7

Re: ROMEO AND JULIET by William Shakespeare

Friar.
I'll give thee armour to keep off that word;
Adversity's sweet milk, philosophy,
To comfort thee, though thou art banished.

Romeo.
Yet banished? Hang up philosophy!
Unless philosophy can make a Juliet,
Displant a town, reverse a prince's doom,
It helps not, it prevails not,--talk no more.

Friar.
O, then I see that madmen have no ears.

Romeo.
How should they, when that wise men have no eyes?

Friar.
Let me dispute with thee of thy estate.

Romeo.
Thou canst not speak of that thou dost not feel:
Wert thou as young as I, Juliet thy love,
An hour but married, Tybalt murdered,
Doting like me, and like me banished,
Then mightst thou speak, then mightst thou tear thy hair,
And fall upon the ground, as I do now,
Taking the measure of an unmade grave.

(Knocking within.)

Friar.
Arise; one knocks. Good Romeo, hide thyself.

Romeo.
Not I; unless the breath of heartsick groans,
Mist-like infold me from the search of eyes.

(Knocking.)

Friar.
Hark, how they knock!--Who's there?--Romeo, arise;
Thou wilt be taken.--Stay awhile;--Stand up;

(Knocking.)

Run to my study.--By-and-by!--God's will!
What simpleness is this.--I come, I come!

(Knocking.)

Who knocks so hard? whence come you? what's your will?

Nurse.
(Within.) Let me come in, and you shall know my errand;
I come from Lady Juliet.

Friar.
Welcome then.

(Enter Nurse.)

Nurse.
O holy friar, O, tell me, holy friar,
Where is my lady's lord, where's Romeo?

Friar.
There on the ground, with his own tears made drunk.

Nurse.
O, he is even in my mistress' case,--
Just in her case!

Friar.
O woeful sympathy!
Piteous predicament!

Nurse.
Even so lies she,
Blubbering and weeping, weeping and blubbering.--
Stand up, stand up; stand, an you be a man:
For Juliet's sake, for her sake, rise and stand;
Why should you fall into so deep an O?

Romeo.
Nurse!

Nurse.
Ah sir! ah sir!--Well, death's the end of all.

Romeo.
Spakest thou of Juliet? how is it with her?
Doth not she think me an old murderer,
Now I have stain'd the childhood of our joy
With blood remov'd but little from her own?
Where is she? and how doth she/ and what says
My conceal'd lady to our cancell'd love?

Nurse.
O, she says nothing, sir, but weeps and weeps;
And now falls on her bed; and then starts up,
And Tybalt calls; and then on Romeo cries,
And then down falls again.

Romeo.
As if that name,
Shot from the deadly level of a gun,
Did murder her; as that name's cursed hand
Murder'd her kinsman.--O, tell me, friar, tell me,
In what vile part of this anatomy
Doth my name lodge? tell me, that I may sack
The hateful mansion.

(Drawing his sword.)

Friar.
Hold thy desperate hand:
Art thou a man? thy form cries out thou art;
Thy tears are womanish; thy wild acts denote
The unreasonable fury of a beast;
Unseemly woman in a seeming man!
Or ill-beseeming beast in seeming both!
Thou hast amaz'd me: by my holy order,
I thought thy disposition better temper'd.
Hast thou slain Tybalt? wilt thou slay thyself?
And slay thy lady, too, that lives in thee,
By doing damned hate upon thyself?
Why rail'st thou on thy birth, the heaven, and earth?
Since birth and heaven and earth, all three do meet
In thee at once; which thou at once wouldst lose.
Fie, fie, thou sham'st thy shape, thy love, thy wit;
Which, like a usurer, abound'st in all,
And usest none in that true use indeed
Which should bedeck thy shape, thy love, thy wit:
Thy noble shape is but a form of wax,
Digressing from the valour of a man;
Thy dear love sworn, but hollow perjury,
Killing that love which thou hast vow'd to cherish;
Thy wit, that ornament to shape and love,
Mis-shapen in the conduct of them both,
Like powder in a skilless soldier's flask,
Is set a-fire by thine own ignorance,
And thou dismember'd with thine own defence.
What, rouse thee, man! thy Juliet is alive,
For whose dear sake thou wast but lately dead;
There art thou happy: Tybalt would kill thee,
But thou slewest Tybalt; there art thou happy too:
The law, that threaten'd death, becomes thy friend,
And turns it to exile; there art thou happy:
A pack of blessings lights upon thy back;
Happiness courts thee in her best array;
But, like a misbehav'd and sullen wench,
Thou pout'st upon thy fortune and thy love:--
Take heed, take heed, for such die miserable.
Go, get thee to thy love, as was decreed,
Ascend her chamber, hence and comfort her:
But, look, thou stay not till the watch be set,
For then thou canst not pass to Mantua;
Where thou shalt live till we can find a time
To blaze your marriage, reconcile your friends,
Beg pardon of the prince, and call thee back
With twenty hundred thousand times more joy
Than thou went'st forth in lamentation.--
Go before, nurse: commend me to thy lady;
And bid her hasten all the house to bed,
Which heavy sorrow makes them apt unto.
Romeo is coming.

Nurse.
O Lord, I could have stay'd here all the night
To hear good counsel: O, what learning is!--
My lord, I'll tell my lady you will come.

Romeo.
Do so, and bid my sweet prepare to chide.

Nurse.
Here, sir, a ring she bid me give you, sir:
Hie you, make haste, for it grows very late.

(Exit.)

Romeo.
How well my comfort is reviv'd by this!

Friar.
Go hence; good night! and here stands all your state:
Either be gone before the watch be set,
Or by the break of day disguis'd from hence.
Sojourn in Mantua; I'll find out your man,
And he shall signify from time to time
Every good hap to you that chances here:
Give me thy hand; 'tis late; farewell; good night.

Romeo.
But that a joy past joy calls out on me,
It were a grief so brief to part with thee:
Farewell.

(Exeunt.)


Scene IV. A Room in Capulet's House.

(Enter Capulet, Lady Capulet, and Paris.)

