ROMEUS AND JULIET.

PRELIMINARY REMARKS.

The following poem was transcribed many years ago by Mr. Malone, from a copy belonging to the late Mr. Capell, deposited among his collections in the library of Trinity College, Cambridge. It was published in his Supplement to Johnson and Steevens's Shakspeare, 1778; and has since occupied a place in all the subsequent editions of our great poet. The account given of it by Mr. Malone in his own work, is as follows:

“In a preliminary note on Romeo and Juliet, I observed that it was founded on The Tragicall Hystory of Romeus and Juliet, printed in 1562. That piece being almost as rare as a manuscript, I reprinted it a few years ago, and shall give it a place here as a proper supplement to the commentaries on this tragedy.

“From the following lines in An Epitaph on the Death of Maister Arthur Brooke drownde in passing to New-Haven, by George Turberville, [Epitaphes, Epigrammes, &c. 1567,] we learn that the former was the author of this poem:

“The original relater of this story was Luigi da Porto, a gentleman of Vicenza, who died in 1529. His novel did not appear till some years after his death; being first printed at Venice, in octavo, in 1535, under the title of La Giulietta. In an epistle prefixed to this work, which is addressed Alla bellissima e leggiadra Madonna Lucina Savorgnana, the author gives the following account (probably a fictitious one) of the manner in which he became acquainted with this story.

“‘As you yourself have seen, when heaven had not as yet levelled against me its whole wrath, in the fair spring of my

youth I devoted myself to the profession of arms, and, following therein many brave and valiant men, for some years I served in your delightful country, Frioli, through every part of which, in the course of my private service, it was my duty to roam. I was ever accustomed, when upon any expedition on horseback, to bring with me an archer of mine, whose name was Peregrino, a man about fifty years old, well practised in the military art, a pleasant companion, and, like almost all his countrymen of Verona, a great talker. This man was not only a brave and experienced soldier, but of a gay and lively disposition, and, more perhaps than became his age, was for ever in love; a quality which gave a double value to his valour. Hence it was that he delighted in relating the most amusing novels, especially such as treated of love, and this he did with more grace and with better arrangement than any I have ever heard. It therefore chanced that, departing from Gradisca, where I was quartered, and, with this archer and two other of my servants, travelling, perhaps impelled by love, towards Udino, which route was then extremely solitary, and entirely ruined and burned up by the war,—wholly absorbed in thought, and riding at a distance from the others, this Peregrino drawing near me, as one who guessed my thoughts, thus addressed me: ‘Will you then for ever live this melancholy life, because a cruel and disdainful fair one does not love you? though I now speak against myself, yet, since advice is easier to give than to follow, I must tell you, master of mine, that, besides its being disgraceful in a man of your profession to remain long in the chains of love, almost all the ends to which he conducts us are so replete with misery, that it is dangerous to follow him. And in testimony of what I say, if it so please you, I could relate a transaction that happened in my native city, the recounting of which will render the way less solitary and less disagreeable to us; and in this relation you would perceive how two noble lovers were conducted to a miserable and piteous death.’ —And now, upon my making him a sign of my willingness to listen, he thus began.’

“The phrase, in the beginning of this passage, ‘when heaven had not as yet levelled against me its whole wrath,’ will be best explained by some account of the author, extracted from Crescimbeni, Istoria della Volgar Poesia, t. v. p. 91: “Luigi da Porto, a Vicentine, was, in his youth, on account of his valour, made a leader in the Venetian army; but, fighting against the Germans in Friuli, was so wounded, that he remained for a time wholly disabled, and afterwards lame and weak during his life; on which account, quitting the profession of arms, he betook himself to letters,” &c.

The copy from which Mr. Malone made his transcript, was defective as wanting the preface; but in the year 1810, he was so fortunate as to procure a perfect copy from the Rev. Henry White, of

Lichfield; by the aid of which, it is now given complete, and with which it has been carefully collated. That this poem was the basis of Shakspeare's play, I believe every reader will allow, who has compared the extracts given of it in the notes with the corresponding passages in our author's drama. Mr. Steevens, indeed, without expressly controverting this opinion, has endeavoured to throw a doubt upon it by his repeated quotations from Painter's Palace of Pleasure; but the numerous circumstances introduced from the poem with which the novellist would not have supplied him, and even the identity of expression, which not unfrequently occurs, are sufficient to settle the question. In two passages, it is true, he has quoted Painter, where Brooke is silent, [see p. 143, and p. 186;] but very little weight belongs to either of them. In the one, there is no very striking resemblance to Shakspeare; and in the other, although the number of hours during which Juliet was to remain entranced are not specified in the poem, yet enough is said to make it easily inferred, when we are told that two nights after, the Friar and Romeo were to repair to the sepulchre.

As to the origin of this interesting story, Mr. Douce has observed that its material incidents are to be found in the Ephesiacs of Xenophon of Ephesus, a romance of the middle ages; he admits, indeed, that this work was not published nor translated in the time of Luigi Porto; but suggests that he might have seen a copy of the original in manuscript. Mr. Dunlop, in his History of Fiction, has traced it to the thirty-third novel of Masuccio di Salerno, whose collection of tales appeared first in 1476. Whatever was its source, the story has at all times been eminently popular in all parts of Europe. A play was formed upon it by Lopez de Vega, entitled Los Castelvies y Monteses ^note

We have there the outlines of the modern narrative; the repugnance of the parents on either side; the meeting of the lovers at the tomb, and Pyramus like Romeo drawn to self-destruction by a false opinion of the death of his mistress.

In the preface to Arthur Brooke's translation, there is a very curious passage, in which he informs us of a play upon the subject prior to his poem; but as he has not stated in what country it was represented, the rude state of our drama prior to 1562 renders it improbable that it was in England. Yet I cannot but be of opinion that Romeo and Juliet may be added to the list, already numerous, of our author's plays that had appeared in a dramatick shape before his performance, and that some slight remains of his predecessor are still to be traced in the earliest quarto. If the reader will turn back to the account which Benvolio gives of the rencontre between Romeo and Tybalt, which he will find in the notes to p. 130, I apprehend he will find, both in the rhythm and construction of that speech, a much greater resemblance to the style of some of Shakspeare's predecessors than to his own. See specimens of some of the earlier dramatists at the end of the Dissertation on the three parts of Henry the Sixth. Boswell.

THE TRAGICALL HISTORYE
of Romeus and Juliet written
first in Italian by Bandell
And nowe in Englishe
by Ar. Br.

In ædibus Richardi Tollelli
Cum Privilegio

TO THE READER.

The God of all glorye created vniuersallye all creatures, to sette forth his prayse, both those whiche we esteme profitable in vse and pleasure, and also those, whiche we accompte noysome, and lothsome. But principally, he hath appointed man, the chiefest instrument of his honour, not onely, for ministryng matter thereof in man himselfe: but as well in gatheryng out of other, the occasions of publishing Gods goodnes, wisdome, & power. And in like sort, euerye dooyng of man hath by Goddes dyspensacion some thynge, whereby God may, and ought to be honored. So the good doynges of the good, & the euill actes of the wicked, the happy successe of the blessed, and the wofull procedinges of the miserable, doe in diuers sorte sound one prayse of God. And as eche flower yeldeth hony to the bee, so euery exaumple ministreth good lessons to the well disposed mynde. The glorious triumphe of the continent man vpon the lustes of wanton fleshe, incourageth men to honest restraynt of wyld affections, the shamefull and wretched endes of such, as haue yelded their libertie thrall to fowle desires, teache men to withholde them selues from the hedlong fall of loose dishonestie. So, to lyke effect, by sundry meanes, the good mans exaumple byddeth men to be good, and the euill mans mischefe, warneth men not to be euyll. To this good ende, serue all ill endes, of yll begynnynges. And to this ende (good Reader) is this tragicall matter written, to describe vnto thee a coople of vnfortunate louers, thralling themselues to vnhonest desire, neglecting the authoritie and aduise of parents and frendes, conferring their principall counsels with dronken gossyppes, and superstitious friers (the naturally fitte instrumentes of vnchastitie) attemptyng all aduentures of peryll, for thattaynyng of their wished lust, vsyng auriculer confession (the kay of whoredome, and treason) for furtheraunce of theyr purpose, abusyng the honorable name of lawefull mariage to cloke the shame of stolne contractes, finallye, by all meanes of vnhonest lyfe, hastyng to most vnhappye deathe. This president (good Reader) shalbe to thee, as the slaues of Lacedemon, oppressed with excesse of drinke, deformed and altered from likenes of men, both in mynde, and vse of body, were to the free borne children, so shewed to them by their parentes, to thintent to rayse in them an hatefull lothyng of so filthy beastlynes. Hereunto if you applye it, ye shall deliuer my dooing from offence, and profit yourselues. Though I saw the same argument lately set foorth on stage with more commendation, then I can looke for: (being there much better set forth then I haue or can dooe) yet the same matter penned as it is, may serue to lyke good effect, if the readers do brynge with them lyke good myndes, to consider it, which hath the more incouraged me to publishe it. suche as it is. Ar. Br.

TO THE READER. [secondary verse]
AMID the desert rockes the mountaine beare
Bringes forth unformd, unlyke herselfe, her yonge,
Nought els but lumpes of fleshe, withouten heare;
In tract of time, her often lycking tong
Geves them such shape, as doth, ere long, delight
The lookers on; or, when one dogge doth shake
With moosled mouth the joyntes too weake to fight,
Or, when upright he standeth by his stake,
(A noble creast!) or wylde in savage wood
A dosyn dogges one holdeth at a baye,
With gaping mouth and stayned jawes with blood;
Or els, when from the farthest heavens, they
The lode-starres are, the wery pilates marke,
In stormes to gyde to haven the tossed barke;—
Right so my muse
Hath now, at length, with travell long, brought forth
Her tender whelpes, her divers kindes of style,
Such as they are, or nought, or little woorth,
Which carefull travell and a longer whyle
May better shape. The eldest of them loe
I offer to the stake; my youthfull woorke,
Which one reprochefull mouth might overthrowe:
The rest, unlickt as yet, a whyle shall lurke,
Tyll Tyme geve strength, to meete and match in fight,
With Slaunder's whelpes. Then shall they tell of stryfe,
Of noble trymphes, and deedes of martial might;
And shall geve rules of chast and honest lyfe.
The whyle, I pray, that ye with favour blame,
Or rather not reprove the laughing game
Of this my muse.

THE ARGUMENT. [secondary verse]
LOVE hath inflamed twayne by sodayn sight,
And both do graunt the thing that both desyre;
They wed in shrift, by counsell of a frier;
Yong Romeus clymes fayre Juliets bower by night.
Three monthes he doth enjoy his cheefe delight:
By Tybalt's rage provoked unto yre,
He payeth death to Tybalt for his hyre.
A banisht man, he scapes by secret flight:
New marriage is offred to his wyfe:
She drinkes a drinke that seemes to reve her breath;
They bury her, that sleping yet hath lyfe.
Her husband heares the tydinges of her death;
He drinkes his bane; and she, with Romeus' knyfe,
When she awakes, her selfe, alas! she sleath.

THE TRAGICALL HISTORYE of Romeus and Juliet written first in Italian by Bandell And nowe in Englishe by Ar. Br. [secondary verse]

THERE is beyond the Alps a towne of auncient fame,
Whose bright renoune yet shineth cleare, Verona men it name;
Bylt in an happy time, bylt on a fertile soyle,
Maynteined by the heavenly fates, and by the townish toyle.
The fruitefull hilles above, the pleasant vales belowe,
The silver streame with chanel depe, that through the town doth flow;
The store of springes that serve for use, and eke for ease,
And other moe commodities, which profit may and please;
Eke many certayne signes of thinges betyde of olde,
To fyll the houngry eyes of those that curiously beholde;
Doe make this towne to be preferde above the rest
Of Lumbard townes, or at the least, compared with the best.
In which whyle Escalus as prince alone did raigne,
To reache rewarde unto the good, to paye the lewde with payne,
Alas! I rewe to thinke, an heavy happe befell,
Which Boccace skant, not my rude tonge, were able foorth to tell.
Within my trembling hande my penne doth shake for feare,
And, on my colde amazed head, upright doth stand my heare.
But sith shee doth commaunde, whose hest I must obeye,
In moorning verse a woful chaunce to tell I will assaye.
Helpe, learned Pallas, helpe, ye Muses with your art,
Help, all ye damned feends, to tell of joyes retournd to smart:
Help eke, ye sisters three, my skillesse pen tindyte,
For you it causd, which I alas! unable am to wryte.

There were two auncient stocks, which Fortune hygh did place
Above the rest, indewd with welth, and nobler of their race;
Loved of the common sorte, loved of the prince alike,
And lyke unhappy were they both, when Fortune list to stryke;
Whose prayse with equal blast Fame in her trumpet blew;
The one was clyped Capelet, and thother Mountagew.
A wonted use it is, that men of likely sorte,
(I wot not by what furye forsd) envye each others porte.
So these, whose egall state bred envye pale of hew,
And then of grudging envies roote blacke hate and rancor grew;
As of a littel sparke oft ryseth mighty fyre,
So, of a kyndled sparke of grudge, in flames flash oute their eyre:
And then theyr deadly foode, first hatchd of trifling stryfe,
Did bathe in bloud of smarting woundes,—it reved breth and lyfe.
No legend lye I tell; scarce yet theyr eyes be drye,
That did behold the grisly sight with wet and weeping eye.

But when the prudent prince who there the scepter helde,
So great a new disorder in his commonweale behelde,
By jentyl meane he sought their choler to asswage,
And by perswasion to appease their blameful furious rage;
But both his woords and tyme the prince hath spent in vayne,
So rooted was the inward hate, he lost his buysy payne.
When frendly sage advise ne gentyll woords avayle,
By thondring threats and princely powre their courage gan he quayle;
In hope that when he had the wasting flame supprest,
In time he should quyte quench the sparks that boornd within their brest.

Now whylst these kyndreds do remayne in this estate,
And eche with outward frendly shew doth hyde his inward hate,
One Romeus, who was of race a Mountague,
Upon whose tender chyn as yet no manlyke beard there grewe,
Whose beauty and whose shape so farre the rest dyd stayne,
That from the cheef of Veron youth he greatest fame dyd gayne,
Hath found a mayde so fayre (he founde so foul his happe)
Whose beauty, shape, and comely grace, did so his heart entrappe,
That from his owne affayres his thought she did remove;
Onely he sought to honor her, to serve her and to love.
To her he writeth oft, oft messengers are sent,
At length, in hope of better spede, himselfe the lover went;
Present to pleade for grace, which absent was not founde,
And to discover to her eye his new receaved wounde.
But she that from her youth was fostred evermore
With vertues foode, and taught in schole of wisdomes skilfull lore,
By aunswere did cutte of thaffections of his love,
That he no more occasion had so vayne a sute to move:
So sterne she was of chere, (for all the payne he tooke)
That, in reward of toyle, she would not geve a frendly looke;
And yet how much she did with constant minde retyre,
So much the more his fervent minde was prickt fourth by desyre,
But when he, many monthes, hopeless of his recure,
Had served her, who forced not what paynes he did endure,
At length he thought to leave Verona, and to prove
If chaunge of place might chaunge away his ill-bestowed love;
And speaking to himselfe, thus gan he make his mone:
“What booteth me to love and serve a fell unthankfull one,
Sith that my humble sute, and labour sowde in vayne,
Can reape none other fruite at all but scorne and proude disdayne?
What way she seekes to goe, the same I seeke to runne,
But she the path wherein I treade with spedy flight doth shunne.
I cannot live except that nere to her I be;
She is ay best content when she is farthest of from me.
Wherefore henceforth I will farre from her take my flight;
Perhaps, mine eye once banished by absence from her sight,

This fyre of myne, that by her pleasant eyne is fed,
Shall little and little weare away, and quite at last be ded.”

