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. O, Romeo, that she were, O, that she were An open-arse, thou a pop’rin pear! Romeo, good night: I’ll to my truckle-bed; This field-bed is too cold for me to sleep: Come, shall we go?
Go, then; for ’tis in vain To seek him here that means not to be found. Exeunt.
Capulet’s orchard.