Capulet.
Things have fallen out, sir, so unluckily
That we have had no time to move our daughter:
Look you, she lov'd her kinsman Tybalt dearly,
And so did I; well, we were born to die.
'Tis very late; she'll not come down to-night:
I promise you, but for your company,
I would have been a-bed an hour ago.

Paris.
These times of woe afford no tune to woo.--
Madam, good night: commend me to your daughter.

Lady Capulet.
I will, and know her mind early to-morrow;
To-night she's mew'd up to her heaviness.

Capulet.
Sir Paris, I will make a desperate tender
Of my child's love: I think she will be rul'd
In all respects by me; nay more, I doubt it not.--
Wife, go you to her ere you go to bed;
Acquaint her here of my son Paris' love;
And bid her, mark you me, on Wednesday next,--
But, soft! what day is this?

Paris.
Monday, my lord.

Capulet.
Monday! ha, ha! Well, Wednesday is too soon,
Thursday let it be;--a Thursday, tell her,
She shall be married to this noble earl.--
Will you be ready? do you like this haste?
We'll keep no great ado,--a friend or two;
For, hark you, Tybalt being slain so late,
It may be thought we held him carelessly,
Being our kinsman, if we revel much:
Therefore we'll have some half a dozen friends,
And there an end.  But what say you to Thursday?

Paris.
My lord, I would that Thursday were to-morrow.

Capulet.
Well, get you gone: o' Thursday be it then.--
Go you to Juliet, ere you go to bed,
Prepare her, wife, against this wedding-day.--
Farewell, my lord.--Light to my chamber, ho!--
Afore me, it is so very very late
That we may call it early by and by.--
Good night.

(Exeunt.)


Scene V. An open Gallery to Juliet's Chamber, overlooking the
Garden.

(Enter Romeo and Juliet.)

Juliet.
Wilt thou be gone? it is not yet near day:
It was the nightingale, and not the lark,
That pierc'd the fearful hollow of thine ear;
Nightly she sings on yond pomegranate tree:
Believe me, love, it was the nightingale.

Romeo.
It was the lark, the herald of the morn,
No nightingale: look, love, what envious streaks
Do lace the severing clouds in yonder east:
Night's candles are burnt out, and jocund day
Stands tiptoe on the misty mountain tops.
I must be gone and live, or stay and die.

Juliet.
Yond light is not daylight, I know it, I:
It is some meteor that the sun exhales
To be to thee this night a torch-bearer
And light thee on the way to Mantua:
Therefore stay yet, thou need'st not to be gone.

Romeo.
Let me be ta'en, let me be put to death;
I am content, so thou wilt have it so.
I'll say yon gray is not the morning's eye,
'Tis but the pale reflex of Cynthia's brow;
Nor that is not the lark whose notes do beat
The vaulty heaven so high above our heads:
I have more care to stay than will to go.--
Come, death, and welcome!  Juliet wills it so.--
How is't, my soul? let's talk,--it is not day.

Juliet.
It is, it is!--hie hence, be gone, away!
It is the lark that sings so out of tune,
Straining harsh discords and unpleasing sharps.
Some say the lark makes sweet division;
This doth not so, for she divideth us:
Some say the lark and loathed toad change eyes;
O, now I would they had chang'd voices too!
Since arm from arm that voice doth us affray,
Hunting thee hence with hunt's-up to the day.
O, now be gone; more light and light it grows.

Romeo.
More light and light,--more dark and dark our woes!

(Enter Nurse.)

Nurse.
Madam!

Juliet.
Nurse?

Nurse.
Your lady mother is coming to your chamber:
The day is broke; be wary, look about.

(Exit.)

Juliet.
Then, window, let day in, and let life out.

Romeo.
Farewell, farewell! one kiss, and I'll descend.

(Descends.)

Juliet.
Art thou gone so? my lord, my love, my friend!
I must hear from thee every day i' the hour,
For in a minute there are many days:
O, by this count I shall be much in years
Ere I again behold my Romeo!

Romeo.
Farewell!
I will omit no opportunity
That may convey my greetings, love, to thee.

Juliet.
O, think'st thou we shall ever meet again?

Romeo.
I doubt it not; and all these woes shall serve
For sweet discourses in our time to come.

Juliet.
O God! I have an ill-divining soul!
Methinks I see thee, now thou art below,
As one dead in the bottom of a tomb:
Either my eyesight fails, or thou look'st pale.

Romeo.
And trust me, love, in my eye so do you:
Dry sorrow drinks our blood. Adieu, adieu!

(Exit below.)

Juliet.
O fortune, fortune! all men call thee fickle:
If thou art fickle, what dost thou with him
That is renown'd for faith?  Be fickle, fortune;
For then, I hope, thou wilt not keep him long
But send him back.

Lady Capulet.
(Within.) Ho, daughter! are you up?

Juliet.
Who is't that calls? is it my lady mother?
Is she not down so late, or up so early?
What unaccustom'd cause procures her hither?

(Enter Lady Capulet.)

Lady Capulet.
Why, how now, Juliet?

Juliet.
Madam, I am not well.

Lady Capulet.
Evermore weeping for your cousin's death?
What, wilt thou wash him from his grave with tears?
An if thou couldst, thou couldst not make him live;
Therefore have done: some grief shows much of love;
But much of grief shows still some want of wit.

Juliet.
Yet let me weep for such a feeling loss.

Lady Capulet.
So shall you feel the loss, but not the friend
Which you weep for.

Juliet.
Feeling so the loss,
I cannot choose but ever weep the friend.

Lady Capulet.
Well, girl, thou weep'st not so much for his death
As that the villain lives which slaughter'd him.

Juliet.
What villain, madam?

Lady Capulet.
That same villain Romeo.

Juliet.
Villain and he be many miles asunder.--
God pardon him!  I do, with all my heart;
And yet no man like he doth grieve my heart.

Lady Capulet.
That is because the traitor murderer lives.

Juliet.
Ay, madam, from the reach of these my hands.
Would none but I might venge my cousin's death!