But whilest he did decree this purpose still to kepe,
A contrary repugnant thought sanke in his breast so depe,
That douteful is he now which of the twayne is best,
In syghs, in teares, in plainte, in care, in sorrow and unrest,
He mones the daye, he wakes the long and werey night;
So depe hath love, with pearcing hand, ygrav'd her bewty bright
Within his brest, and hath so mastred quyte his hart,
That he of force must yelde as thrall;—no way is left to start.
He cannot staye his steppe, but forth styll must be ronne,
He languisheth and melts awaye, as snowe agaynst the sonne.
His kyndred and alyes do wonder what he ayles,
And eche of them in friendly wyse his heavy hap bewayles.
But one emong the rest, the trustiest of his feeres,
Farre more than he with counsel fild, and ryper of his yeeres,
Gan sharply him rebuke; such love to him he bare,
That he was fellow of his smart, and partner of his care.
“What meanst thou Romeus, quoth he, what doting rage
Doth make thee thus consume away the best part of thine age,
In seking her that scornes, and hydes her from thy sight,
Not forsing all thy great expence, ne yet thy honor bright,
Thy teares, thy wretched lyfe, ne thine unspotted truth,
Which are of force, I weene, to move the hardest hart to ruthe?
Now, for our frendships sake, and for thy health, I pray
That thou hencefoorth become thine owne;—O give no more away
Unto a thankles wight thy pretious free estate:
In that thou lovest such a one thou seemst thy self to hate.
For she doth love els where, and then thy time is lorne;
Or els (what bootest thee to sue?) Loves court she hath forsworne.
Both yong thou art of yeres, and high in Fortunes grace:
What man is better shapd than thou? who hath a sweeter face?
By painfull studies meane great learning hast thou wonne,
Thy parents have none other heyre, thou art theyr onely sonne.
What greater greefe, trowst thou, what woful dedly smart,
Should so be able to distraine thy seely fathers hart,
As in his age to see thee plonged deepe in vice,
When greatest hope he hath to heare thy vertues fame arise?
What shall thy kinsmen think, thou cause of all their ruthe?
Thy dedly foes doe laugh to skorne thy yll-employed youth.
Wherefore my counsell is, that thou henceforth beginne
To knowe and flye the errour which to long thou livedst in.
Remove the veale of love that kepes thine eyes so blynde,
That thou ne canst the ready path of thy forefathers fynde.
But if unto thy will so much in thrall thou art,
Yet in some other place bestowe thy witles wandring hart.

Choose out some woorthy dame, her honor thou, and serve,
Who will give eare to thy complaint, and pitty ere thou sterve.
But sow no more thy paynes in such a barraine soyle
As yelds in harvest time no crop, in recompence of toyle.
Ere long the townish dames together will resort,
Some one of beauty, favour, shape, and of so lovely porte,
With so fast fixed eye perhaps thou mayst beholde,
That thou shalt quite forget thy love and passions past of olde.”

The yong mans listning eare receivd the holsome sounde,
And reasons truth y-planted so, within his heade had grounde;
That now with healthy coole y-tempred is the heate,
And piece meale weares away the greefe that erst his heart did freate.
To his approved frend a solemne othe he plight,
At every feast y-kept by day, and banquet made by night,
At pardons in the churche, at games in open streate,
And every where he would resort where ladies wont to mete;
Eke should his savage heart like all indifferently,
For he would vew and judge them all with unallured eye.
How happy had he been, had he not been forsworne!
But twice as happy had he been, had he been never borne.
For ere the moone could thrise her wasted hornes renew,
False Fortune cast for him, poore wretch, a mischiefe new to brewe.

The wery winter nightes restore the Christmas games,
And now the seson doth invite to banquet townish dames.
And fyrst in Capels house, the chiefe of all the kyn
Sparth for no cost, the wonted use of banquets to begin.
No lady fayre or fowle was in Verona towne,
No knight or gentleman of high or lowe renowne,
But Capilet himselfe hath byd unto his feast,
Or, by his name in paper sent, appointed as a geast.
Yong damsels thither flocke, of bachelers a rowte,
Not so much for the banquets sake, as bewties to serche out.
But not a Montagew would enter at his gate,
(For, as you heard, the Capilets and they were at debate)
Save Romeus, and he in maske, with hydden face,
The supper done, with other five did prease into the place.
When they had maskd a while with dames in courtly wise,
All did unmaske; the rest did shew them to theyr ladies eyes;
But bashfull Romeus with shamefast face forsooke
The open prease, ane him withdrew into the chambers nooke.
But brighter than the sunne the waxen torches shone,
That, maugre what he could, he was espyd of every one,
But of the women cheefe, theyr gasing eyes that threwe,
To woonder at his sightly shape, and bewties spotless hewe;
With which the heavens him had and nature so bedect,
That ladies, thought the fayrest dames, were fowle in his respect.

And in theyr head besyde an other woonder rose,
How he durst put himselfe in throng among so many foes:
Of courage stoute they thought his cumming to procede,
And women love an hardy hart, as I in stories rede.
The Capilets disdayne the presence of theyr foe,
Yet they suppresse theyr styred yre; the cause I doe not knowe:
Perhaps toffend theyr gestes the courteous knights are loth;
Perhaps they stay from sharpe revenge, dreadyng the princes wroth;
Perhaps for that they shamd to exercise theyr rage
Within their house, gainst one alone, and him of tender age.
They use no taunting talke, ne harme him by theyre deede,
They neyther say, what makst thou here, ne yet they say, God spede.
So that he freely might the ladies view at ease,
And they also behelding him their chaunge of fansies please:
Which Nature had hym taught to doe with such a grace,
That there was none but joyed at his being there in place.
With upright beame he wayd the beauty of eche dame,
And judgd who best, and who next her, was wrought in natures frame.
At length he saw a mayd, right fayre, of perfect shape,
(Which Theseus or Paris would have chosen to their rape)
Whom erst he never sawe; of all she pleasde him most;
Within himselfe he sayd to her, thou justly mayst thee boste
Of perfet shapes renowne and beauties sounding prayse,
Whose like ne hath, ne shall be seene, ne liveth in our dayes.
And whilst he fixed on her his partiall perced eye,
His former love, for which of late he ready was to dye,
Is nowe as quite forgotte as it had never been:
The proverbe saith, unminded oft are they that are unseene.
And as out of a planke a nayle a nayle doth drive,
So novel love out of the minde the auncient love doth rive.
This sodain kindled fyre in time is wox so great,
That only death and both theyr blouds might quench the fiery heate.
When Romeus saw himselfe in this new tempest tost,
Where both was hope of pleasant port, and daunger to be lost,
He doubtefull skasely knew what countenance to keepe;
In Lethies floud his wonted flames were quenchd and drenched deepe.
Yea he forgets himselfe, ne is the wretch so bolde
To aske her name that without force hath him in bondage folde;
Ne how tunloose his bondes doth the poore foole devise,
But onely seeketh by her sight to feede his houngry eyes:
Through them he swalloweth downe loves sweete empoysonde baite:
How surely are the wareles wrapt by those that lye in wayte!

So is the poyson spred throughout his bones and vaines,
That in a while (alas the while) it hasteth deadly paines.
Whilst Juliet, for so this gentle damsell hight,
From syde to syde on every one dyd cast about her sight,
At last her floting eyes were ancored fast on him,
Who for her sake dyd banish health and freedome from eche limme.
He in her sight did seeme to passe the rest, as farre
As Phœbus shining beames do passe the brightnes of a starre.
In wayte laye warlike Love with golden bowe and shaft,
And to his eare with steady hand the bowstring up he raft:
Till now she had escapde his sharpe inflaming darte,
Till now he listed not assaulte her yong and tender hart.
His whetted arrow loosde, so touchde her to the quicke,
That through the eye it strake the hart, and there the hedde did sticke.
It booted not to strive. For why?—she wanted strength;
The weaker aye unto the strong, of force, must yeld, at length.
The pomps now of the feast her heart gyns to despyse;
And onely joyeth whan her eyen meete with her lovers eyes.
When theyr new smitten hearts had fed on loving gleames,
Whilst, passing too and fro theyr eyes, y-mingled were theyr beames,
Eche of these lovers gan by others lookes to knowe,
That frendship in theyr brest had roote, and both would have it grow.
When thus in both theyr harts had Cupide made his breache,
And eche of them had sought the meane to end the warre by speach,
Dame Fortune did assent, theyr purpose to advaunce.
With torch in hand a comely knight did fetch her foorth to daunce;
She quit herselfe to well and with so trim a grace
That she the cheefe prase wan that night from all Verona race:
The whilst our Romeus a place had warely wonne,
Nye to the seate where she must sit, the daunce once beyng donne.
Fayre Juliet tourned to her chayre with pleasant cheere,
And glad she was her Romeus approched was so neere.
At thone syde of her chayre her lover Romeo,
And on the other syde there sat one cald Mercutio;
A courtier that eche where was highly had in price,
For he was courteous of his speeche, and pleasant of devise.
Even as a lyon would emong the lambes be bolde,
Such was emong the bashful maydes Mercutio to beholde.
With friendly gripe he ceasd fayre Juliets snowish hand:
A gyft he had, that Nature gave him in his swathing band,

That frosen mountayne yse was never halfe so cold,
As were his handes, though nere so neere the fire he did them hold.
As soon as had the knight the virgins right hand raught,
Within his trembling hand her left hath loving Romeus caught.
For he wist well himselfe for her abode most payne,
And well he wist she lovd him best, unless she list to fayne.
Then she with slender hand his tender palm hath prest;
What joy, trow you, was graffed so in Romeus cloven brest?
The sodayne sweete delight had stopped quite his tong,
Ne can he clame of her his right, ne crave redresse of wrong.
But she espyd straight waye, by chaunging of his hewe
From pale to red, from red to pale, and so frome pale anewe,
That vehement love was cause why so his tong did stay,
And so much more she longd to heare what Love could teach him saye,
When she had longed long, and he long held his peace,
And her desyre of hearing him by sylence did increase,
At last, with trembling voyce and shamefast chere, the mayde
Unto her Romeus tournde her selfe, and thus to him she sayde:

“O blessed be the time of thy arrivall here!”—
But ere she could speake forth the rest, to her Love drewe so nere,
And so within her mouth her tongue he glewed fast,
That no one woord could scape her more then what already past.
In great contented ease the yong man straight is rapt:
What chaunce (quoth he) unware to me, O lady mine, is hapt:
That geves you worthy cause my cumming here to blesse?
Fayre Juliet was come agayne unto her selfe by this:
Fyrst ruthfully she look'd, then say'd with smyling chere:
“Mervayle no whit, my heartes delight, my only knight and feere,
Mercutio's ysy hande had all to-frosen myne,
And of thy goodness thou agayne had warmed it with thyne.”
Whereto with stayed brow gan Romeus replye:
“If so the Gods have graunted me suche favor from the skye,
That by my being here some service I have donne
That pleaseth you, I am as glad as I a realme had wonne.
O wel-bestowed tyme that hath the happy hyre,
Which I woulde wish if I might have my wished hart's desire!
For I of God woulde crave, as pryse of paynes forpast,
To serve, obey, and honor you, so long as lyfe shall last:
As proofe shall teache you playne, if that you like to trye
His faltles truth, that nill for ought unto his ladye lye.
But if my touched hand have warmed yours some dele,
Assure your selfe the heate is colde which in your hand you fele,
Compard to suche quicke sparks and glowing furious gleade,
As from your bewties pleasant eyne Love caused to proceade;
Which have to set on fyre eche feling parte of myne,
That lo! my mynde doeth melt awaye, my utward parts do pyne.

And, but you helpe all whole, to ashes shall I toorne;
Wherefore, alas! have ruth on him, whom you do force to boorne.”

Even with his ended tale, the torches-daunce had ende,
And Juliet of force must part from her new-chosen frend.
His hand she clasped hard, and all her partes dyd shake,
When laysureles with whispring voyce thus did she aunswer make:
“You are no more your owne, deare frend, then I am yours;
My honour sav'd, prest tobey your will, while life endures.”
Lo! here the lucky lot that sild true lovers finde,
Eche takes away the others hart, and leaves the owne behinde.
A happy life is love, if God graunt from above
That hart with hart by even waight do make exchaunge of love.
But Romeus gone from her, his hart for care is colde;
He hath forgot to ask her name, that hath his hart in holde.
With forged careles cheere, of one he seekes to knowe,
Both how she hight, and whence she camme, that him enchaunted so.
So hath he learnd her name, and knowth she is no geast,
Her father was a Capilet, and master of the feast.
Thus hath his foe in choyse to geve him life or death,
That scarcely can his wofull brest keepe in the lively breath.
Wherefore with pitious plaint feerce Fortune doth he blame,
That in his ruth and wretched plight doth seeke her laughing game.
And he reproveth love cheefe cause of his unrest,
Who ease and freedome hath exilde out of his youthfull brest;
Twise hath he made him serve, hopeles of his rewarde;
Of both the ylles to choose the lesse, I weene, the choyse were harde.
Fyrst to a ruthles one he made him sue for grace,
And now with spurre he forceth him to ronne an endles race.
Amid these stormy seas one ancor doth him holde,
He serveth not a cruell one, as he had done of olde;
And therefore is content and chooseth still to serve,
Though hap should sweure that guerdonles the wretched wight should sterve.
The lot of Tantalus is, Romeus, like to thine;
For want of foode, amid his foode, the myser still doth pyne.

As carefull was the mayde what way were best devise,
To learne his name that intertaind her in so gentle wise;
Of whom her hart receivd so depe, so wyde, a wound.
An ancient dame she calde to her, and in her eare gan rounde:
(This old dame in her youth had nurst her with her mylke,
With slender nedel taught her sow, and how to spyn with sylke.)
What twayne are those, quoth she, which prease unto the doore,
Whose pages in their hand do beare two torches light before?

And then, as eche of them had of his houshold name,
So she him namd.—Yet once again the young and wyly dame:—
“And tell me who is he with vysor in his hand,
That yonder dooth in masking weede besyde the window stand.”
His name is Romeus, said shee, a Montagewe,
Whose fathers pryde first styrd the stryfe which both your housholds rewe.
The word of Montagew her joyes did overthrow,
And straight instead of happy hope despayre began to growe.
What hap have I, quoth she, to love my fathers foe?
What, am I wery of my wele? what, doe I wysh my woe?
But though her grevouse paynes distraind her tender hart,
Yet with an outward show of joye she cloked inward smart;
And of the courtlike dames her leave so courtly tooke,
That none did gesse the sodein change by changing of her looke.
Then at her mothers hest to chamber she her hyed,
So wel she faynde, mother ne nors the hidden harme descride.
But when she shoulde have slept as wont she was in bed,
Not half a wynke of quyet slepe could harber in her hed;
For loe, an hugy heape of divers thoughtes arise,
That rest have banisht from her hart, and slumber from her eyes.
And now from syde to syde she tosseth and she turnes,
And now for feare she shevereth, and now for love she burnes,
And now she lykes her choyse, and now her choyse she blames,
And now eche houre within her head a thousand fansyes frames.
Sometime in mynde to stop amyd her course begonne,
Sometime she vowes, what so betyde, that tempted race to ronne.
Thus dangers dred and love within the mayden fought:
The fight was feerse, continuyng long by their contrary thought.
In tourning mase of love she wandreth too and fro,
Then standeth doutful what to doo; last, overprest with woe,
How so her fansies cease, her teares did never blin,
With heavy cheere and wringed hands thus doth her plaint begin.
“Ah silly foole, quoth she, y-cought in soottill snare!
Ah wretched wench, bewrapt in woe! ah caytife clad with care!
Whence come these wandring thoughts to thy unconstant brest,
By straying thus from raisons lore, that reve thy wonted rest?
What if his suttel brayne to fayne have taught his tong,
And so the snake that lurkes in grasse thy tender hart hath stong?
What if with frendly speache the traytor lye in wayte,
As oft the poysond ooke is hid, wrapt in the pleasant bayte?
Oft under cloke of truth hath Falshood servd her lust;
And toornd their honor into shame, that did to slightly trust.
What, was not Dido so, a crowned queene, defamd?
And eke, for such an heynous cryme, have men not Theseus blamd?
A thousand stories more, to teache me to beware,
In Boccace and in Ovids bookes too plainely written are.

