THENEWYORKER,AUGUST17, 2020 27
Else would a maiden blush bepaint
my cheek
For that which thou hast heard me
speak tonight.
Fain would I dwell on form. Fain,
fain deny
What I have spoke—
ROMEO: All right, I get the fains.
But when you say the mask of night,
is that
An actual mask, or that weird clayey
thing
With which the Duke of L’Oréal
doth add
A glow of nourishment to visages
Already infant-soft? I’faith, my love,
To show thyself upon a balcony
Sans mask is sure to contravene the
law.
JULIET: And dost thou love me,
though I be unmasked?
ROMEO: Lady, by yonder blessed moon
I swear—
JULIET: O, swear not by the moon, th’
inconstant moon,
That monthly changes in her circled
orb.
ROMEO: What shall I swear by?
JULIET: Do not swear at all.
ROMEO (aside): So make your fucking
mind up. (Aloud) Dearest heart!
JULIET: I have no joy of this contract
to-night:
It is too rash, too unadvis’d, too sudden;
Too like the lightning, which doth
cease to be
Ere one can say “It lightens.”
ROMEO: If you mean,
Have I been quarantined, the answer’s
yes.
And let me tell you, isolating with
The Montagues for any length of
time
Doth stretch me as upon the
torturer’s rack.
No vaccine, though it were distill’d
within
The chambers of our learned friar,
could cure
A fortnight with my Uncle Lou—
JULIET: Good night!
ROMEO: O, wilt thou leave me so
unsatisfied?
JULIET: What satisfaction canst thou
have tonight?
A kiss? Give me a break. No kissing
here,
Thou dummy, till the breath of next
year’s spring
Shall green once more the wither’d
bough, if then.
The closest to a kiss that we may
come
Would be to don full visors, and to
clash
Adoringly, akin to knights who meet
And strike their am’rous armor in the
joust.
Forgive me, what exactly dost thou
crave?
ROMEO: The exchange of thy love’s
faithful vow for mine.
JULIET: O.K., done. How ’bout an
elbow bump?
ROMEO: Not easy from down here.
What else you got?
JULIET: My bounty is as boundless as
the sea,
My love as deep; the more I give to
thee,
The more I have, for both are infinite.
(Nurse calls.)
I hear some noise within; dear love,
adieu!
Anon, good nurse! Sweet Montague,
be true.
Stay but a little, I will come again.
(Exit)
ROMEO: Did she say nurse? Forsooth,
what gives up there?
And who is it doth need a physic’s care?
Those damnèd superspreading Capulets:
I wouldn’t put it past them to have
coughed
All over every other clan in town.
(Juliet reënters.)
JULIET: Three words, dear Romeo, and
good night indeed.
If that thy bent of love be honourable,
Thy purpose marriage, send me word
tomorrow.
NURSE (within): Madam!
JULIET: I come! A thousand times
good night!
(Exit)
ROMEO: A thousand times the worse,
to want thy light.
Love goes toward love, as schoolboys
from their books,
But love from love, toward school
with heavy looks. (Pause)
Not that anyone doth go to school
Or glance at books, when learning is
remote.
A generation ruined. Kids these days ...
(Juliet reënters.)
JULIET: Hist! Romeo, hist! O, for a fal-
coner’s voice,To lure this tassel-gentle back again!
ROMEO: I’m sorry, what? Who’s hiss-
ing? Gentle how?
JULIET: Bondage is hoarse, and may
not speak aloud.
Else would I tear the cave where
Echo lies,
And make her airy tongue more
hoarse than mine,
With repetition of my Romeo’s name.
ROMEO: Whate’er thy wooing speech
may mean, ’tis hot.
I like the sound of Echo. Call her up.
But, really, bondage? Would you say
that’s wise,
When handshakes are a no-no, and a
hug
Is no more welcome than the biting asp?
Is leather biologically secure?
JULIET: ’ Tis almost morning. I would
have thee gone:
And yet no further than a wanton’s
bird,
Who lets it hop a little from her
hand,
And with a silk thread plucks it back
again.
ROMEO: Count me in. I would I could
so hop.
JULIET: Good night, good night! Part-
ing is such sweet sorrow,
That I shall say good night till it be
morrow.
(Exit)
ROMEO: Sleep dwell upon thine eyes,
peace in thy breast!
Would I were sleep and peace, so
sweet to rest!
And don’t forget to wash thy hands!
Adieu. (Pause)
Well, that went well. I haven’t got a
clue
How often I should venture thus.
Desire
Doth urge me here, ascending ever
higher
Toward the dew-lac’d lips of Juliet,
Wherefrom to sip, with souls en-
twin’d. And yet
One drop envenom’d might our bod-
ies kill
As we make out across the windowsill.
Why feed the fever of my spirit, when
Infection rates are off the charts
again?
Love is a sickness, as the sages say.
Veronavirus gets you either way.
(Exit, following the wrong arrow.
Reënter, cursing. Exit.)