Lady Capulet.
We will have vengeance for it, fear thou not:
Then weep no more.  I'll send to one in Mantua,--
Where that same banish'd runagate doth live,--
Shall give him such an unaccustom'd dram
That he shall soon keep Tybalt company:
And then I hope thou wilt be satisfied.

Juliet.
Indeed I never shall be satisfied
With Romeo till I behold him--dead--
Is my poor heart so for a kinsman vex'd:
Madam, if you could find out but a man
To bear a poison, I would temper it,
That Romeo should, upon receipt thereof,
Soon sleep in quiet.  O, how my heart abhors
To hear him nam'd,--and cannot come to him,--
To wreak the love I bore my cousin Tybalt
Upon his body that hath slaughter'd him!

Lady Capulet.
Find thou the means, and I'll find such a man.
But now I'll tell thee joyful tidings, girl.

Juliet.
And joy comes well in such a needy time:
What are they, I beseech your ladyship?

Lady Capulet.
Well, well, thou hast a careful father, child;
One who, to put thee from thy heaviness,
Hath sorted out a sudden day of joy
That thou expect'st not, nor I look'd not for.

Juliet.
Madam, in happy time, what day is that?

Lady Capulet.
Marry, my child, early next Thursday morn
The gallant, young, and noble gentleman,
The County Paris, at St. Peter's Church,
Shall happily make thee there a joyful bride.

Juliet.
Now by Saint Peter's Church, and Peter too,
He shall not make me there a joyful bride.
I wonder at this haste; that I must wed
Ere he that should be husband comes to woo.
I pray you, tell my lord and father, madam,
I will not marry yet; and when I do, I swear
It shall be Romeo, whom you know I hate,
Rather than Paris:--these are news indeed!

Lady Capulet.
Here comes your father: tell him so yourself,
And see how he will take it at your hands.

(Enter Capulet and Nurse.)

Capulet.
When the sun sets, the air doth drizzle dew;
But for the sunset of my brother's son
It rains downright.--
How now! a conduit, girl? what, still in tears?
Evermore showering? In one little body
Thou counterfeit'st a bark, a sea, a wind:
For still thy eyes, which I may call the sea,
Do ebb and flow with tears; the bark thy body is,
Sailing in this salt flood; the winds, thy sighs;
Who,--raging with thy tears and they with them,--
Without a sudden calm, will overset
Thy tempest-tossed body.--How now, wife!
Have you deliver'd to her our decree?

Lady Capulet.
Ay, sir; but she will none, she gives you thanks.
I would the fool were married to her grave!

Capulet.
Soft! take me with you, take me with you, wife.
How! will she none? doth she not give us thanks?
Is she not proud? doth she not count her bles'd,
Unworthy as she is, that we have wrought
So worthy a gentleman to be her bridegroom?

Juliet.
Not proud you have; but thankful that you have:
Proud can I never be of what I hate;
But thankful even for hate that is meant love.

Capulet.
How now, how now, chop-logic!  What is this?
Proud,--and, I thank you,--and I thank you not;--
And yet not proud:--mistress minion, you,
Thank me no thankings, nor proud me no prouds,
But fettle your fine joints 'gainst Thursday next
To go with Paris to Saint Peter's Church,
Or I will drag thee on a hurdle thither.
Out, you green-sickness carrion! out, you baggage!
You tallow-face!

Lady Capulet.
Fie, fie! what, are you mad?

Juliet.
Good father, I beseech you on my knees,
Hear me with patience but to speak a word.

8

Re: ROMEO AND JULIET by William Shakespeare

Capulet.
Hang thee, young baggage! disobedient wretch!
I tell thee what,--get thee to church o' Thursday,
Or never after look me in the face:
Speak not, reply not, do not answer me;
My fingers itch.--Wife, we scarce thought us bles'd
That God had lent us but this only child;
But now I see this one is one too much,
And that we have a curse in having her:
Out on her, hilding!

Nurse.
God in heaven bless her!--
You are to blame, my lord, to rate her so.

Capulet.
And why, my lady wisdom? hold your tongue,
Good prudence; smatter with your gossips, go.

Nurse.
I speak no treason.

Capulet.
O, God ye good-en!

Nurse.
May not one speak?

Capulet.
Peace, you mumbling fool!
Utter your gravity o'er a gossip's bowl,
For here we need it not.

Lady Capulet.
You are too hot.

Capulet.
God's bread! it makes me mad:
Day, night, hour, time, tide, work, play,
Alone, in company, still my care hath been
To have her match'd, and having now provided
A gentleman of noble parentage,
Of fair demesnes, youthful, and nobly train'd,
Stuff'd, as they say, with honourable parts,
Proportion'd as one's heart would wish a man,--
And then to have a wretched puling fool,
A whining mammet, in her fortune's tender,
To answer, 'I'll not wed,--I cannot love,
I am too young,--I pray you pardon me:'--
But, an you will not wed, I'll pardon you:
Graze where you will, you shall not house with me:
Look to't, think on't, I do not use to jest.
Thursday is near; lay hand on heart, advise:
An you be mine, I'll give you to my friend;
An you be not, hang, beg, starve, die i' the streets,
For, by my soul, I'll ne'er acknowledge thee,
Nor what is mine shall never do thee good:
Trust to't, bethink you, I'll not be forsworn.

(Exit.)

Juliet.
Is there no pity sitting in the clouds,
That sees into the bottom of my grief?
O, sweet my mother, cast me not away!
Delay this marriage for a month, a week;
Or, if you do not, make the bridal bed
In that dim monument where Tybalt lies.

Lady Capulet.
Talk not to me, for I'll not speak a word;
Do as thou wilt, for I have done with thee.

(Exit.)

Juliet.
O God!--O nurse! how shall this be prevented?
My husband is on earth, my faith in heaven;
How shall that faith return again to earth,
Unless that husband send it me from heaven
By leaving earth?--comfort me, counsel me.--
Alack, alack, that heaven should practise stratagems
Upon so soft a subject as myself!--
What say'st thou?  hast thou not a word of joy?
Some comfort, nurse.