Perhaps, the great revenge he cannot woorke by strength,
By suttel sleight (my honour staynd) he hopes to woorke at length.
So shall I seeke to find my fathers foe, his game;
So (I defylde) Report shall take her trompe of blacke defame,
Whence she with puffed cheeke shall blow a blast so shrill
Of my disprayse, that with the noyse Verona shall she fill.
Then I, a laughing stocke through all the towne becomme,
Shall hide my selfe, but not my shame, within an hollow toombe.”
Straight underneath her foote she treadeth in the dust
Her troblesom thought, as wholly vaine, y-bred of fond distrust.
“No, no, by God above, I wot it well, quoth shee,
Although I rashely spake before, in no wise can it bee,
That where such perfet shape with pleasant bewty restes,
There crooked craft and trayson blacke should be appoynted gestes.
Sage writers say, the thoughts are dwelling in the eyne;
Then sure I am, as Cupid raignes, that Romeus is myne.
The tong the messenger eke call they of the mynd;
So that I see he loveth me:—shall I then be unkynd?
His faces rosy hew I saw full oft to seeke;
And straight again it flashed foorth, and spread in eyther cheeke.
His fixed heavenly eyne that through me quyte did perce
His thoughts unto my hart, my thoughts thei semed to rehearce.
What ment his foltring tunge in telling of his tale?
The trimbling of his joynts, and eke his cooler waxen pale?
And whilst I talke with him, himself he hath exylde
Out of himself, as seemed me; ne was I sure begylde.
Those arguments of love Craft wrate not on his face,
But Natures hand, when all deceyte was banishd out of place.
What other certayn signes seke I of his good wil?
These doo suffice; and stedfast I will love and serve him still
Till Attropos shall cut my fatall thread of lyfe,
So that he mynde to make of me his lawful wedded wyfe.
For so perchaunce this new alliance may procure
Unto our houses such a peace as ever shall indure.”

Oh how we can perswade ourself to what we like!
And how we can diswade our mynd, if ought our mind mislyke!
Weake arguments are stronge, our fansies streight to frame
To pleasing things, and eke to shonne, if we mislyke the same.
The mayde had scarcely yet ended the wery warre,
Kept in her heart by striving thoughts, when every shining starre
Had payd his borrowed light, and Phœbus spred in skies
His golden rayes, which seemd to say, now time it is to rise.
And Romeus had by this forsaken his wery bed,
Where restles he a thousand thoughts had forged in his hed.
And while with lingring step by Juliets house he past,
And upwards to her windowes high his gredy eyes did cast,

His love that lookd for him there gan he straight espye.
With pleasant cheere eche greeted is; she followeth with her eye
His parting steppes, and he oft looketh backe againe,
But not so oft as he desyres; warely he doth refrayne.
What life were to like to love, if dread of jeopardy
Y-sowered not the sweete; if love were free from jelosy!
But she more sure within, unseene of any wight,
When so he comes, lookes after him till he be out of sight.
In often passing so, his busy eyes he threw,
That every pane and tooting hole the wily lover knew.
In happy houre he doth a garden plot espye,
From which, except he warely walke, men may his love descrye;
For lo! it fronted full upon her leaning place,
Where she is wont to shew her heart by cheerfull frendly face.
And lest the arbors might theyr secret love bewraye,
He doth keepe backe his forward foote from passing there by daye;
But when on earth the Night her mantel blacke hath spred,
Well-armde he walketh foorth alone, ne dreadful foes doth dred.
Whom maketh Love not bold, naye whom maketh he not blinde?
He driveth daungers dread oft times out of the lovers minde.
By night he passeth here a weeke or two in vayne;
And for the missing of his marke his greefe hath hym nye slaine.
And Juliet that now doth lacke her hearts releefe,—
Her Romeus pleasant eyen I mean—is almost dead for greefe.
Eche daye she chaungeth howres, for lovers keepe an howre
When they are sure to see their love, in passing by their bowre.
Impacient of her woe, she hapt to leane one night
Within her windowe, and anon the moone did shine so bright
That she espyde her loove: her heart revived sprang;
And now for joy she claps her handes, which erst for wo she wrang.
Eke Romeus, when he sawe his long desyred sight,
His moorning cloke of mone cast off, hath clad him with delight.
Yet dare I say, of both that she rejoyced more:
His care was great, hers twise as great was, all the time before;
For whilst she knew not why he did himselfe absent,
In douting both his health and life, his death she did lament.
For love is fearful oft where is no cause of feare,
And what love feares, that love laments, as though it chaunced weare.
Of greater cause alway is greater woorke y-bred;
While he nought douteth of her helth, she dreds lest he be ded.
When onely absence is the cause of Romeus smart,
By happy hope of sight again he feedes his fainting hart.
What wonder then if he were wrapt in lesse annoye?
What marvel if by sodain sight she fed of greater joy?
His smaller greefe or joy no smaller love doo prove;
Ne, for she passed him in both, did she him passe in love:

But eche of them alike dyd burne in equall flame,
The wel-beloving knight and eke the wel-beloved dame.
Now whilst with bitter teares her eyes as fountaines ronne,
With whispering voice, y-broke with sobs, this is her tale begonne:
“Oh Romeus, of your life too lavas sure you are,
That in this place, and at this tyme, to hazard it you dare.
What if your dedly foes, my kinsmen, saw you here?
Lyke lyons wylde, your tender partes asonder would they teare.
In ruth and in disdayne, I, wery of my life,
With cruell hand my moorning hart would perce with bloudy knyfe.
For you, myne own, once dead, what joy should I have heare?
And eke my honor staynd, which I then lyfe do holde more deare.”

“Fayre lady myne, dame Juliet, my lyfe (quod hee)
Even from my byrth committed was to fatall sisters three.
They may in spite of foes draw foorth my lively threed;
And they also (who so sayth nay) asonder may it shreed.
But who, to reave my life, his rage and force will bende,
Perhaps should trye unto his payne how I it coulde defende.
Ne yet I love it so, but alwayes, for your sake,
A sacrifice to death I would my wounded corps betake.
If my mishappe were such, that here, before your sight,
I should restore agayn to death, of lyfe my borrowed light,
This one thing and no more my parting sprite would rewe,
That part he should before that you by certain trial knew
The love I owe to you, the thrall I languish in,
And how I dread to loose the gayne which I do hope to win:
And how I wish for lyfe, not for my proper ease,
But that in it you might I love, your honor, serve and please,
Till dedly pangs the sprite out of the corps shall send:”
And thereupon he sware an oathe, and so his tale had ende.

Now love and pitty boyle in Juliets ruthfull brest;
In windowe on her leaning arme her weary head doth rest:
Her bosome bathd in teares (to witnes inward payne),
With dreary chere to Romeus thus aunswered she agayne:
“Ah my dere Romeus, kepe in these words, (quod she)
For lo, the thought of such mischaunce already maketh me
For pity and for dred well nigh to yeld up breath;
In even ballance peysed are my life and eke my death.
For so my heart is knit, yea made one selfe with yours,
That sure there is no greefe so small, by which your mynd endures.
But as you suffer payne, so I doo beare in part
(Although it lessens not your greefe) the halfe of all your smart.
But these thinges overpast, if of your health and myne
You have respect, or pity ought my teer-y-weeping eyen,

In few unfained woords your hidden mynd unfolde,
That as I see your pleasant face, your heart I may beholde.
For if you do intende my honor to defile,
In error shall you wander still, as you have done this while:
But if your thought be chaste, and have on vertue ground,
If wedlocke be the ende and marke which your desyre hath found,
Obedience set asyde, unto my parents dewe,
The quarrel eke that long agone betwene our housholdes grewe,
Both me and mine I will all whole to you betake,
And following you where so you goe, my fathers house forsake.
But if by wanton love and by unlawfull sute
You thinke in rypest yeres to plucke my maidenhoods dainty frute,
You are begylde; and now your Juliet you beseekes
To cease your sute, and suffer her to live among her likes.”
Then Romeus, whose thought was free from fowle desyre,
And to the top of vertues haight did worthely aspyre,
Was fild with greater joy then can my pen expresse,
Or, tyll they have enjoyd the like, the hearers hart can gesse* ^note

He is my gostly syre, and oft he hath me taught
What I should doe in things of waight, when I his ayde have sought.
And at this self same houre, I plyte you here my faith,
I will be here, if you think good, to tell you what he sayth.”
She was contented well; els favour found he none
That night, at lady Juliets hand, save pleasant woords alone.

This barefoote fryer gyrt with cord his grayish weede,
For he of Francis order was a fryer, as I reede.
Not as the most was he, a grosse unlearned foole,
But doctor of divinitie proceded he in schoole.
The secrets eke he knew in Natures woorks that loorke;
By magicks arte most men supposed that he could wonders woorke.
Ne doth it ill beseeme devines those skils to know,
If on no harmeful deede they do such skilfulnes bestow;
For justly of no arte can men condemne the use,
But right and reasons lore crye out agaynst the lewd abuse.
The bounty of the fryer and wisdom hath so wonne
The townes folks harts, that wel nigh all to fryer Lawrence ronne,
To shrive themselfe; the olde, the young, the great and small;
Of all he is beloved well, and honord much of all.
And, for he did the rest in wisdom farre exceede,
The prince by him (his counsell cravde) was holpe at time of neede.
Betwixt the Capilets and him great frendship grew,
A secret and assured frend unto the Montague.
Lovd of this yong man more than any other geste,
The fryer eke of Verone youth aye liked Romeus best;
For whom he ever hath in time of his distres,
As earst you heard, by skilful love found out his harmes redresse.
To him is Romeus gonne, ne stayeth he till the morrowe;
To him he painteth all his case, his passed joy and sorrow.
How he hath her espide with other dames in daunce,
And how that fyrst to talke with her him selfe he dyd advaunce;
Their talke and change of lookes he gan to him declare,
And how so fast by fayth and troth they both y-coupled are,
That neyther hope of lyfe, nor dread of cruel death,
Shall make him false his fayth to her, while lyfe shall lend him breath.
And then with weping eyes he prayes his gostly syre
To further and accomplish all their honest hartes desyre.
A thousand doutes and moe in thold mans hed arose,
A thousand daungers like to comme the old man doth disclose,
And from the spousall rites he readeth him refrayne,
Perhaps he shall be bet advisde within a weeke or twayne.

Advise is banisht quite from those that folowe love,
Except advise to what they like theyr bending mynd do move.
As well the father might have counseld him to stay
That from a mountaines top thrown downe is falling halfe the waye,
As warne his frend to stop amid his race begonne,
Whom Cupid with his smarting whip enforceth foorth to ronne.
Part wonne by earnest sute, the frier doth graunt at last;
And part, because he thinkes the stormes, so lately overpast,
Of both the housholds wrath, this marriage might appease;
So that they should not rage agayne, but quite for ever cease.
The respite of a day he asketh to devise
What way were best, unknown, to end so great an enterprise.
The wounded man that now doth dedly paynes endure,
Scarce patient tarieth whilst his leeche doth make the salve to cure:
So Romeus hardly graunts a short day and a night,
Yet nedes he must, els must he want his onely hartes delight.

You see that Romeus no time or payne doth spare;
Thinke, that the whilst fayre Juliet is not devoyde of care.
Yong Romeus powreth foorth his hap and his mishap
Into the friers brest;—but where shall Juliet unwrap
The secrets of her hart? to whom shall she unfolde
Her hidden burning love, and eke her thought and care so colde.
The nurse of whom I spake, within her chamber laye,
Upon the mayde she wayteth still;—to her she doth bewray
Her new-received wound, and then her ayde doth crave,
In her, she saith, it lyes to spill, in her, her life to save.
Not easily she made the froward nurce to bowe,
But wonne at length with promest hyre, she made a solemne vowe
To do what she commaundes, as handmayd of her best;
Her mistres secrets hide she will, within her covert brest.

To Romeus she goes, of him she doth desyre
To know the meane of marriage, by counsell of the fryre.
On Saturday (quod he) if Juliet come to shrift
She shall be shrived and married;—how lyke you, noorse, this drift?
Now by my truth, (quod she) God's blessing have your hart,
For yet in all my life I have not heard of such a part.
Lord, how you yong men can such crafty wiles devise,
If that you love the daughter well, to bleare the mothers eyes!
An easy thing it is with cloke of holines
To mock the sely mother, that suspecteth nothing lesse.
But that it pleased you to tell me of the case,
For all my many yeres perhaps I should have found it scarse.
Now for the rest let me and Juliet alone;
To get her leave, some feate excuse I will devise anone;

For that her golden lockes by sloth have been unkempt,
Or for unwares some wanton dreame the youthfull damsell drempt,
Or for in thoughts of love her ydel time she spent,
Or otherwise within her hart deserved to be shent.
I know her mother will in no case say her nay;
I warrant you, she shall not fayle to come on Saterday.
And then she sweares to him, the mother loves her well;
And how she gave her sucke in youth, she leaveth not to tell.
A pretty babe (quod she) it was when it was yong;
Lord how it could full pretely have prated with it tong!
A thousand times and more I laid her on my lappe,
And clapt her on the buttocke soft, and kist where I did clappe.
And gladder then was I of such a kisse forsooth,
Then I had been to have a kisse of some old lecher's mouth.
And thus of Juliets youth began this prating noorse,
And of her present state to make a tedious long discourse.
For though he pleasure tooke in hearing of his love,
The message aunswer seemed him to be of more behove.
But when these beldames sit at ease upon theyr tayle,
The day and eke the candle light before theyr talke shall fayle.
And part they say is true, and part they do devise,
Yet boldly do they chat of both, when no man checkes theyr lyes.
Then he vi crownes of gold out of his pocket drew,
And gave them her;—a slight reward (quod he) and so adiew.
In seven yeres twice tolde she had not bowd so lowe
Her crooked knees, as now they bowe: she sweares she will bestowe
Her crafty wit, her time, and all her busy payne,
To help him to his hoped blisse; and, cowring downe agayne,
She takes her leave, and home she hyes with spedy pace;
The chaumber doore she shuts, and then she saith with smyling face;
Good newes for thee, my gyrle, good tydinges I thee bring.
Leave of thy woonted song of care, and now of pleasure sing.
For thou mayst hold thyselfe the happiest under sonne,
That in so little while so well so worthy a knight hast woone.
The best y-shapde is he and hath the fayrest face,
Of all this towne, and there is none hath halfe so good a grace:
So gentle of his speeche, and of his counsell wise:—
And still with many prayses more she heaved him to the skies.
Tell me els what, (quod she) this evermore I thought;
But of our marriage, say at once, what answere have you brought?
Nay, soft, (quoth she) I feare your hurt by sodain joye;
I list not play (quod Juliet), although thou list to toye.
How glad, trow you, was she, when she had heard her say,
No farther of then Saterday differred was the day.

