied, And vice sometime by action dignified.
The morning smiles as it replaces frowning night, and streaks light across the clouds in the east. Darkness staggers away from the sun’s path like a drunkard. Now, before the sun rises, bringing on the day and drying the dew, I must fill my basket with poisonous weeds and the precious nectar of flowers. The earth is both nature’s mother and its tomb. Plants arise from the earth as from a womb, and when they die, they are buried in the earth. Many different plants and animals come from the earth’s womb. All of these children find nourishment from the earth, and all have some special, unique virtue. There is a power that resides in herbs, plants, and stones. For there’s nothing on earth that’s so evil that it does not also provide the earth with some kind of good. Nor is there anything so good that it can’t be turned bad if it’s abused and used incorrectly. Virtue, when misused, turns to vice, while vice can sometimes become virtue through proper action.