Nurse.
Faith, here 'tis; Romeo
Is banished; and all the world to nothing
That he dares ne'er come back to challenge you;
Or if he do, it needs must be by stealth.
Then, since the case so stands as now it doth,
I think it best you married with the county.
O, he's a lovely gentleman!
Romeo's a dishclout to him; an eagle, madam,
Hath not so green, so quick, so fair an eye
As Paris hath. Beshrew my very heart,
I think you are happy in this second match,
For it excels your first: or if it did not,
Your first is dead; or 'twere as good he were,
As living here, and you no use of him.

Juliet.
Speakest thou this from thy heart?

Nurse.
And from my soul too;
Or else beshrew them both.

Juliet.
Amen!

Nurse.
What?

Juliet.
Well, thou hast comforted me marvellous much.
Go in; and tell my lady I am gone,
Having displeas'd my father, to Lawrence' cell,
To make confession and to be absolv'd.

Nurse.
Marry, I will; and this is wisely done.

(Exit.)

Juliet.
Ancient damnation!  O most wicked fiend!
Is it more sin to wish me thus forsworn,
Or to dispraise my lord with that same tongue
Which she hath prais'd him with above compare
So many thousand times?--Go, counsellor;
Thou and my bosom henceforth shall be twain.--
I'll to the friar to know his remedy;
If all else fail, myself have power to die.

(Exit.)


ACT IV.

Scene I. Friar Lawrence's Cell.

(Enter Friar Lawrence and Paris.)

Friar.
On Thursday, sir? the time is very short.

Paris.
My father Capulet will have it so;
And I am nothing slow to slack his haste.

Friar.
You say you do not know the lady's mind:
Uneven is the course; I like it not.

Paris.
Immoderately she weeps for Tybalt's death,
And therefore have I little talk'd of love;
For Venus smiles not in a house of tears.
Now, sir, her father counts it dangerous
That she do give her sorrow so much sway;
And, in his wisdom, hastes our marriage,
To stop the inundation of her tears;
Which, too much minded by herself alone,
May be put from her by society:
Now do you know the reason of this haste.

Friar.
(Aside.) I would I knew not why it should be slow'd.--
Look, sir, here comes the lady toward my cell.

(Enter Juliet.)

Paris.
Happily met, my lady and my wife!

Juliet.
That may be, sir, when I may be a wife.

Paris.
That may be must be, love, on Thursday next.

Juliet.
What must be shall be.

Friar.
That's a certain text.

Paris.
Come you to make confession to this father?

Juliet.
To answer that, I should confess to you.

Paris.
Do not deny to him that you love me.

Juliet.
I will confess to you that I love him.

Paris.
So will ye, I am sure, that you love me.

Juliet.
If I do so, it will be of more price,
Being spoke behind your back than to your face.

Paris.
Poor soul, thy face is much abus'd with tears.

Juliet.
The tears have got small victory by that;
For it was bad enough before their spite.

Paris.
Thou wrong'st it more than tears with that report.

Juliet.
That is no slander, sir, which is a truth;
And what I spake, I spake it to my face.

Paris.
Thy face is mine, and thou hast slander'd it.

Juliet.
It may be so, for it is not mine own.--
Are you at leisure, holy father, now;
Or shall I come to you at evening mass?

Friar.
My leisure serves me, pensive daughter, now.--
My lord, we must entreat the time alone.

Paris.
God shield I should disturb devotion!--
Juliet, on Thursday early will I rouse you:
Till then, adieu; and keep this holy kiss.

(Exit.)

Juliet.
O, shut the door! and when thou hast done so,
Come weep with me; past hope, past cure, past help!

Friar.
Ah, Juliet, I already know thy grief;
It strains me past the compass of my wits:
I hear thou must, and nothing may prorogue it,
On Thursday next be married to this county.

Juliet.
Tell me not, friar, that thou hear'st of this,
Unless thou tell me how I may prevent it:
If, in thy wisdom, thou canst give no help,
Do thou but call my resolution wise,
And with this knife I'll help it presently.
God join'd my heart and Romeo's, thou our hands;
And ere this hand, by thee to Romeo's seal'd,
Shall be the label to another deed,
Or my true heart with treacherous revolt
Turn to another, this shall slay them both:
Therefore, out of thy long-experienc'd time,
Give me some present counsel; or, behold,
'Twixt my extremes and me this bloody knife
Shall play the empire; arbitrating that
Which the commission of thy years and art
Could to no issue of true honour bring.
Be not so long to speak; I long to die,
If what thou speak'st speak not of remedy.

Friar.
Hold, daughter. I do spy a kind of hope,
Which craves as desperate an execution
As that is desperate which we would prevent.
If, rather than to marry County Paris
Thou hast the strength of will to slay thyself,
Then is it likely thou wilt undertake
A thing like death to chide away this shame,
That cop'st with death himself to scape from it;
And, if thou dar'st, I'll give thee remedy.

Juliet.
O, bid me leap, rather than marry Paris,
From off the battlements of yonder tower;
Or walk in thievish ways; or bid me lurk
Where serpents are; chain me with roaring bears;
Or shut me nightly in a charnel-house,
O'er-cover'd quite with dead men's rattling bones,
With reeky shanks and yellow chapless skulls;
Or bid me go into a new-made grave,
And hide me with a dead man in his shroud;
Things that, to hear them told, have made me tremble;
And I will do it without fear or doubt,
To live an unstain'd wife to my sweet love.