Again the auncient nurse doth speake of Romeus,
And then (said she) he spake to me, and then I spake him thus.
Nothing was done or sayd that she hath left untold,
Save only one that she forgot, the taking of the golde.
“There is no losse (quod she) sweete wench, to losse of time,
Ne in thine age shall thou repent so much of any crime.
For when I call to mynd my former passed youth,
One thing there is which most of all doth cause my endless ruth.
At sixtene yeres I first did choose my loving feere,
And I was fully rype before, I dare well say, a yere.
The pleasure that I lost, that year so overpast,
A thousand times I have bewept, and shall, whyle life doth last.
In fayth it were a shame, yea sinne it were, I wisse,
When thou maist live in happy joy, to set light by thy blisse.”
She that this morning could her mistres mynd disswade,
Is now become an oratresse, her lady to perswade.
If any man be here whom love hath clad with care,
To him I speake; if thou wilt speede, thy purse thou must not spare.
Two sorts of men there are, seeld welcome in at doore,
The welthy sparing nigard, and the sutor that is poore.
For glittring gold is wont by kynd to moove the hart;
And oftentimes a slight rewarde doth cause a more desart.
Y-written have I red, I wot not in what booke,
There is no better way to fishe then with a golden hooke.
Of Romeus these two do sitte and chat awhyle,
Add to them selfe they laugh how they the mother shall begyle.
A feate excuse they finde, but sure I know it not,
And leave for her to go to shrift on Saterday, she got.
So well this Juliet, this wily wench, did know
Her mothers angry houres, and eke the true bent of her bowe.
The Saterday betimes, in sober weed y-clad,
She tooke her leave, and forth she went with visage grave and sad.
With her the nurce is sent, as brydle of her lust,
With her the mother sends a mayd almost of equall trust.
Betwixt her teeth the bytte the jenet now hath cought,
So warely eke the vyrgin walks, her mayde perceiveth nought.
She gaseth not in churche on yong men of the towne,
Ne wandreth she from place to place, but straight she kneleth downe
Upon an alters step, where she devoutly prayes,
And thereupon her tender knees the wery lady stayes;
Whilst she doth send her mayde the certain truth to know,
If frier Lawrence laysure had to heare her shrift, or no.
Out of his shriving place he comes with pleasant cheere;
The shamfast mayde with bashfull brow to himward draweth neere.
Some great offence (quod he) you have committed late,
Perhaps you have displeasd your frend by geving him a mate.

Then turning to the nurce and to the other mayde,
Go heare a masse or two, (quod he) which straightway shall be sayde.
For, her confession heard, I will unto you twayne
The charge that I received of you restore to you agayne.
What, was not Juliet, trow you, right well apayde,
That for this trusty fryre hath chaunged her yong mistrusting mayde?
I dare well say, there is in all Verona none,
But Romeus, with whom she would so gladly be alone.
Thus to the fryers cell they both forth walked byn;
He shuts the doore as soon as he and Juliet were in.
But Romeus, her frend, was entered in before,
And there had wayted for his love, two houres large and more.
Eche minute seemd an houre, and every howre a day,
Twixt hope he lived and despayre of cumming or of stay.
Now wavering hope and feare are quite fled out of sight,
For, what he hopde he hath at hande, his pleasant cheefe delight.
And joyfull Juliet is healde of all her smart,
For now the rest of all her parts hath found her straying hart.
Both theyr confessions fyrst the fryer hath heard them make,
And then to her with lowder voyce thus fryer Lawrence spake:
Fayre lady Juliet, my gostly daughter deere,
As farre as I of Romeus learne, who by you stondeth here,
Twixt you it is agreed, that you shal be his wyfe,
And he your spouse in steady truth, till death shall end your life.
Are you both fully bent to kepe this great behest?
And both the lovers said, it was theyr onely harts request.
When he did see theyr myndes in linkes of love so fast,
When in the prayse of wedlocks state some skilfull talke was past.
When he had told at length the wyfe what was her due,
His duty eke by gostly talke the youthfull husband knew;
How that the wyfe in love must honour and obey,
What love and honor he doth owe, a dette that he must pay,—
The woords pronounced were which holy church of olde
Appoynted hath for mariage, and she a ring of golde
Received of Romeus; and then they both arose.
To whom the frier then said: Perchaunce apart you will disclose,
Betwixt your selfe alone, the bottome of your hart;
Say on at once, for time it is that hence you should depart.
Then Romeus said to her, (both loth to parte so soone)
“Fayre lady, send to me agayne your nurce thys afternoone.
Of corde I will bespeake a ladder by that time;
By which, this night, while other sleepe, I will your windowe clime.
Then will we talke of love and of our old dispayres,
And then with longer laysure had dispose our great affayres.”

These sayd, they kisse, and then part to theyr fathers house,
The joyfull bryde unto her home, to his eke goth the spouse;
Contented both, and yet both uncontented still,
Till Night and Venus child geve leave the wedding to fulfill.
The painful souldiour, sore y-bet with wery warre,
The merchant eke that nedefull thinges doth dred to fetch from farre,
The ploughman that, for doute of feerce invading foes,
Rather to sit in ydle ease then sowe his tilt hath chose,
Rejoice to hear proclaymd the tydings of the peace;
Not pleasurd with the sound so much; but, when the warres do cease,
Then ceased are the harmes which cruel warre bringes foorth:
The merchant then may boldly fetch his wares of precious woorth;
Dredeless the husbandman doth till his fertile feeld.
For welth, her mate, not for her selfe, is peace so precious held:
So lovers live in care, in dred, and in unrest,
And dedly warre by striving thoughts they keepe within their brest:
But wedlocke is the peace whereby is freedome wonne
To do a thousand pleasant thinges that should not els be donne.
The news of ended warre these two have heard with joy,
But now they long the fruite of peace with pleasure to enjoy.
In stormy wind and wave, in daunger to be lost,
Thy stearles ship, O Romeus, hath been long while betost;
The seas are now appeasd, and thou, by happy starre,
Art come in sight of quiet haven; and, now the wrackfull barre
Is hid with swelling tyde, boldly thou mayst resort
Unto thy wedded ladies bed, thy long desyred port.
God graunt, no follies mist so dymme thy inward sight,
That thou do misse the channel that doth leade to thy delight!
God graunt, no daungers rocke, y-lurking in the darke,
Before thou win the happy port, wracke thy sea-beaten barke.
A servant Romeus had, of woord and deede so just,
That with his lyfe, if nede requierd, his maister would him trust.
His faithfulness had oft our Romeus proved of olde;
And therefore all that yet was done unto his man he tolde.
Who straight, as he was charged, a corden ladder lookes,
To which he hath made fast two strong and crooked yron hookes.
The bryde to send the nurce at twylight fayleth not,
To whom the brydegroome geven hath the ladder that he got.
And then to watch for him appoynted her an howre,
For, whether Fortune smyle on him, or if she list to lowre,
He will not misse to come to hys appoynted place,
Where wont he was to take by stelth the view of Juliets face.
How long these lovers thought the lasting of the day,
Let other judge that woonted are lyke passions to assay:

For my part, I do gesse eche howre seemes twenty yere:
So that I deeme, if they might have (as of Alcume we heare)
The sunne bond to theyr will, if they the heavens might gyde,
Black shade of night and doubled darke should straight all overhyde.

Thappointed howre is comme; he, clad in rich arraye,
Walkes toward his desyred home:—good fortune gyde his way!
Approaching nere the place from whence his hart had lyfe,
So light he wox, he lept the wall, and there he spyde his wyfe,
Who in the window watcht the cumming of her lord;
Where she so surely had made fast the ladder made of corde,
That daungerles her spouse the chaumber window climes,
Where he ere then had wisht himselfe above ten thousand tymes.
The windowes close are shut; els looke they for no gest;
To light the waxen quariers, the auncient nurce is prest,
Which Juliet had before prepared to be light,
That she at pleasure might behold her husbands bewty bright.
A carchef white as snow ware Juliet on her hed,
Such as she wonted was to weare, atyre meete for the bed.
As soon as she hym spide, about his necke she clong,
And by her long and slender armes a great while there she hong.
A thousand times she kist, and him unkist againe,
Ne could she speake a woord to him, though would she nere so fayne.
And like betwixt his armes to faint his lady is;
She fets a sigh and clappeth close her closed mouth to his:
And ready then to sownde, she looked ruthfully,
That lo, it made him both at once to live and eke to dye.
These piteous painfull panges were haply overpast,
And she unto herselfe againe retorned home at last.
Then, through her troubled brest, even from the farthest part,
An hollow sigh, a messenger she sendeth from her hart.
O Romeus, (quod she) in whom all vertues shine,
Welcome thou art into this place, where from these eyes of mine
Such teary streames did flowe, that I suppose wel ny
The source of all my bitter teares is altogether drye.
Absence so pynde my heart, which on thy presence fed,
And of thy safetie and thy health so much I stood in dred.
But now what is decreed by fatall desteny,
I force it not; let Fortune do and death their woorst to me.
Full recompensd am I for all my passed harmes,
In that the Gods have granted me to claspe thee in myne armes.
The chrystall teares began to stand in Romeus eyes,
When he unto his ladies woordes gan aunswere in this wise:
“Though cruell Fortune be so much my deadly foe,
That I ne can by lively proofe cause thee, fayre dame, to know

How much I am by love enthralled unto thee,
Ne yet what mighty powre thou hast, by thy desert, on me,
Ne torments that for thee I did ere this endure,
Yet of thus much (ne will I fayne) I may thee well assure;
The least of many paines which of thy absence sproong,
More painfully than death it selfe my tender hart hath wroong.
Ere this, one death had reft a thousand deathes away,
But life prolonged was by hope of this desyred day;
Which so just tribute payes of all my passed mone,
That I as well contented am as if my selfe alone
Did from the ocean reigne unto the sea of Ynde.
Wherefore now let us wipe away old cares out of our mynde:
For, as the wretched state is now redrest at last,
So is it skill behinde our backe the cursed care to cast.
Since Fortune of her grace hath place and time assinde,
Where we with pleasure may content our uncontented mynde,
In Lethes hyde we depe all greefe and all annoy,
Whilst we do bathe in blisse, and fill our hungry harts with joye.
And, for the time to comme, let be our busy care
So wisely to direct our love, as no wight els be ware;
Lest envious foes by force despoyle our new delight,
And us threw backe from happy state to more unhappy plight,”
Fayre Juliet began to aunswere what he sayde,
But foorth in hast the old nurce stept, and so her aunswere stayde.
Who takes no time (quoth she) when time well offred is,
An other time shall seeke for tyme, and yet of time shall misse.
And when occasion serves, who so doth let it slippe,
Is worthy sure, if I might judge, of lashes with a whippe.
Wherefore if eche of you hath harmde the other so,
And eche of you hath ben the cause of others wayled woe,
Lo here a field (she shewd a field-bed ready dight)
Where you may, if you list, in armes revenge yourself by fight.
Whereto these lovers both gan easely assent,
And to the place of mylde revenge with pleasant cheere they went,
Where they were left alone—(the nurce is gone to rest)
How can this be? they restless lye, ne yet they feele unrest.
I graunt that I envie the blisse they lived in;
O that I might have found the like! I wish it for no sin,
But that I might as well with pen their joyes depaynt,
As heretofore I have displayd their secret hidden playnt.
Of shyvering care and dred I have felt many a fit,
But Fortune such delight as theyrs dyd never graunt me yet.
By proofe no certayne truth can I unhappy write,
But what I gesse by likelihod, that dare I to endyte.
The blindfold goddesse that with frowning face doth fraye,
And from theyr seate the mighty kinges throwes down with headlong sway,

Begynneth now to turn to these her smyling face;
Nedes must they tast of great delight, so much in Fortunes grace.
If Cupid, god of love, be god of pleasant sport,
I think, O Romeus, Mars himselfe envies thy happy sort.
Ne Venus justly might (as I suppose) repent,
If in thy stead, O Juliet, this pleasant time she spent.

Thus passe they foorth the night, in sport, in joly game;
The hastines of Phœbus steeds in great despyte they blame.
And now the vyrgins fort hath warlike Romeus got,
In which as yet no breache was made by force of canon shot,
And now in ease he doth possesse the hoped place:
How glad was he, speake you, that may your lovers parts embrace.
The marriage thus made up, and both the parties pleasd,
The nigh approche of days retoorne these seely foles diseasd.
And for they might no while in pleasure passe theyr time,
Ne leysure had they much to blame the hasty mornings crime,
With friendly kisse in armes of her his leave he takes,
And every other night, to come, a solemne othe he makes,
By one selfe meane, and eke to come at one selfe howre:
And so he doth, till Fortune list to sawse his sweete with sowre.
But who is he that can his present state assure?
And say unto himselfe, thy joyes shall yet a day endure?
So wavering fortunes whele, her chaunges be so straunge;
And every wight y-thralled is by Fate unto her chaunge:
Who raignes so over all, that eche man hath his part,
Although not aye, perchaunce, alike of pleasure and of smart.
For after many joyes some feele but little paine,
And from that little greefe they toorne to happy joy againe.
But other some there are, that living long in woe,
At length they be in quiet ease, but long abide not so;
Whose greefe is much increast by myrth that went before,
Because the sodayne chaunge of thinges doth make it seeme the more.
Of this unlucky sorte our Romeus is one,
For all his hap turnes to mishap, and all his myrth to mone.
And joyfull Juliet another leafe must toorne;
As woont she was, (her joyes bereft) she must begin to moorne.

The summer of their blisse doth last a month or twayne,
But winters blast with spedy foote doth bring the fall agayne.
Whom glorious Fortune erst had heaved to the skies,
By envious Fortune overthrowne, on earth now groveling lyes.
She payd theyr former greefe with pleasures doubled gayne,
But now, for pleasures usury, ten folde redoubleth payne.

The prince could never cause those housholds so agree,
But that some sparcles of theyr wrath as yet remayning bee;

Which lye this while raaked up in ashes pale and ded,
Till tyme do serve that they agayne in wasting flame may spred.
At holiest times, men say, most heynous crimes are donne;
The morrowe after Easter-day the mischiefe new begonne.
A band of Capilets dyd meet (my hart it rewes)
Within the walles, by Pursers gate, a band of Montagewes.
The Capilets as cheefe a yong man have chose out,
Best exercisd in feates of armes, and noblest of the rowte,
Our Juliets unkles sonne, that cleped was Tibalt;
He was of body tall and strong, and of his courage halt.
They neede no trumpet sounde to byd them geve the charge,
So lowde he cryde with strayned voyce and mouth out-stretched large:
“Now, now, quoth he, my friends, our selfe so let us wreake,
That of this dayes revenge and us our childrens heyres may speake.
Now once for all let us their swelling pryde asswage;
Let none of them escape alive.”—Then he with furious rage,
And they with him, gave charge upon theyr present foes,
And then forthwith a skirmish great upon this fray arose.
For loe the Montagewes thought shame away to flye,
And rather than to live with shame, with prayse did choose to dye.
The woords that Tybalt used to styrre his folke to yre,
Have in the brestes of Montagewes kindled a furious fyre.
With lyons harts they fight, warely them selfe defend;
To wound his foe, his present wit and force eche one doth bend.
This furious fray is long on eche side stoutly fought,
That whether part had got the woorst, full doutfull were the thought.
The noyse hereof anon throughout the towne doth flye,
And parts are taken on every side; both kindreds thether hye.
Here one doth graspe for breth, his frend bestrydeth him;
And he hath lost a hand, and he another maymed lym:
His leg is cutte whilst he strikes at an other full,
And whom he would have thrust quite through, hath cleft his cracked skull.
Theyr valiant harts forbode theyr foote to geve the grounde;
With unappauled cheere they tooke full deepe and doutfull wounde.
Thus foote by foote long while, and shylde to shylde set fast,
One foe doth make another faint, but makes him not agast.
And whilst this noyse is rife in every townesmans eare,
Eke, walking with his frendes, the noyse doth wofull Romeus heare.
With spedy foote he ronnes unto the fray apace;
With him, those fewe that were with him he leadeth to the place.
They pitie much to see the slaughter made so greate,
That wet shod they might stand in blood on eyther side the streate.