Friar.
Hold, then; go home, be merry, give consent
To marry Paris: Wednesday is to-morrow;
To-morrow night look that thou lie alone,
Let not thy nurse lie with thee in thy chamber:
Take thou this vial, being then in bed,
And this distilled liquor drink thou off:
When, presently, through all thy veins shall run
A cold and drowsy humour; for no pulse
Shall keep his native progress, but surcease:
No warmth, no breath, shall testify thou livest;
The roses in thy lips and cheeks shall fade
To paly ashes; thy eyes' windows fall,
Like death, when he shuts up the day of life;
Each part, depriv'd of supple government,
Shall, stiff and stark and cold, appear like death:
And in this borrow'd likeness of shrunk death
Thou shalt continue two-and-forty hours,
And then awake as from a pleasant sleep.
Now, when the bridegroom in the morning comes
To rouse thee from thy bed, there art thou dead:
Then,--as the manner of our country is,--
In thy best robes, uncover'd, on the bier,
Thou shalt be borne to that same ancient vault
Where all the kindred of the Capulets lie.
In the mean time, against thou shalt awake,
Shall Romeo by my letters know our drift;
And hither shall he come: and he and I
Will watch thy waking, and that very night
Shall Romeo bear thee hence to Mantua.
And this shall free thee from this present shame,
If no inconstant toy nor womanish fear
Abate thy valour in the acting it.

Juliet.
Give me, give me!  O, tell not me of fear!

Friar.
Hold; get you gone, be strong and prosperous
In this resolve: I'll send a friar with speed
To Mantua, with my letters to thy lord.

Juliet.
Love give me strength! and strength shall help afford.
Farewell, dear father.

(Exeunt.)


Scene II. Hall in Capulet's House.

(Enter Capulet, Lady Capulet, Nurse, and Servants.)

Capulet.
So many guests invite as here are writ.--

(Exit first Servant.)

Sirrah, go hire me twenty cunning cooks.

2 Servant.
You shall have none ill, sir; for I'll try if they can
lick their fingers.

Capulet.
How canst thou try them so?

2 Servant.
Marry, sir, 'tis an ill cook that cannot lick his own fingers:
therefore he that cannot lick his fingers goes not with me.

Capulet.
Go, begone.--

(Exit second Servant.)

We shall be much unfurnish'd for this time.--
What, is my daughter gone to Friar Lawrence?

Nurse.
Ay, forsooth.

Capulet.
Well, be may chance to do some good on her:
A peevish self-will'd harlotry it is.

Nurse.
See where she comes from shrift with merry look.

(Enter Juliet.)

Capulet.
How now, my headstrong! where have you been gadding?

Juliet.
Where I have learn'd me to repent the sin
Of disobedient opposition
To you and your behests; and am enjoin'd
By holy Lawrence to fall prostrate here,
To beg your pardon:--pardon, I beseech you!
Henceforward I am ever rul'd by you.

Capulet.
Send for the county; go tell him of this:
I'll have this knot knit up to-morrow morning.

Juliet.
I met the youthful lord at Lawrence' cell;
And gave him what becomed love I might,
Not stepping o'er the bounds of modesty.

Capulet.
Why, I am glad on't; this is well,--stand up,--
This is as't should be.--Let me see the county;
Ay, marry, go, I say, and fetch him hither.--
Now, afore God, this reverend holy friar,
All our whole city is much bound to him.

Juliet.
Nurse, will you go with me into my closet,
To help me sort such needful ornaments
As you think fit to furnish me to-morrow?

Lady Capulet.
No, not till Thursday; there is time enough.

Capulet.
Go, nurse, go with her.--We'll to church to-morrow.

(Exeunt Juliet and Nurse.)

Lady Capulet.
We shall be short in our provision:
'Tis now near night.

Capulet.
Tush, I will stir about,
And all things shall be well, I warrant thee, wife:
Go thou to Juliet, help to deck up her;
I'll not to bed to-night;--let me alone;
I'll play the housewife for this once.--What, ho!--
They are all forth: well, I will walk myself
To County Paris, to prepare him up
Against to-morrow: my heart is wondrous light
Since this same wayward girl is so reclaim'd.

(Exeunt.)


Scene III. Juliet's Chamber.

(Enter Juliet and Nurse.)

Juliet.
Ay, those attires are best:--but, gentle nurse,
I pray thee, leave me to myself to-night;
For I have need of many orisons
To move the heavens to smile upon my state,
Which, well thou know'st, is cross and full of sin.

(Enter Lady Capulet.)

Lady Capulet.
What, are you busy, ho? need you my help?

Juliet.
No, madam; we have cull'd such necessaries
As are behoveful for our state to-morrow:
So please you, let me now be left alone,
And let the nurse this night sit up with you;
For I am sure you have your hands full all
In this so sudden business.

Lady Capulet.
Good night:
Get thee to bed, and rest; for thou hast need.

(Exeunt Lady Capulet and Nurse.)

Juliet.
Farewell!--God knows when we shall meet again.
I have a faint cold fear thrills through my veins
That almost freezes up the heat of life:
I'll call them back again to comfort me;--
Nurse!--What should she do here?
My dismal scene I needs must act alone.--
Come, vial.--
What if this mixture do not work at all?
Shall I be married, then, to-morrow morning?--
No, No!--this shall forbid it:--lie thou there.--

(Laying down her dagger.)

What if it be a poison, which the friar
Subtly hath minister'd to have me dead,
Lest in this marriage he should be dishonour'd,
Because he married me before to Romeo?
I fear it is: and yet methinks it should not,
For he hath still been tried a holy man:--
I will not entertain so bad a thought.--
How if, when I am laid into the tomb,
I wake before the time that Romeo
Come to redeem me? there's a fearful point!
Shall I not then be stifled in the vault,
To whose foul mouth no healthsome air breathes in,
And there die strangled ere my Romeo comes?
Or, if I live, is it not very like
The horrible conceit of death and night,
Together with the terror of the place,--
As in a vault, an ancient receptacle,
Where, for this many hundred years, the bones
Of all my buried ancestors are pack'd;
Where bloody Tybalt, yet but green in earth,
Lies festering in his shroud; where, as they say,
At some hours in the night spirits resort;--
Alack, alack, is it not like that I,
So early waking,--what with loathsome smells,
And shrieks like mandrakes torn out of the earth,
That living mortals, hearing them, run mad;--
O, if I wake, shall I not be distraught,
Environed with all these hideous fears?
And madly play with my forefathers' joints?
And pluck the mangled Tybalt from his shroud?
And, in this rage, with some great kinsman's bone,
As with a club, dash out my desperate brains?--
O, look! methinks I see my cousin's ghost
Seeking out Romeo, that did spit his body
Upon a rapier's point:--stay, Tybalt, stay!--
Romeo, I come! this do I drink to thee.

(Throws herself on the bed.)


Scene IV. Hall in Capulet's House.

(Enter Lady Capulet and Nurse.)

Lady Capulet.
Hold, take these keys and fetch more spices, nurse.

Nurse.
They call for dates and quinces in the pastry.

(Enter Capulet.)

Capulet.
Come, stir, stir, stir! The second cock hath crow'd,
The curfew bell hath rung, 'tis three o'clock:--
Look to the bak'd meats, good Angelica;
Spare not for cost.

Nurse.
Go, you cot-quean, go,
Get you to bed; faith, you'll be sick to-morrow
For this night's watching.

Capulet.
No, not a whit: what! I have watch'd ere now
All night for lesser cause, and ne'er been sick.

Lady Capulet.
Ay, you have been a mouse-hunt in your time;
But I will watch you from such watching now.

(Exeunt Lady Capulet and Nurse.)

Capulet.
A jealous-hood, a jealous-hood!--Now, fellow,

(Enter Servants, with spits, logs and baskets.)

What's there?

1 Servant.
Things for the cook, sir; but I know not what.

Capulet.
Make haste, make haste. (Exit 1 Servant.)
--Sirrah, fetch drier logs:
Call Peter, he will show thee where they are.

2 Servant.
I have a head, sir, that will find out logs
And never trouble Peter for the matter.

(Exit.)

Capulet.
Mass, and well said; a merry whoreson, ha!
Thou shalt be logger-head.--Good faith, 'tis day.
The county will be here with music straight,
For so he said he would:--I hear him near.
(Music within.)
Nurse!--wife!--what, ho!--what, nurse, I say!

(Re-enter Nurse.)

Go, waken Juliet; go and trim her up;
I'll go and chat with Paris:--hie, make haste,
Make haste; the bridegroom he is come already:
Make haste, I say.

(Exeunt.)


Scene V. Juliet's Chamber; Juliet on the bed.

9

Re: ROMEO AND JULIET by William Shakespeare

(Enter Nurse.)

Nurse.
Mistress!--what, mistress!--Juliet!--fast, I warrant her, she:--
Why, lamb!--why, lady!--fie, you slug-abed!--
Why, love, I say!--madam! sweetheart!--why, bride!--
What, not a word?--you take your pennyworths now;
Sleep for a week; for the next night, I warrant,
The County Paris hath set up his rest
That you shall rest but little.--God forgive me!
Marry, and amen, how sound is she asleep!
I needs must wake her.--Madam, madam, madam!--
Ay, let the county take you in your bed;
He'll fright you up, i' faith.--Will it not be?
What, dress'd! and in your clothes! and down again!
I must needs wake you.--lady! lady! lady!--
Alas, alas!--Help, help! My lady's dead!--
O, well-a-day that ever I was born!--
Some aqua-vitae, ho!--my lord! my lady!

(Enter Lady Capulet.)

Lady Capulet
What noise is here?

Nurse.
O lamentable day!

Lady Capulet.
What is the matter?

Nurse.
Look, look! O heavy day!

Lady Capulet.
O me, O me!--my child, my only life!
Revive, look up, or I will die with thee!--
Help, help!--call help.

(Enter Capulet.)

Capulet.
For shame, bring Juliet forth; her lord is come.

Nurse.
She's dead, deceas'd, she's dead; alack the day!

Lady Capulet
Alack the day, she's dead, she's dead, she's dead!

Capulet.
Ha! let me see her:--out alas! she's cold;
Her blood is settled, and her joints are stiff;
Life and these lips have long been separated:
Death lies on her like an untimely frost
Upon the sweetest flower of all the field.
Accursed time! unfortunate old man!

Nurse.
O lamentable day!

Lady Capulet.
O woful time!

Capulet.
Death, that hath ta'en her hence to make me wail,
Ties up my tongue and will not let me speak.

(Enter Friar Lawrence and Paris, with Musicians.)

Friar.
Come, is the bride ready to go to church?

Capulet.
Ready to go, but never to return:--
O son, the night before thy wedding day
Hath death lain with thy bride:--there she lies,
Flower as she was, deflowered by him.
Death is my son-in-law, death is my heir;
My daughter he hath wedded: I will die.
And leave him all; life, living, all is death's.

Paris.
Have I thought long to see this morning's face,
And doth it give me such a sight as this?

Lady Capulet.
Accurs'd, unhappy, wretched, hateful day!
Most miserable hour that e'er time saw
In lasting labour of his pilgrimage!
But one, poor one, one poor and loving child,
But one thing to rejoice and solace in,
And cruel death hath catch'd it from my sight!

Nurse.
O woe! O woeful, woeful, woeful day!
Most lamentable day, most woeful day
That ever, ever, I did yet behold!
O day! O day! O day! O hateful day!
Never was seen so black a day as this:
O woeful day! O woeful day!

Paris.
Beguil'd, divorced, wronged, spited, slain!
Most detestable death, by thee beguil'd,
By cruel cruel thee quite overthrown!--
O love! O life!--not life, but love in death!

Capulet.
Despis'd, distressed, hated, martyr'd, kill'd!--
Uncomfortable time, why cam'st thou now
To murder, murder our solemnity?--
O child! O child!--my soul, and not my child!--
Dead art thou, dead!--alack, my child is dead;
And with my child my joys are buried!

Friar.
Peace, ho, for shame! confusion's cure lives not
In these confusions. Heaven and yourself
Had part in this fair maid; now heaven hath all,
And all the better is it for the maid:
Your part in her you could not keep from death;
But heaven keeps his part in eternal life.
The most you sought was her promotion;
For 'twas your heaven she should be advanc'd:
And weep ye now, seeing she is advanc'd
Above the clouds, as high as heaven itself?
O, in this love, you love your child so ill
That you run mad, seeing that she is well:
She's not well married that lives married long:
But she's best married that dies married young.
Dry up your tears, and stick your rosemary
On this fair corse; and, as the custom is,
In all her best array bear her to church;
For though fond nature bids us all lament,
Yet nature's tears are reason's merriment.