Part frendes, said he, part frendes, help, frendes, to part the fray,
And to the rest, enough, (he cryes) now time it is to staye.
Gods farther wrath you styrre, beside the hurt you feele,
And with this new uprore confounde all this our common wele.
But they so busy are in fight, so egar, fierce,
That through theyr eares his sage advise no leysure had to pearce.
Then lept he in the throng, to part and barre the blowes
As well of those that were his frends, as of his dedly foes.
As soon as Tybalt had our Romeus espyde,
He threw a thrust at him that would have past from side to side;
But Romeus ever went, douting his foes, well armde,
So that the swerd, kept out by mayle, had nothing Romeus harmde.
Thou doest me wrong, quoth he, for I but part the fraye;
Not dread, but other waighty cause my hasty hand doth stay.
Thou art the cheefe of thine, the noblest eke thou art,
Wherefore leave of thy malice now, and helpe these folke to part.
Many are hurt, some slayne, and some are like to dye:—
No, coward, traytor boy, quoth he, straight way I mind to trye,
Whether thy sugred talke, and tong so smoothly fylde,
Against the force of this my swerd shall serve thee for a shylde.
And then, at Romeus hed a blow he strake so hard
That might have clove him to the braine but for his cunning ward.
It was but lent to hym that could repay againe.
And geve him deth for interest, a well-forborne gayne.
Right as a forest bore, that lodged in the thicke,
Pinched with dog, or els with speare y-pricked to the quicke,
His bristles styffe upright upon his backe doth set,
And in his fomy mouth his sharp and crooked tuskes doth whet;
Or as a lyon wilde, that raumpeth in his rage,
His whelps bereft, whose fury can no weaker beast asswage;
Such seemed Romeus in every others sight,
When he him shope, of wrong receavde tavenge himself by fight.
Even as two thunderbolts throwne downe out of the skye,
That through the ayre, the massy earth, and seas, have powre to flye;
So met these two, and whyle they chaunge a blow or twayne,
Our Romeus thrust him through the throte, and so is Tybalt slayne.
Loe here the end of those that styrre a dedly stryfe!
Who thrysteth after others death, him selfe hath lost his lyfe.
The Capilets are quaylde by Tybalts overthrowe,
The courage of the Montagewes by Romeus fight doth growe.
The townesmen waxen strong, the Prince doth send his force;
The fray hath end. The Capilets do bring the bretheless corce
Before the prince, and crave that cruell dedly payne
May be the guerdon of his falt, that hath theyr kinsman slayne.

The Montagewes do pleade theyr Romeus voyde of falt;
The lookers on do say, the fight begonne was by Tybalt.
The prince doth pawse, and then geves sentence in a while,
That Romeus, for sleying him, should goe into exyle.
His foes woulde have him hangde, or sterve in prison strong;
His frends do think, but dare not say, that Romeus hath wrong.
Both housholds straight are charged on payne of losing lyfe,
Theyr bloudy weapons layd aside, to cease the styrred stryfe.
This common plage is spred through all the towne anon,
From side to side the towne is fild with murmur and with mone.
For Tybalts hasty death bewayled was of somme,
Both for his skill in feates of armes, and for, in time to comme
He should, had this not chaunced, been riche and of great powre,
To helpe his frends, and serve the state; which hope within a howre
Was wasted quite, and he, thus yelding up his breath,
More than he holpe the towne in lyfe, hath harmde it by his death.
And other somme bewayle, but ladies most of all,
The lookeles lot by Fortunes gylt that is so late befall,
Without his falt, unto the seely Romeus;
For whilst that he from natife land shall live exyled thus,
From heavenly bewties light and his well shaped parts,
The sight of which was wont, fayre dames, to glad your youthfull harts,
Shall you be banishd quite, and tyll he do retoorne,
What hope have you to joy, what hope to cease to moorne?
This Romeus was borne so much in heavens grace,
Of Fortune and of Nature so beloved, that in his face
(Beside the heavenly bewty glistring ay so bright,
And seemely grace that wonted so to glad the seers sight)
A certain charme was graved by Natures secret arte,
That vertue had to draw to it the love of many a hart.
So every one doth wish to beare a parte of payne,
That he released of exyle might straight retoorne againe.
But how doth moorne emong the moorners Juliet!
How doth she bathe her brest in teares! what depe sighes doth she fet!
How doth she tear her heare! her weede how doth she rent!
How fares the lover hearing of her lovers banishment!
How wayles she Tybalts death, whom she had loved so well!
Her hearty greefe and piteous plaint, cunning I want to tell.
For delving depely now in depth of depe despayre,
With wretched sorrows cruell sound she fils the empty ayre;
And to the lowest hell downe falls her heavy crye,
And up unto the heavens haight her piteous plaint doth flye.

The waters and the woods of sighes and sobs resounde,
And from the hard resounding rockes her sorrowes do rebounde.
Eke from her teary eyne downe rayned many a showre,
That in the garden where she walkd might water herbe and flowre.
But when at length she saw her selfe outraged so,
Unto her chaumber there she hide; there, overcharged with woe,
Upon her stately bed her painfull parts she threw,
And in so wondrous wise began her sorrowes to renewe,
That sure no hart so hard (but it of flynt had byn,)
But would have rude the piteous playnt that she did languishe in.
Then rapt out of her selfe, whilst she on every side
Did cast her restles eye, at length the windowe she espide,
Through which she had with joye seen Romeus many a time,
Which oft the ventrous knight was wont for Juliets sake to clyme.

She cryde, O cursed windowe! accurst be every pane,
Through which, alas! to sone I raught the cause of life and bane,
If by thy meane I have some slight delight receaved,
Or els such fading pleasure as by Fortune straight was reaved,
Hast thou not made me pay a tribute rigorous
Of heaped greefe and lasting care, and sorrowes dolorous?
That these my tender parts, which nedeful strength do lacke
To bear so great unweldy lode upon so weake a backe,
Opprest with waight of cares and with these sorrowes rife,
At length must open wide to death the gates of lothed lyfe;
That so my wery sprite may somme where els unlode
His deadly loade, and free from thrall may seeke els where abode;
For pleasant quiet ease and for assured rest,
Which I as yet could never finde but for my more unrest?
O Romeus, when first we both acquainted were,
When to thy painted promises I lent my listning eare,
Which to the brinkes you fild with many a solemne othe,
And I then judgde empty of gyle, and fraughted full of troth,
I thought you rather would continue our good will,
And seek tappease our fathers strife, which daily groweth still.
I little wend you would have sought occasion how
By such an heynous act to breake the peace and eke your vowe;
Whereby your bright renoune all whole yclipsed is,
And I unhappy, husbandles, of cumforte robde and blisse.
But if you did so much the blood of Capels thyrst,
Why have you often spared mine? myne might have quencht it fyrst.
Synce that so many times and in so secret place.
Where you were wont with vele of love to hyde your hatreds face,
My doubtful lyfe hath hapt by fatall dome to stand
In mercy of your cruel hart, and of your bloudy hand.

What! seemde the conquest which you got of me so small?
What! seemde it not enough that I, poor wretch, was made your thrall?
But that you must increase it with that kinsmans blood,
Which for his woorth and love to me, most in my favour stood?
Well, goe hencefoorth els where, and seeke an other whyle
Some other as unhappy as I, by flattery to begyle.
And, where I comme, see that you shonne to shew your face,
For your excuse within my hart shall find no resting place.
And I that now, too late, my former fault repent,
Will so the rest of wery life with many teares lament.
That soon my joyceles corps shall yeld up banishd breath,
And where on earth it restles lived, in earth seeke rest by death.

These sayd, her tender hart, by payne oppressed sore,
Restraynd her tears, and forced her tong to kepe her talke in store;
And then as still she was, as if in sownd she lay,
And then againe, wroth with herselfe, with feeble voyce gan say:

“Ah cruell murdering tong, murdrer of others fame,
How durst thou once attempt to tooch the honor of his name?
Whose dedly foes do yeld him dew and erned prayse;
For though his freedom be bereft, his honour not decayes.
Why blamst thou Romeus for slaying of Tybalt,
Since he is gyltles quite of all, and Tibalt beares the falt?
Whether shall he, alas! poore banishd man, now flye?
What place of succour shall he seeke beneth the starry skye?
Since she pursueth hym, and him defames by wrong,
That in distres should be his fort, and onely rampier strong.
Receve the recompence, O Romeus, of thy wife,
Who, for she was unkind her selfe, doth offer up her life,
In flames of yre, in sighes, in sorow and in ruth,
So to revenge the crimes she did commit against thy truth.”
These said, she could no more; her senses all gan fayle,
And dedly panges began straightway her tender hart assayle;
Her limmes she stretched forth, she drew no more her breath:
Who had been there might well have seen the signes of present death.
The nurce that knew no cause why she absented her,
Did doute lest that somme sodain greefe too much tormented her.
Eche where but where she was, the carefull beldam sought,
Last, of the chamber where she lay she happly her bethought;
Where she with piteous eye her nurce-child did beholde,
Her limmes stretched out, her utward parts as any marble colde.
The nurce supposde that she had payde to death her det,
And then, as she had lost her wittes, she cryde to Juliet:
Ah! my dere hart, quoth she, how greveth me thy death!
Alas! what cause hast thou thus sone to yeld up living breath?

But while she handled her, and chafed every part,
She knew there was some sparke of life by beating of her hart,
So that a thousand times she cald upon her name;
There is no way to helpe a traunce but she hath tride the same:
She openeth wyde her mouth, she stoppeth close her nose,
She bendeth downe her brest, she wringeth her fingers and her toes,
And on her bosome cold she layeth clothes hot;
A warmed and a holesome juyce she powreth down her throte.
At length doth Juliet heave faintly up her eyes,
And then she stretcheth forth her arme, and then her nurce she spyes.
But when she was awakde from her unkindly traunce,
“Why dost thou trouble me, quoth she, what drave thee, with mischaunce,
To come to see my sprite forsake my bretheles corce?
Go hence, and let me dye, if thou have on my smart remorse.
For who would see her frend to live in dedly payne?
Alas! I see my greefe begonne for ever will remayne.
Or who would seeke to live, all pleasure being past?
My myrth is donne, my moorning mone for ay is like to last.
Wherefore since that there is none other remedy,
Comme gentle death, and ryve my heart at once, and let me dye.”
The nurce with trickling teares, to witnes inward smart,
With holow sigh fetchd from the depth of her appauled hart,
Thus spake to Juliet, y-clad with ougly care:
“Good lady myne, I do not know what makes you thus to fare;
Ne yet the cause of your unmeasurde heaviness.
But of this one I you assure, for care and sorowes stresse,
This hower large and more I thought, so god me save,
That my dead corps should wayte on yours to your untimely grave.”
“Alas, my tender nurce, and trusty frende, (quoth she)
Art thou so blinde that with thine eye thou canst not easely see
The lawfull cause I have to sorrow and to moorne,
Since those the which I hyld most deere, I have at once forlorne.”
Her nurce then aunswered thus—“Methinkes it sits you yll
To fall in these extremities that may you gyltles spill.
For when the stormes of care and troubles do aryse,
Then is the time for men to know the foolish from the wise.
You are accounted wise, a foole am I your nurce;
But I see not how in like case I could behave me wurse.
Tybalt your frend is ded; what, weene you by your teares
To call him backe agayne? thinke you that he your crying heares?
You shall perceive the falt, if it be justly tryde,
Of his so sodayn death was in his rashnes and his pryde.
Would you that Romeus him selfe had wronged so,
To suffer him selfe causeless to be outraged of his foe,

To whom in no respect he ought a place to geve?
Let it suffice to thee, fayre dame, that Romeus doth live,
And that there is good hope that he, within a while,
With greater glory shall be calde home from his hard exile,
How well y-born he is, thyselfe I know canst tell,
By kindred strong, and well alyed, of all beloved well.
With patience arme thyselfe, for though that Fortunes cryme,
Without your falt, to both your greefes, depart you for a time.
I dare say, for amendes of all your present payne,
She will restore your owne to you, within a month or twayne,
With such contented ease as never erst you had;
Wherefore rejoyce a while in hope, and be no more so sad.
And that I may discharge your hart of heavy care,
A certaine way I have found out, my paynes ne will I spare,
To learne his present state, and what in time to comme
He mindes to do; which knowe by me, you shall knowe all and somme.
But that I dread the whilst your sorrowes will you quell,
Straight would I hye where he doth lurke, to fryer Lawrence cell.
But if you gyn eft sones, as erst you did, to moorne,
Whereto goe I? you will be ded, before I thence retoorne.
So I shall spend in waste my time and busy payne,
So unto you, your life once lost, good aunswere comes in vayne;
So shall I ridde my selfe with this sharpe pointed knyfe,
So shall you cause your parents deere wax wery of theyr life;
So shall your Romeus, despising lively breath,
With hasty foote, before his time, ronne to untimely death.
Where, if you can a while by reason rage suppresse,
I hope at my retorne to bring the salve of your distresse.
Now choose to have me here a partner of your payne,
Or promise me to feede on hope till I retorne agayne.”

Her mistres sendes her forth, and makes a grave behest
With reasons rayne to rule the thoughts that rage within her brest.
When hugy heapes of harmes are heaped before her eyes,
Then vanish they by hope of scape; and thus the lady lyes
Twixt well assured trust, and doubtfull lewd dyspayre:
Now blacke and ougly be her thoughts; now seeme they white and fayre.
As oft in summer tide blacke cloudes do dimme the sonne,
And straight againe in clearest skye his restles steedes do ronne;
So Juliets wandring mind y-clouded is with woe,
And by and by her hasty thought the woes doth overgoe.

But now is tyme to tell, whilst she was tossed thus,
What windes did drive or haven did hold her lover Romeus.
When he had slayne his foe that gan this dedly strife,
And saw the furious fray had ende by ending Tybalts life,

He fled the sharpe revenge of those that yet did live,
And doubting much what penal doome the troubled prince might gyve,
He sought somewhere unseene to lurke a littel space,
And trusty Lawrence secret cell he thought the surest place.
In doubtfull happe aye best a trusty frend is tryde;
The frendly frier in this distresse doth graunt his frend to hyde.
A secret place he hath, well seeled round about,
The mouth of which so close is shut, that none may finde it out;
But roome there is to walke, and place to sit and rest,
Beside a bed to sleape upon, full soft and trimly drest.
The flowre is planked so, with mattes it is so warme.
That neither winde nor smoky damps have powre him ought to harme.
Where he was wont in youth his fayre frends to bestowe,
There now he hideth Romeus, whilst forth he goth to knowe
Both what is said and donne, and what appoynted payne
Is published by trumpets sound; then home he hyes agayne.

By this unto his cell the nurce with spedy pace
Was comme the nerest way; she sought no ydel resting place.
The fryer sent home the newes of Romeus certain helth,
And promise made (what so befell) he should that night by stelth
Comme to his wonted place, that they in nedefull wise
Of theyr affayres in tyme to comme might thoroughly devise.
Those joyfull newes the nurce brought home with merry joy;
And now our Juliet joyes to thinke she shall her love enjoy.
The fryer shuts fast his doore, and then to him beneth,
That waytes to heare the doutefull newes of life or else of death.
Thy hap (quoth he) is good, daunger of death is none,
But thou shalt live, and do full well, in spite of spitefull fone.
This only payne for thee was erst proclaymde aloude,
A banishd man, thou mayst thee not within Verona shrowde.

These heavy tidinges heard, his golden lockes he tare,
And like a franticke man hath torne the garments that he ware.
And as the smitten deere in brakes is waltring found,
So waltreth he, and with his brest doth beate the troden grounde.
He riseth eft, and strikes his hed against the wals,
He falleth downe agayne, and lowde for hasty death he cals.
“Come spedy deth, quoth he, the readiest leache in love,
Synce nought can els beneth the sunne the ground of greefe remove,
Of lothsome life breake downe the hated staggering stayes,
Destroy, destroy at once the life that fayntly yet decayes.
But you, fayre dame, in whom dame Nature did devise
With cunning hand to woork that might seeme wondrous in our eyes,
For you, I pray the gods, your pleasures to increase,
And all mishap, with this my death, for evermore to cease.

And mighty Jove with speede of justice bring them lowe,
Whose lofty pryde, without our gylt, our blisse doth overblowe.
And Cupid graunt to those theyr spedy wrongs redresse,
That shall bewayle my cruell death and pity her distresse.”
Therewith a cloude of sighes he breathd into the skies,
And two great streames of bitter teares ran from his swollen eyes.
These thinges the auncient fryer with sorrow saw and heard,
Of such beginning eke the end the wiseman greatly feard.
But lo! he was so weake by reason of his age,
That he ne could by force represse the rigour of his rage.
His wise and friendly woordes he speaketh to the ayre,
For Romeus so vexed is with care, and with dispayre,
That no advice can perce his close forstopped eares,
So now the fryer doth take his part in shedding ruthfull teares.
With colour pale and wan, with arms full hard y-fold,
With wofull cheere his wayling frende he standeth to beholde.
And then our Romeus with tender handes y-wrong,
With voyce with plaint made horce, with sobs, and with a faltring tong,
Renewd with novel mone the dolors of his hart;
His outward dreery cheere bewrayde his store of inward smart,
Fyrst Nature did he blame, the author of his lyfe,
In which his joyes had been so scant, and sorowes ay so rife;
The time and place of byrth he feersly did reprove,
He cryed out with open mouth, against the starres above:
The fatall sisters three, he said had donne him wrong,
The threed that should not have been sponne, they had drawne forth too long.
He wished that he had before his time been borne,
Or that as soone as he wan light, his lyfe he had forlorne.
His nurce he cursed, and the hand that gave him pappe,
The midwife eke with tender grype that held him in her lappe;
And then did he complaine on Venus cruell sonne,
Who led him first unto the rockes which he should warely shonne:
By meane whereof he lost both lyfe and libertie,
And dyed a hundred times a day, and yet could never dye.
Loves troubles hasten long, the joyes he gives are short;
He forceth not a lovers payne, theyr ernest is his sport.
A thousand thinges and more I here let passe to write
Which unto love this wofull man dyd speake in great despite.
On Fortune eke he raylde, he calde her deafe, and blynde,
Unconstant, fond, deceitfull, rashe, unruthfull, and unkynd.
And to himselfe he layd a great part of the falt,
For that he slewe and was not slaine, in fighting with Tibalt.
He blamed all the world, and all he did defye,
But Juliet for whom he lived, for whom eke would he dye.

When after raging fits appeased was his rage,
And when his passions, powred forth, gan partly to asswage,
So wisely did the fryre unto his tale replye,
That he straight cared for his life, that erst had care to dye.
“Art thou (quoth he) a man? thy shape saith, so thou art;
Thy crying, and thy weeping eyes denote a womans hart.
For manly reason is quite from of thy mynd out-chased,
And in her stead affections lewd and fancies highly placed:
So that I stoode in doute, this howre at the least,
If thou a man or woman wert, or els a brutish beast.
A wise man in the midst of troubles and distres
Still standes not wayling present harme, but seekes his harmes redres.
As when the winter flawes with dredful noyse arise,
And heave the fomy swelling waves up to the stary skyes,
So that the broosed barke in cruell seas betost,
Dispayreth of the happy haven, in daunger to be lost,
The pylate bold at helme, cryes, mates strike now your sayle,
And tornes her stemme into the waves that strongly her assayle;
Then driven hard upon the bare and wrackefull shore,
In greater daunger to be wrackt than he had been before,
He seeth his ship full right against the rocke to ronne,
But yet he dooth what lyeth in him the perlous rocke to shonne;
Sometimes the beaten boate, by cunning government,
The ancors lost, the cables broke, and all the tackle spent,
The roder smitten of, and over-boord the mast,
Doth win the long-desyred porte, the stormy daunger past:
But if the master dread, and overprest with woe
Begin to wring his handes, and lets the gyding rodder goe,
The ship rents on the rocke, or sinketh in the deepe,
And eke the coward drenched is:—So, if thou still beweepe
And seke not how to helpe the chaunges that do chaunce,
Thy cause of sorow shall increase, thou cause of thy mischaunce.
Other account thee wise, prove not thyself a foole;
Now put in practise lessons learned of old in wisdome's schoole.
The wise man saith, beware thou double not thy payne,
For one perhaps thou mayst abyde, but hardly suffer twaine.
As well we ought to seeke thinges hurtfull to decrease,
As to indevor helping thinges by study to increase.
The prayse of trew freedom in wisdomes bondage lyes,
He winneth blame whose deedes be fonde, although his woords be wise.
Sicknes the bodies gayle, greefe, gayle is of the mynd;
If thou canst scape from heavy greefe, true freedome shalt thou finde.
Fortune can fill nothing so full of hearty greefe,
But in the same a constant mynd finds solace and releefe.

Vertue is alwaies thrall to troubles and annoye,
But wisdom in adversitie findes cause of quiet joye.
And they most wretched are that know no wretchednes,
And after great extremity mishaps ay waxen lesse.
Like as there is no weale but wastes away sometime,
So every kynd of wayled woe will weare away in time.
If thou wilt master quite the troubles that thee spill,
Endeavor first by reasons help to master witles will.
A sondry medson hath eche sondry faynt disease,
But patience, a common salve, to every wound geves ease.
The world is alway full of chaunces and of chaunge,
Wherefore the chaunge of chaunce must not seem to a wise man straunge.
For tickel Fortune doth, in chaunging, but her kind,
But all her chaunges cannot chaunge a steady constant mynd.
Though wavering Fortune toorne from thee her smyling face,
And sorow seke to set himselfe in banishd pleasures place,
Yet may thy marred state be mended in a whyle,
And she eftsones that frowneth now, with pleasant cheere shall smyle.
For as her happy state no long while standeth sure,
Even so the heavy plight she brings, not alwayes doth endure.
What nede so many words to thee that art so wyse?
Thou better canst advise thyselfe, then I can thee advise.
Wisdome, I see, is vayne, if thus in time of neede
A wisemans wit unpractised doth stand him in no steede.
I know thou hast some cause of sorow and of care,
But well I wot thou hast no cause thus frantickly to fare.
Affections foggy mist thy febled sight doth blynd;
But if that reasons beames againe might shine into thy mynd,
If thou wouldst view thy state with an indifferent eye,
I thinke thou wouldst condemne thy plaint, thy sighing, and thy crye.
With valiant hand thou madest thy foe yeld up his breth,
Thou hast escaped his sword and eke the lawes that threaten death.
By thy escape thy frendes are fraughted full of joy,
And by his death thy deadly foes are laden with annoy.
Wilt thou with trusty frendes of pleasure take some part?
Or els to please thy hatefull foes be partner of theyr smart?
Why cryest thou out on love? why dost thou blame thy fate?
Why dost thou so crye after death? thy life why dost thou hate?
Dost thou repent the choyse that thou so late dydst choose?
Love is thy lord; thou oughtst obey and not thy prince accuse.
For thou hast found, thou knowest, great favour in his sight,
He graunted thee, at thy request, thy onely harts delight.
So that the gods envyde the blisse thou livedst in;
To geve to such unthankefull men is folly and a sin.

Methinke I hear thee say, the cruell banishment
Is onely cause of thy unrest; onely thou dost lament
That from thy natife land and frendes thou must depart,
Enforsd to flye from her that hath the keping of thy hart:
And so opprest with waight of smart that thou dost feele,
Thou dost complaine of Cupids brand, and Fortunes turning wheele.
Unto a valiant hart there is no banishment,
All countreys are his native soyle beneath the firmament.
As to the fish the sea, as to the fowle the ayre,
So is like pleasant to the wise eche place of his repayre.
Though forward fortune chase thee hence into exile,
With doubled honor shall she call thee home within a while.
Admit thou shouldst abyde abrode a year or twayne,
Should so short absence cause so long and eke so greevous payne?
Though thou ne mayst thy frendes here in Verona see,
They are not banishd Mantua, where safely thou mayst be.
Thether they may resort, though thou resort not hether.
And there in suretie may you talke of your affayres together.
Yea, but this while, alas! thy Juliet must thou misse,
The only piller of thy health, and ancor of thy blisse.
Thy heart thou leavest with her, when thou doest hence depart,
And in thy brest inclosed bearst her tender frendly hart.
But if thou rew so much to leave the rest behinde,
With thought of passed joyes content thy uncontented minde;
So shall the mone decrease wherewith thy mind doth melt,
Compared to the heavenly joyes which thou hast often felt.
He is too nyse a weakeling that shrinketh at a showre,
And he unworthy of the sweete, that tasteth not the sowre.
Call now agayne to mynd thy fyrst consuming flame;
How didst thou vainely burne in love of an unloving dame?
Hadst thou not wel nigh wept quite out thy swelling eyne?
Did not thy parts, fordoon with payne, languishe away and pyne?
Those greefes and others like were happly overpast,
And thou in haight of Fortunes wheele well placed at the last!
From whence thou art now falne, that, raysed up agayne,
With greater joy a greater whyle in pleasure mayst thou raigne.
Compare the present while with times y-past before,
And thinke that fortune hath for thee great pleasure yet in store.
The whilst, this little wrong receve thou patiently,
And what of force must needes be done, that do thou willingly.
Folly it is to feare that thou canst not avoyde,
And madnes to desyre it much that cannot be enjoyde.
To geve to Fortune place, not aye deserveth blame,
But skill it is, according to the times thy selfe to frame.”

Whilst to this skilfull lore he lent his listning eares,
His sighs are stopt, and stopped are the conduyts of his teares.

As blackest cloudes are chaced by winters nimble wynde,
So have his reasons chaced care out of his carefull mynde.
As of a morning fowle ensues an evening fayre,
So banisht hope returneth home to banish his despayre.
Now is affection's veale removed from his eyes,
He seeth the path that he must walke, and reson makes him wise.
For very shame the blood doth flashe in both his cheekes,
He thankes the father for his love, and farther ayde he seekes.
He sayth, that skilles youth for counsell is unfitte,
And anger oft with hastines are joynd to want of witte;
But sound advise aboundes in heddes with horish heares,
For wisdom is by practise wonne, and perfect made by yeares.
But aye from this time forth his ready bending will
Shal be in awe and governed by fryer Lawrence skill.
The governor is now right carefull of his charge,
To whom he doth wisely discoorse of his affaires at large.
He tells him how he shall depart the towne unknowne,
(Both mindeful of his frendes safetie, and casefull of his owne)
How he shall gyde himselfe, how he shall seeke to winne
The frendship of the better sort, how warely to crepe in
The favour of the Mantuan prince, and how he may
Appease the wrath of Escalus, and wipe the fault away;
The choller of his foes by gentle meanes tassvage,
Or els by force and practises to bridle quite theyr rage:
And last he chargeth hym at his appoynted howre
To goe with manly mery cheere unto his ladies bowre,
And there with holesome woordes to salve her sorowes smart,
And to revive, if nede require, her faint and dying hart.

The old mans woords have fild with joy our Romeus brest,
And eke the old wyves talke hath set our Juliets hart at rest.
Whereto may I compare, o lovers, thys your day?
Like dayes the painefull mariners are woonted to assay;
For, beat with tempest great, when they at length espye
Some little beame of Phœbus light, that perceth through the skie,
To cleare the shadowde earth by clearnes of his face,
They hope that dreadles they shall ronne the remnant of theyr race;
Yea they assure them selfe, and quite behind theyr backe
They cast all doute, and thanke the gods for scaping of the wracke;
But straight the boysterous windes with greater fury blowe,
And over boord the broken mast the stormy blastes doe throwe;
The heavens large are clad with cloudes as darke as hell,
And twice as hye the striving waves begin to roare and swell;
With greater daungers dred the men are vexed more,
In greater perill of theyr life then they had been before.

The golden sonne was gonne to lodge him in the west,
The full moon eke in yonder south had sent most men to rest;

When restles Romeus and restles Juliet
In woonted sort, by woonted meane, in Juliets chamber met.
And from the windowes top downe had he leaped scarce,
When she with armes outstretched wide so hard did him embrace,
That wel nigh had the sprite (not forced by dedly force)
Flowne unto death, before the time abandoning the corce,
Thus muet stood they both the eyght part of an howre,
And both would speake, but neither had of speaking any powre;
But on his brest her hed doth joylesse Juliet lay,
And on her slender necke his chyn doth ruthfull Romeus stay.
Theyr scalding sighes ascend, and by theyr cheekes downe fall
Theyr trickling teares, as christall cleare, but bitterer far then gall.
Then he, to end the greefe which both they lived in,
Did kisse his love, and wisely thus hys tale he dyd begin:

“My Juliet, my love, my onely hope and care,
To you I purpose not as now with length of woordes declare
The diversenes and eke the accidents so straunge
Of frayle unconstant Fortune, that delyteth still in chaunge;
Who in a moment heaves her frendes up to the height
Of her swift-turning slippery wheele, then fleetes her frendship straight.
O wondrous change! even with the twinkling of an eye
Whom erst herselfe had rashly set in pleasant place so hye,
The same in great despyte downe hedlong doth she throwe,
And while she treades, and spurneth at the lofty state layde lowe,
More sorow doth she shape within an howers space,
Than pleasure in an hundred yeares; so geyson is her grace.
The proofe whereof in me, alas! too playne apperes,
Whom tenderly my carefull frendes have fosterd with my feeres,
In prosperous hygh degree, mayntained so by fate,
That, as your selfe dyd see, my foes envyde my noble state.
One thing there was I did above the rest desyre,
To which as to the sovereign good by hope I would aspyre.
That by our mariage meane we might within a while
(To work our perfect happenes) our parents reconcile:
That safely so we might, not stopt by sturdy strife,
Unto the bounds that God hath set, gyde forth our pleasant lyfe
But now, alack! too soone my blisse is over blowne,
And upside downe my purpose and my enterprise are throwne.
And driven from my frendes, of straungers must I crave
(O graunt it God!) from daungers dread that I may suretie have.
For loe, henceforth I must wander in landes unknowne,
(So hard I finde the prince's doome) exyled from myne owne.
Which thing I have thought good to set before your eyes,
And to exhort you now to proove yourselfe a woman wise;
That patiently you beare my absent long abod,
For what above by fatall dome decreed is, that God—”

And more than this to say, it seemed, he was bent,
But Juliet in dedly greefe, with brackish tears besprent,
Brake of his tale begonne, and whilst his speeche he stayde,
These selfe same woordes, or like to these, with dreery cheere she saide:
“Why Romeus, can it be, thou hast so hard a hart,
So farre removed from ruth, so farre from thinking on my smart,
To leave me thus alone, thou cause of my distresse,
Beseged with so great a campe of mortall wretchednesse;
That every howre now and moment in a day
A thousand times Death bragges, as he would reave my lyfe away?
Yet such is my mishap, O cruell destinye!
That still I lyve, and wish for death, but yet can never dye.
So that just cause I have to thinke, as seemeth me,
That froward Fortune did of late with cruel Death agree,
To lengthen lothed lyfe, to pleasure in my payne,
And triumph in my harme, as in the greatest hoped gayne.
And thou, the instrument of Fortunes cruell will,
Without whose ayde she can no way her tyrans lust fulfill,
Art not a whit ashamde (as farre as I can see)
To cast me off, when thou hast culld the better part of me.
Whereby alas! to soone, I, seely wretch, do prove,
That all the auncient sacred laws of friendship and of love
Are quelde and quenched quite, since he on whom alway
My cheefe hope and my steady trust was woonted still to stay,
For whom I am becomme unto myself a foe,
Disdayneth me, his stedfast frend, and skornes my friendship so.
Nay Romeus, nay, thou mayst of two thinges choose the one,
Eyther to see thy castaway, as soone as thou art gone,
Hedlong to throw her selfe downe from the windowes haight,
And so to breake her slender necke with all the bodies waight,
Or suffer her to be companion of thy payne,
Where so thou go (Fortune thy gyde), tyll thou retourne agayne.
So wholy into thine transformed is my hart,
That even as oft as I do thinke that thou and I shall part,
So oft, methinkes, my lyfe withdrawes it selfe awaye,
Which I retaine to no end els but to the end I may
In spite of all thy foes thy present partes enjoye,
And in distres to beare with thee the half of thine annoye.
Wherefore, in humble sort, Romeus, I make request,
If ever tender pity yet were lodgde in gentle brest,
O, let it now have place to rest within thy hart;
Receave me as thy servant, and the fellow of thy smart:
Thy absence is my death, thy sight shall geve me lyfe.
But if perhaps thou stand in dred to lead me as a wyfe,
Art thou all counsellesse? canst thou no shift devise?
What letteth but in other weede I may my selfe disguyse?