Capulet.
All things that we ordained festival
Turn from their office to black funeral:
Our instruments to melancholy bells;
Our wedding cheer to a sad burial feast;
Our solemn hymns to sullen dirges change;
Our bridal flowers serve for a buried corse,
And all things change them to the contrary.

Friar.
Sir, go you in,--and, madam, go with him;--
And go, Sir Paris;--every one prepare
To follow this fair corse unto her grave:
The heavens do lower upon you for some ill;
Move them no more by crossing their high will.

(Exeunt Capulet, Lady Capulet, Paris, and Friar.)

1 Musician.
Faith, we may put up our pipes and be gone.

Nurse.
Honest good fellows, ah, put up, put up;
For well you know this is a pitiful case.

(Exit.)

1 Musician.
Ay, by my troth, the case may be amended.

(Enter Peter.)

Peter.
Musicians, O, musicians, 'Heart's ease,' 'Heart's ease':
O, an you will have me live, play 'Heart's ease.'

1 Musician.
Why 'Heart's ease'?

Peter.
O, musicians, because my heart itself plays 'My heart is
full of woe': O, play me some merry dump to comfort me.

1 Musician.
Not a dump we: 'tis no time to play now.

Peter.
You will not then?

1 Musician.
No.

Peter.
I will then give it you soundly.

1 Musician.
What will you give us?

Peter.
No money, on my faith; but the gleek,--I will give you the
minstrel.

1 Musician.
Then will I give you the serving-creature.

Peter.
Then will I lay the serving-creature's dagger on your pate.
I will carry no crotchets: I'll re you, I'll fa you: do you note
me?

1 Musician.
An you re us and fa us, you note us.

2 Musician.
Pray you put up your dagger, and put out your wit.

Peter.
Then have at you with my wit! I will dry-beat you with an
iron wit, and put up my iron dagger.--Answer me like men:

    'When griping grief the heart doth wound,
      And doleful dumps the mind oppress,
    Then music with her silver sound'--

why 'silver sound'? why 'music with her silver sound'?--
What say you, Simon Catling?

1 Musician.
Marry, sir, because silver hath a sweet sound.

Peter.
Pretty!--What say you, Hugh Rebeck?

2 Musician.
I say 'silver sound' because musicians sound for silver.

Peter.
Pretty too!--What say you, James Soundpost?

3 Musician.
Faith, I know not what to say.

Peter.
O, I cry you mercy; you are the singer: I will say for you.
It is 'music with her silver sound' because musicians have no
gold for sounding:--

    'Then music with her silver sound
      With speedy help doth lend redress.'

(Exit.)

1 Musician.
What a pestilent knave is this same!

2 Musician.
Hang him, Jack!--Come, we'll in here; tarry for the
mourners, and stay dinner.

(Exeunt.)


Act V.

Scene I. Mantua. A Street.

(Enter Romeo.)

Romeo.
If I may trust the flattering eye of sleep,
My dreams presage some joyful news at hand;
My bosom's lord sits lightly in his throne;
And all this day an unaccustom'd spirit
Lifts me above the ground with cheerful thoughts.
I dreamt my lady came and found me dead,--
Strange dream, that gives a dead man leave to think!--
And breath'd such life with kisses in my lips,
That I reviv'd, and was an emperor.
Ah me! how sweet is love itself possess'd,
When but love's shadows are so rich in joy!

(Enter Balthasar.)

News from Verona!--How now, Balthasar?
Dost thou not bring me letters from the friar?
How doth my lady? Is my father well?
How fares my Juliet? that I ask again;
For nothing can be ill if she be well.

Balthasar.
Then she is well, and nothing can be ill:
Her body sleeps in Capel's monument,
And her immortal part with angels lives.
I saw her laid low in her kindred's vault,
And presently took post to tell it you:
O, pardon me for bringing these ill news,
Since you did leave it for my office, sir.

Romeo.
Is it even so? then I defy you, stars!--
Thou know'st my lodging: get me ink and paper,
And hire post-horses. I will hence to-night.

Balthasar.
I do beseech you, sir, have patience:
Your looks are pale and wild, and do import
Some misadventure.

Romeo.
Tush, thou art deceiv'd:
Leave me, and do the thing I bid thee do.
Hast thou no letters to me from the friar?

Balthasar.
No, my good lord.

Romeo.
No matter: get thee gone,
And hire those horses; I'll be with thee straight.

(Exit Balthasar.)

Well, Juliet, I will lie with thee to-night.
Let's see for means;--O mischief, thou art swift
To enter in the thoughts of desperate men!
I do remember an apothecary,--
And hereabouts he dwells,--which late I noted
In tatter'd weeds, with overwhelming brows,
Culling of simples; meagre were his looks,
Sharp misery had worn him to the bones;
And in his needy shop a tortoise hung,
An alligator stuff'd, and other skins
Of ill-shaped fishes; and about his shelves
A beggarly account of empty boxes,
Green earthen pots, bladders, and musty seeds,
Remnants of packthread, and old cakes of roses,
Were thinly scatter'd, to make up a show.
Noting this penury, to myself I said,
An if a man did need a poison now,
Whose sale is present death in Mantua,
Here lives a caitiff wretch would sell it him.
O, this same thought did but forerun my need;
And this same needy man must sell it me.
As I remember, this should be the house:
Being holiday, the beggar's shop is shut.--
What, ho! apothecary!

(Enter Apothecary.)

Apothecary.
Who calls so loud?

Romeo.
Come hither, man.--I see that thou art poor;
Hold, there is forty ducats: let me have
A dram of poison; such soon-speeding gear
As will disperse itself through all the veins
That the life-weary taker mall fall dead;
And that the trunk may be discharg'd of breath
As violently as hasty powder fir'd
Doth hurry from the fatal cannon's womb.

Apothecary.
Such mortal drugs I have; but Mantua's law
Is death to any he that utters them.

Romeo.
Art thou so bare and full of wretchedness
And fear'st to die? famine is in thy cheeks,
Need and oppression starveth in thine eyes,
Contempt and beggary hangs upon thy back,
The world is not thy friend, nor the world's law:
The world affords no law to make thee rich;
Then be not poor, but break it and take this.

Apothecary.
My poverty, but not my will consents.

Romeo.
I pay thy poverty, and not thy will.

Apothecary.
Put this in any liquid thing you will,
And drink it off; and, if you had the strength
Of twenty men, it would despatch you straight.

Romeo.
There is thy gold; worse poison to men's souls,
Doing more murders in this loathsome world
Than these poor compounds that thou mayst not sell:
I sell thee poison; thou hast sold me none.
Farewell: buy food and get thyself in flesh.--
Come, cordial and not poison, go with me
To Juliet's grave; for there must I use thee.

(Exeunt.)


Scene II. Friar Lawrence's Cell.

(Enter Friar John.)

Friar John.
Holy Franciscan friar! brother, ho!

(Enter Friar Lawrence.)

Friar Lawrence.
This same should be the voice of Friar John.
Welcome from Mantua: what says Romeo?
Or, if his mind be writ, give me his letter.

Friar John.
Going to find a barefoot brother out,
One of our order, to associate me,
Here in this city visiting the sick,
And finding him, the searchers of the town,
Suspecting that we both were in a house
Where the infectious pestilence did reign,
Seal'd up the doors, and would not let us forth;
So that my speed to Mantua there was stay'd.

Friar Lawrence.
Who bare my letter, then, to Romeo?

Friar John.
I could not send it,--here it is again,--
Nor get a messenger to bring it thee,
So fearful were they of infection.

Friar Lawrence.
Unhappy fortune! by my brotherhood,
The letter was not nice, but full of charge
Of dear import; and the neglecting it
May do much danger. Friar John, go hence;
Get me an iron crow and bring it straight
Unto my cell.

Friar John.
Brother, I'll go and bring it thee.

(Exit.)

Friar Lawrence.
Now must I to the monument alone;
Within this three hours will fair Juliet wake:
She will beshrew me much that Romeo
Hath had no notice of these accidents;
But I will write again to Mantua,
And keep her at my cell till Romeo come;--
Poor living corse, clos'd in a dead man's tomb!

(Exit.)


Scene III. A churchyard; in it a Monument belonging to the
Capulets.

(Enter Paris, and his Page bearing flowers and a torch.)

Paris.
Give me thy torch, boy: hence, and stand aloof;--
Yet put it out, for I would not be seen.
Under yond yew tree lay thee all along,
Holding thine ear close to the hollow ground;
So shall no foot upon the churchyard tread,--
Being loose, unfirm, with digging up of graves,--
But thou shalt hear it: whistle then to me,
As signal that thou hear'st something approach.
Give me those flowers. Do as I bid thee, go.

Page.
(Aside.) I am almost afraid to stand alone
Here in the churchyard; yet I will adventure.

(Retires.)

Paris.
Sweet flower, with flowers thy bridal bed I strew:
  O woe! thy canopy is dust and stones!
Which with sweet water nightly I will dew;
  Or, wanting that, with tears distill'd by moans:
The obsequies that I for thee will keep,
Nightly shall be to strew thy grave and weep.

(The Page whistles.)

The boy gives warning something doth approach.
What cursed foot wanders this way to-night,
To cross my obsequies and true love's rite?
What, with a torch! muffle me, night, awhile.

(Retires.)

(Enter Romeo and Balthasar with a torch, mattock, &c.)

Romeo.
Give me that mattock and the wrenching iron.
Hold, take this letter; early in the morning
See thou deliver it to my lord and father.
Give me the light; upon thy life I charge thee,
Whate'er thou hear'st or seest, stand all aloof
And do not interrupt me in my course.
Why I descend into this bed of death
Is partly to behold my lady's face,
But chiefly to take thence from her dead finger
A precious ring,--a ring that I must use
In dear employment: therefore hence, be gone:--
But if thou, jealous, dost return to pry
In what I further shall intend to do,
By heaven, I will tear thee joint by joint,
And strew this hungry churchyard with thy limbs:
The time and my intents are savage-wild;
More fierce and more inexorable far
Than empty tigers or the roaring sea.

Balthasar.
I will be gone, sir, and not trouble you.

Romeo.
So shalt thou show me friendship.--Take thou that:
Live, and be prosperous: and farewell, good fellow.

Balthasar.
For all this same, I'll hide me hereabout:
His looks I fear, and his intents I doubt.

(Retires.)

Romeo.
Thou detestable maw, thou womb of death,
Gorg'd with the dearest morsel of the earth,
Thus I enforce thy rotten jaws to open,

(Breaking open the door of the monument.)

And, in despite, I'll cram thee with more food!

Paris.
This is that banish'd haughty Montague
That murder'd my love's cousin,--with which grief,
It is supposed, the fair creature died,--
And here is come to do some villanous shame
To the dead bodies: I will apprehend him.--

(Advances.)

Stop thy unhallow'd toil, vile Montague!
Can vengeance be pursu'd further than death?
Condemned villain, I do apprehend thee;
Obey, and go with me; for thou must die.

Romeo.
I must indeed; and therefore came I hither.--
Good gentle youth, tempt not a desperate man;
Fly hence and leave me:--think upon these gone;
Let them affright thee.--I beseech thee, youth,
Put not another sin upon my head
By urging me to fury: O, be gone!
By heaven, I love thee better than myself;
For I come hither arm'd against myself:
Stay not, be gone;--live, and hereafter say,
A madman's mercy bid thee run away.

Paris.
I do defy thy conjurations,
And apprehend thee for a felon here.

Romeo.
Wilt thou provoke me? then have at thee, boy!

(They fight.)

Page.
O lord, they fight! I will go call the watch.