What, shall I be the first? hath none done so ere this,
To scape the bondage of theyr frends? thyselfe can aunswer, yes.
Or dost thou stand in doute that I thy wife ne can
By service pleasure thee as much, as may thy hyred man?
Or is my loyalte of both accompted lesse?
Perhaps thou fearst lesse I for gayne forsake thee in distresse.
What! hath my bewty now no powre at all on you,
Whose brightnes, force, and prayse, sometime up to the skyes you blew?
My teares, my friendship and my pleasures donne of olde,
Shall they be quite forgote in dede?”—When Romeus dyd behold
The wildnes of her looke, her cooller pale and ded,
The woorst of all that might betyde to her, he gan to dred;
And once agayne he dyd in armes his Juliet take,
And kist her with a loving kysse, and thus to her he spake:

“Ah Juliet, (quoth he) the mistres of my hart,
For whom, even now, thy servant doth abyde in dedly smart,
Even for the happy dayes which thou desyrest to see,
And for the fervent frendships sake that thou dost owe to mee,
At once these fansies vayne out of thy mynd roote out,
Except, perhaps, unto thy blame, thou fondly go about
To hasten forth my death, and to thine owne to ronne,
Which Natures law and wisdoms lore teach every wight to shonne.
For, but thou change thy mynde, (I do foretell the end)
Thou shalt undoo thyselfe for aye, and me thy trusty frend.
For why?—thy absence knowne, thy father will be wroth,
And in his rage no narowly he will pursue us both,
That we shall trye in vayne to scape away by flight,
And vainely seeke a loorking place to hyde us from his sight.
Then we, found out and caught, quite voyde of strong defence,
Shall cruelly be punished for thy departure hence;
I as a ravisher, thou as a careles childe,
I as a man that doth defile, thou as a mayde defilde;
Thinking to lead in ease a long contented life,
Shall short our dayes by shamefull death:—but if, my loving wife,
Thou banish from thy mynde two foes that counsell hath,
(That wont to hinder sound advise) rashe hastines and wrath;
If thou be bent tobay the love of reasons skill,
And wisely by her princely powre suppresse rebelling will,
If thou our safetie seeke, more then thine own delight,
(Since suretie standes in parting, and thy pleasures growe of sight,)
Forbeare the cause of joy, and suffer for a while,
So shall I safely live abrode, and safe torne from exile:
So shall no slanders blot thy spotles life distayne,
So shall thy kinsmen be unstyrd, and I exempt from payne.

And thinke thou not, that aye the cause of care shall last;
These stormy broyles shall over-blowe, much like a winters blast.
For Fortune chaungeth more than fickel fantasie;
In nothing Fortune constant is save in unconstancie.
Her hasty ronning wheele is of a restless coorse,
That turnes the clymers hedlong downe, from better to the woorse,
And those that are beneth she heaveth up agayne:
So we shall rise to pleasures mount, out of the pit of payne.
Ere foure monthes overpasse, such order will I take,
And by my letters and my frendes such meanes I mynd to make,
That of my wandring race ended shall be the toyle,
And I cald home with honor great unto my native soyle.
But if I be condemned to wander still in thrall,
I will returne to you, mine owne, befall what may befall.
And then by strength of frendes, and with a mighty hand,
From Verone will I carry thee into a foreign lande;
Not in mans weede disguysd, or as one scarcely knowne,
But as my wife and only feere, in garment of thyne owne.
Wherefore represse at once the passions of thy hart,
And where there is no cause of greefe, cause hope to heale thy smart.
For of this one thyng thou mayst well assured bee,
That nothing els but onely death shall sunder me from thee.”
The reasons that he made did seeme of so great waight,
And had with her such force, that she to him gan aunswere straight:
“Deere Syr, nought els wish I but to obey your will;
But sure where so you go, your hart with me shall tarry still,
As signe and certaine pledge, tyll here I shall you see,
Of all the powre that over you yourselfe did graunt to me;
And in his stead take myne, the gage of my good will.—
One promesse crave I at your hand, that graunt me to fulfill;
Fayle not to let me have, at fryer Lawrence hand,
The tydinges of your health, and howe your doutfull case shall stand.
And all the wery whyle that you shall spend abrode,
Cause me from time to time to know the place of your abode.”
His eyes did gush out teares, a sigh brake from his brest,
When he did graunt and with an othe did vowe to kepe the hest.

Thus these two lovers passe awaye the wery night,
In payne and plaint, not, as they wont, in pleasure and delight.
But now, somewhat too soone, in farthest east arose
Fayre Lucifer, the golden starre that lady Venus chose;
Whose course appoynted is with spedy race to ronne,
A messenger of dawning daye, and of the rysing sonne.
Then fresh Aurora with her pale and silver glade
Did cleare the skies, and from the earth had chased ougly shade.

When thou ne lookest wide, ne closely dost thou winke,
When Phœbus from our hemisphere in westerne wave doth sinke,
What cooller then the heavens do shew unto thine eyes,
The same, or like, saw Romeus in farthest easterne skies.
As yet he sawe no day, ne could he call it night,
With equall force decreasing darke fought with increasing light.
Then Romeus in armes his lady gan to folde,
With frendly kisse, and ruthfully she gan her knight beholde.
With solemne othe they both theyr sorowfull leave do take;
They sweare no stormy troubles shall theyr steady friendship shake.
Then carefull Romeus agayne to cell retoornes,
And in her chaumber secretly our joyles Juliet moornes.
Now hugy cloudes of care, of sorrow, and of dread,
The clearnes of theyr gladsome harts hath wholy overspread.
When golden-crested Phœbus bosteth him in skye,
And under earth, to scape revenge, his dedly foe doth flye,
Then hath these lovers day an ende, theyr night begonne,
For eche of them to other is as to the world the sonne.
The dawning they shall see, ne sommer any more,
But black-faced night with winter rough ah! beaten over sore.

The wery watch discharged did hye them home to slepe,
The warders, and the skowtes were charged theyr place and course to kepe,
And Verone gates awide the porters had set open.
When Romeus had of hys affayres with fryer Lawrence spoken,
Warely he walked forth, unknowne of frend or foe,
Clad like a merchant venterer, from top even to the toe.
He spurd apace, and came, withouten stoppe or stay,
To Mantua gates, where lighted downe, he sent his man away
With woordes of comfort to his old afflicted syre;
And straight, in mynde to sojourne there, a lodging doth he hyre,
And with the nobler sort he doth himselfe acquaynt,
And of his open wrong receaved the duke doth heare his playnt.
He practiseth by frends for pardon of exile;
The whilst, he seeketh every way his sorrowes to begyle.
But who forgets the cole that burneth in his brest?
Alas! his cares denye his hart the sweete desyred rest;
No time findes he of myrth, he fyndes no place of joy,
But every thing occasion gives of sorrowe and annoye.
For when in toorning skies the heavens lamps are light,
And from the other hemisphere fayr Phœbus chaseth night,
When every man and beast hath rest from paynefull toyle,
Then in the brest of Romeus his passions gin to boyle.
Then doth he wet with teares the cowche whereon he lyes,
And then his sighs the chaumber fill, and out aloude he cries

Against the restles starres in rolling skies that raunge,
Against the fatall sisters three, and Fortune full of chaunge.
Eche night a thousand times he calleth for the day,
He thinketh Titans restles steedes of restines do stay;
Or that at length they have some bayting place found out,
Or, gyded yll, have lost theyr way and wandered farre about.
While thus in ydell thoughts the wery time he spendeth,
The night hath end, but not with night the plaint of night he endeth.
Is he accompanied? is he in place alone?
In cumpany he wayles his harme, apart he maketh mone:
For if his feeres rejoyce, what cause hath he to joy,
That wanteth still his cheefe delight, while they theyr loves enjoye?
But if with heavy cheere they shew their inward greefe,
He wayleth most his wrechedness that is of wretches cheefe.
When he doth heare abrode the prayse of ladies blowne,
Within his thought he scorneth them, and doth prefer his owne.
When pleasant songes he heares, wheile others do rejoyce,
The melodye of musicke doth styrre up his mourning voyce.
But if in secret place he walke some where alone,
The place itselfe and secretnes redoubleth all his mone.
Then speakes he to the beastes, to feathered fowles and trees,
Unto the earth, the cloudes, and what so beside he sees.
To them he shewth his smart, as though they reason had,
Eche thing may cause his heavines, but nought may make him glad.
And wery of the world agayne he calleth night,
The sunne he curseth, and the howre when first his eyes saw light.
And as the night and day theyr course do interchaunge,
So doth our Romeus nightly cares for cares of day exchaunge.

In absence of her knight the lady no way could
Kepe trewce betweene her greefes and her, though nere so fayne she would;
And though with greater payne she cloked sorowes smart,
Yet did her paled face disclose the passions of her hart.
Her sighing every howre, her weeping every where,
Her recheles heede of meate, of slepe, and wearing of her geare,
The carefull mother marks; then of her helth afrayde,
Because the greefes increased still, thus to her child she sayde:
“Deere daughter if you shoulde long languishe in this sort,
I stand in doute that over-soone your sorrowes will make short
Your loving father's life and myne, that love you more
Than our owne propre breth and lyfe. Brydel henceforth therefore
Your greefe and payne, yourselfe on joy your thought to set,
For time it is that now you should our Tybalts death forget.

Of whom since God hath claymd the life that was but lent,
He is in blisse, ne is there cause why you should thus lament;
You cannot call him backe with teares and shrikinges shrill:
It is a falt thus still to grudge at Gods appoynted will.”
The seely soule hath now no longer powre to fayne,
No longer could she hide her harme, but aunswered thus agayne,
With heavy broken sighes, with visage pale and ded:
“Madame, the last of Tybalts teares a great while since I shed;
Whose spring hath been ere this so laded out by me,
That empty quite and moystureless I gesse it now to be.
So that my payned hart by conduytes of the eyne
No more henceforth (as wont it was) shall gush forth dropping bryne.”
The wofull mother knew not what her daughter ment,
And loth to vexe her chylde by woordes, her pace she warely hent.
But when from howre to houre, from morow to the morow,
Still more and more she saw increast her daughters wonted sorrow,
All meanes she sought of her and houshold folk to know
The certain roote whereon her greefe and booteless mone doth growe.
But lo, she hath in vayne her time and labour lore,
Wherefore without all measure is her hart tormented sore.
And sith herselfe could not fynde out the cause of care,
She thought it good to tell the syre how ill this childe did fare.
And when she saw her time, thus to her feere she sayde:
“Syr, if you mark our daughter well, the countenance of the mayde,
And how she fareth since that Tybalt unto death
Before his time, forst by his foe, did yeld his living breath,
Her face shall seeme so chaunged, her doynges eke so straunge,
That you will greatly wonder at so great and sodain chaunge.
Not only she forbeares her meate, her drinke, and sleepe,
But now she tendeth nothing els but to lament and weepe.
No greater joy hath she, nothing contents her hart
So much, as in the chaumber close to shut herselfe apart:
Where she doth so torment her poore afflicted mynde,
That much in daunger stands her lyfe, except some help she finde.
But, out alas! I see not how it may be founde,
Unlesse that fyrst we might fynd whence her sorowes thus abounde.
For though with busy care I have employde my wit,
And used all the wayes I have to learne the truth of it,
Neither extremitie ne gentle meanes could boote;
She hydeth close within her brest her secret sorowes roote.

This was my fyrst conceite,—that all her ruth arose
Out of her coosin Tybalts death, late slayne of dedly foes.
But now my hart doth hold a new repugnant thought;
Somme greater thing, not Tybalts death, this chaunge in her hath wrought.
Her selfe assured me that many days agoe
She shed the last of Tybalts teares; which words amasd me so
That I then could not gesse what thing els might her greeve:
But now at length I have bethought me; and I do beleve
The only crop and roote of all my daughters payne
Is grudging envies faint disease; perchance she doth disdayne
To see in wedlocke yoke the most part of her feeres,
Whilst only she unmarried doth lose so many yeres.
And more perchaunce she thinkes you mynd to kepe her so;
Wherefore dispayring doth she weare herselfe away with woe.
Therefore, deere Syr, in tyme take on your daughter ruth;
For why? a brickle thing is glasse, and frayle is skillesse youth.
Joyne her at once to somme in linke of marriage,
That may be meete for our degree, and much about her age:
So shall you banish care out of your daughters brest,
So we her parentes, in our age, shall live in quiet rest.”
Whereto gan easely her husband to agree,
And to the mothers skilfull talke thus straightway aunswered he.
“Oft have I thought, deere wife, of all these things ere this,
But evermore my mynd me gave, it should not be amisse
By farther leysure had a husband to provyde;
Scarce saw she yet full sixteen yeres,—too yong to be a bryde.
But since her state doth stande on termes so perilous,
And that a mayden daughter is a treasure daungerous,
With so great speede I will endeavour to procure
A husband for our daughter yong, her sicknes faynt to cure,
That you shall rest content, so warely will I choose,
And she recover soone enough the time she seemes to loose.
The whilst seek you to learne, if she in any part
Already hath, unware to us, fixed her frendly hart;
Lest we have more respect to honor and to welth,
Then to our daughters quiet lyfe, and to her happy helth:
Whom I doo hold as deere as thapple of myne eye,
And rather wish in poore estate and daughterles to dye,
Then leave my goodes and her y-thrald to such a one,
Whose chorlish dealing, (I once dead) should be her cause of mone.”

This pleasaunt aunswer heard, the lady partes agayne,
And Capilet, the maydens syre, within a day or twayne,
Conferreth with his frendes for marriage of his daughter,
And many gentilmen there were, with busy care that sought her;
Both, for the mayden was well-shaped, yong and fayre,
As also well brought up, and wise; her fathers onely heyre.

Emong the rest was one inflamde with her desyre,
Who county Paris cliped was; an earle he had to syre.
Of all the suters hym the father lyketh best,
And easely unto the earle he maketh his behest,
Both of his owne good will, and of his frendly ayde,
To win his wyfe unto his will, and to persuade the mayde.
The wyfe dyd joy to heare the joyful husband say
How happy hap, how mete a match, he had found out that day;
Ne did she seeke to hyde her joyes within her hart,
But straight she hyeth to Juliet; to her she telles, apart,
What happy talke, by meane of her, was past no rather
Betwene the wooing Paris and her careful loving father.
The person of the man, the features of his face,
His youthfull yeres, his fayrenes, and his port, and seemely grace,
With curious woordes she payntes before her daughters eyes,
And then with store of vertues prayse she heaves him to the skyes.
She vauntes his race, and gyftes that Fortune did him geve,
Whereby she sayth, both she and hers in great delight shall live.
When Juliet conceved her parentes whole entent,
Whereto both love and reasons right forbod her to assent,
Within herselfe she thought rather than be forsworne,
With horses wilde her tender partes asunder should be torne.
Not now, with bashful brow, in wonted wise, she spake,
But with unwonted boldnes straight into these wordes she brake:

“Madame, I marvell much, that you so lavasse are
Of me your childe your jewell once, your onely joy and care,
As thus to yelde me up at pleasure of another,
Before you know if I do lyke or els mislike my lover.
Doo what you list; but yet of this assure you still,
If you do as you say you will, I yelde not there untill.
For had I choyse of twayne, farre rather would I choose
My part of all your goodes and eke my breath and lyfe to loose,
Then graunt that he possess of me the smallest part:
Fyrst, weary of my painefull lyfe, my cares shall kill my hart;
Els will I perce my brest with sharpe and bloody knife;
And you, my mother, shall becomme the murdresse of my lyfe,
In geving me to him whom I ne can, ne may,
Ne ought, to love: wherefore, on knees, deere mother, I you pray,
To let me live henceforth, as I have lived tofore;
Ceasse all your troubles for my sake, and care for me no more;
But suffer Fortune feerce to worke on me her will,
In her it lyeth to do me boote, in her it lyeth to spill.
For whilst you for the best desyre to place me so,
You hast away my lingring death, and double all my woe.”

So deepe this aunswere made the sorrowes downe to sinke
Into the mothers brest, that she ne knoweth what to thinke

Of these her daughters woords, but all appalde she standes,
And up unto the heavens she throwes her wondring head and handes.
And, nigh besyde her selfe, her husband hath she sought;
She telles him all; she doth forget ne yet she hydeth ought.
The testy old man, wroth, disdainfull without measure,
Sendes forth his folke in haste for her, and byds them take no leysure;
Ne on her tears or plaint at all to have remorse,
But, if they cannot with her will, to bring the mayde perforce.
The message heard, they part, to fetch that they must fet,
And willingly with them walkes forth obedient Juliet.
Arrived in the place, when she her father saw,
Of whom, as much as duety would, the daughter stoode in awe,
The servantes sent away (the mother thought it meete),
The wofull daughter all bewept fell groveling at his feete,
Which she doth wash with teares as she thus groveling lyes;
So fast and eke so plenteously distill they from her eyes:
When she to call for grace her mouth doth thinke to open,
Muet she is; for sighes and sobs her fearefull talke have broken.

The syre, whose swelling wroth her teares could not asswage,
With fiery eyen, and skarlet cheekes, thus spake her in his rage
(Whilst ruthfully stood by the maydens mother mylde):
“Listen (quoth he) unthankfull and thou disobedient childe;
Hast thou so soone let slip out of thy mynde the woord,
That thou so often times hast heard rehearsed at my boord?
How much the Romayne youth of parentes stoode in awe,
And eke what powre upon theyr seede the parentes had by lawe?
Whom they not onely might pledge, alienate, and sell,
(When so they stoode in neede) but more, if children did rebell,
The parentes had the powre of lyfe and sodayn death.
What if those good men should agayne receve the living breth?
In how straight bondes would they the stubborne body bynde?
What weapons would they seeke for thee? what torments would they fynde.
To chasten, if they saw the lewdness of thy life,
Thy great unthankfulnes to me, and shameful sturdy stryfe?
Such care thy mother had, so deere thou wert to mee,
That I with long and earnest sute provyded have for thee
One of the greatest lordes that wonnes about this towne,
And for his many vertues sake a man of great renowne.
Of whom both thou and I unworthy are too much,
So rich ere long he shal be left, his fathers welth is such,
Such is the noblenes and honor of the race
From whence his father came: and yet thou playest in this case
The dainty foole and stubborne gyrle; for want of skill
Thou dost refuse thy offered weale, and disobey my will.

Even by his strength I sweare, that fyrst did geve me lyfe,
And gave me in my youth the strength to get thee on my wyfe,
Onlesse by Wensday next thou bend as I am bent,
And at our castle cald Freetowne thou freely do assent
To Countie Paris sute, and promise to agree
To whatsoever then shall passe twixt him, my wife, and me,
Not only will I geve all that I have away
From thee, to those that shall me love, me honor, and obay,
But also to so close and to so hard a gayle
I shall thee wed, for all thy life, that sure thou shalt not fayle
A thousand times a day to wishe for sodayn death,
And curse the day and howre when fyrst thy lunges did geve thee breath.
Advise thee well, and say that thou are warned now,
And thinke not that I speake in sporte, or mynde to break my vowe.
For were it not that I to Counte Paris gave
My fayth, which I must keepe unfalst, my honor so to save,
Ere thou go hence, my selfe would see thee chastned so,
That thou shouldst once for all be taught thy dutie how to knowe;
And what revenge of olde the angry syres did fynde
Agaynst theyre children that rebeld, and shewd them selfe unkinde.”

These sayde, the olde man straight is gone in haste away;
Ne for his daughters aunswere would the testy father stay.
And after him his wyfe doth follow out of doore,
And there they leave theyr chidden childe kneeling upon the floore,
Then she that oft had seene the fury of her syre.
Dreading what might come of his rage, nould farther styrre his yre.
Unto her chaumber she withdrew her selfe aparte,
Where she was wonted to unlode the sorrows of her hart.
There did she not so much busy her eyes in sleping,
As (overprest with restles thoughts) in piteous booteless weeping.
The fast falling of teares make not her teares decrease,
Ne, by the powring forth of playnt, the cause of plaint to cease.
So that to thend the mone and sorow may decaye,
The best is that she seeke somme meane to take the cause away.
Her wery bed betyme the woful wight forsakes,
And to saint Frauncis church, to masse, her way devoutly takes.
The fryer forth is calde; she prayes him heare her shrift;
Devotion is in so young yeres a rare and pretious gyft.
When on her tender knees the daynty lady kneeles,
In mynde to powre foorth all the greefe that inwardly she feeles,
With sighes and salted teares her shriving doth beginne,
For she of heaped sorrowes hath to speake, and not of sinne

Her voyce with piteous playnt was made already horce,
And hasty sobs, when she would speake, brake of her woordes perforce.
But as she may, peace meale, she powreth in his lappe
The mariage newes, a mischefe new, prepared by mishappe;
Her parentes promise erst to Counte Paris past,
Her fathers threats she telleth him, and thus concludes at last:
“Once was I wedded well, ne will I wed againe;
For since I know I may not be the wedded wife of twaine,
(For I am bound to have one God, one fayth, one make,)
My purpose is as soone as I shall hence my jorney take,
With these two handes, which joynde unto the heavens I stretch,
The hasty death which I desyre, unto my selfe to reach.
This day, O Romeus, this day, thy wofull wife
Will bring the end of all her cares by ending carefull lyfe.
So my departed sprite shall witnes to the skye,
And eke my blood unto the earth beare record, how that I
Have kept my fayth unbroke, stedfast unto my frend.”

When thys her heavy tale was told, her vowe eke at an ende,
Her gasing here and there, her feerce and staring looke,
Did witnes that some lewd attempt her hart had undertooke.
Whereat the fryer astonde, and gastfully afrayde
Lest she by dede perfourme her woord, thus much to her he sayde:
“Ah! Lady Juliet, what nede the wordes you spake?
I pray you, graunt me one request, for blessed Maries sake.
Measure somewhat your greefe, hold here a while your peace,
Whilst I bethinke me of your case, your plaint and sorowes cease.
Such comfort will I geve you, ere you part from hence,
And for thassaults of Fortunes yre prepare so sure defence,
So holesome salve will I for your afflictions fynde,
That you shall hence depart againe with well contented mynde.”
His wordes have chased straight out of her hart despayre,
Her blacke and ougly dredfull thoughts by hope are waxen fayre.
So fryer Lawrence now hath left her there alone,
And he out of the church in haste is to the chaumber gonne;
Where sundry thoughtes within his carefull head aryse;
The old mans foresight divers doutes hath set before his eyes.
His conscience one while condemns it for a sinne
To let her take Paris to spouse, since he him selfe hath byn
The chefest cause that she unknown to father or to mother,
Nor five monthes past, in that selfe place was wedded to another.
An other while an hugy heape of daungers dred
His restles thoughts hath heaped up within his troubled hed.
Even of itselfe thattempte he judgeth perilous;
The execution eke he demes so much more daungerous,
That to a womans grace he must him selfe commit,
That yong is, simple and unware, for waighty affayres unfit.

For, if she fayle in ought, the matter published,
Both she and Romeus were undonne, him selfe eke punished.
When too and fro in mynde he dyvers thoughts had cast,
With tender pity and with ruth his hart was wonne at last;
He thought he rather would in hazard set his fame,
Then suffer such adultery. Resolving on the same,
Out of his closet straight he tooke a little glasse,
And then with double hast retornde where woful Juliet was;
Whom he hath found wel nigh in traunce, scarce drawing breath,
Attending still to heare the newes of lyfe or els of death.
Of whom he did enquire of the appoynted day;
“On Wensday next, (quoth Juliet) so doth my father say,
I must geve my consent; but, as I do remember,
The solemne day of mariage is the tenth day of September.”
“Deere daughter, (quoth the fryer) of good cheere see thou be,
For loe! sainct Frauncis of his grace hath shewde a way to me,
By which I may both thee and Romeus together,
Out of the bondage which you feare, assuredly deliver.
Even from the holy font thy husband have I knowne,
And, since he grew in yeres, have kept his counsels as myne owne.
For from his youth he would unfold to me his hart,
And often have I cured him of anguish and of smart:
I knowe that by desert his frendship I have wonne,
And him do holde as deere, as if he were my propre sonne.
Wherefore my frendly hart can not abyde that he
Should wrongfully in oughte be harmde, if that it lay in me
To right or to revenge the wrong by my advise,
Or timely to prevent the same in any other wise.
And sith thou art his wyfe, thee am I bound to love,
For Romeus friendship sake, and seeke thy anguish to remove,
And dredful torments, which thy hart besegen rounde;
Wherefore, my daughter, geve good care unto my counsels sounde.
Forget not what I say, ne tell it any wight,
Not to the nurce thou trustest so, as Romeus is thy knight.
For on this threed doth hang thy death and eke thy life,
My fame or shame, his weale or woe that chose thee to his wyfe.
Thou art not ignorant, because of such renowne
As every where is spred of me, but chefely in this towne,
That in my youthfull dayes abrode I travayled,
Through every lande found out by men, by men inhabited;
So twenty yeres from home, in landes unknowne a gest,
I never gave my weary limmes long time of quiet rest,
But, in the desert woodes, to beastes of cruell kinde,
Or on the seas to drenching waves, at pleasure of the winde,
I have committed them, to ruth of rovers hand,
And to a thousand daungers more, by water and by lande.
But not, in vayne, my childe, hath all my wandring byn;
Beside the great contentednes my sprete abydeth in,

That by the pleasant thought of passed thinges doth grow,
One private frute more have I pluckd, which thou shalt shortly know:
What force the stones, the plants, and metals have to worke,
And divers other thinges that in the bowels of earth do loorke,
With care I have sought out, with payne I did them prove;
With them eke can I helpe my selfe at times of my behove,
(Although the science be against the lawes of men)
When sodayn daunger forceth me; but yet most cheefly when
The worke to doe is least displeasing unto God
(Not helping to do any sin that wrekefull Jove forbode.)
For since in lyfe no hope of long abode I have,
But now am comme unto the brinke of my appoynted grave,
And that my death drawes nere, whose stripe I may not shonne,
But shall be calde to make account of all that I have donne,
Now ought I from henceforth more depely print in mynde
The judgment of the Lord, then when youthes folly made me blynde,
When love and fond desyre were boyling in my brest,
Whence hope and dred by striving thoughts had banishd frendly rest.
Know therefore, daughter, that with other gyftes which I
Have well attained to, by grace and favour of the skye,
Long since I did finde out, and yet the waye I knowe,
Of certain rootes and savory herbes to make a kynd of dowe.
Which baked hard, and bet into a powder fyne,
And dranke with conduite water, or with any kynd of wine,
It doth in half an howre astone the taker so,
And mastreth all his sences, that he feeleth weale nor woe:
And so it burieth up the sprite and living breath,
That even the skilful leche would say, that he is slayne by death.
One vertue more it hath, as mervelous as this;
The taker, by receiving it, at all not greeved is;
But paineless as a man that thinketh nought at all,
Into a sweete and quiet slepe immediately doth fall;
From which, according to the quantitie he taketh,
Longer or shorter is the time before the sleper waketh:
And thence (theffect once wrought) againe it doth restore
Him that receaved unto the state wherein he was before.
Wherefore, marke well the ende of this my tale begonne,
And thereby learne what is by thee hereafter to be donne.
Cast off from thee at once the weede of womannish dread,
With manly courage arme thyselfe from heele unto the head;
For onely on the feare or boldnes of thy brest
The happy happe or yll mishappe of thy affayre doth rest.
Receve this vyoll small and kepe it as thine eye;
And on the marriage day, before the sunne doe cleare the skye,

Fill it with water full up to the very brim,
Then drink it of, and thou shalt feele throughout eche vayne and lym
A pleasant slumber slyde, and quite dispred at length
On all thy partes, from every part reve all thy kindly strength;
Withouten moving thus thy ydle partes shall rest,
No pulse shall goe, ne hart once beate within thy hollow brest,
But thou shalt lye as she that dyeth in a traunce:
Thy kinsmen and thy trusty frendes shall wayle the sodayne chaunce;
The corps then will they bring to grave in this churcheyarde,
Where thy forefathers long agoe a costly tombe preparde,
Both for them selfe and eke for those that should come after,
(Both depe it is, and long and large) where thou shalt rest, my daughter,
Till I to Mantua sende for Romeus, thy knight;
Out of the tombe both he and I will take thee forth that night.
And when out of thy slepe thou shalt awake agayne,
Then may'st thou goe with him from hence; and, healed of thy payne,
In Mantua lead with him unknowne a pleasant lyfe;
And yet perhaps in tyme to comme, when cease shall all the stryfe,
And that the peace is made twixt Romeus and his foes,
My selfe may finde so fit a time these secretes to disclose,
Both to my prayse, and to thy tender parentes joy,
That dangerles, without reproche, thou shalt thy love enjoy.”

When of his skilfull tale the fryer had made an ende,
To which our Juliet so well her care and wits did bend,
That she hath heard it all and hath forgotten nought,
Her fainting hart was comforted with hope and pleasant thought,
And then to him she sayd—“Doubt not but that I will
With stout and unapauled hart your happy hest fulfill.
Yea, if I wist it were a venemous dedly drinke,
Rather would I that through my throte the certaine bane should sinke,
Then I, not drinking it, into his handes should fall,
That hath no part of me as yet, ne ought to have at all.
Much more I ought with bold and with a willing hart
To greatest daunger yeld my selfe, and to the dedly smart,
To come to him on whom my life doth wholly stay,
That is my onely harts delight, and so he shall be aye.”
Then goe, quoth he, my childe, I pray that God on hye
Direct thy foote, and by thy hand upon the way thee gye.
God graunt he so confirme in thee thy present will,
That no inconstant toy thee let thy promise to fulfill.”

A thousand thankes and more our Juliet gave the frier,
And homeward to her fathers house joyfull she doth retyre;

And as with stately gate she passed through the streate,
She saw her mother in the doore, that with her there would meete,
In mynde to aske if she her purpose yet dyd holde,
In mynde also, apart twixt them, her duety to have tolde;
Wherefore with pleasant face, and with her wonted chere,
As soone as she was unto her approched somewhat nere,
Before the mother spake, thus did she fyrst begin:
“Madame, at sainct Frauncis churche have I this morning byn,
Where I did make abode a longer while, percase,
Then dewty would; yet have I not been absent from this place
So long a while, without a great and just cause why;
This frute have I receaved there;—my hart, erst lyke to dye,
Is now revived agayne, and my afflicted brest,
Released from affliction, restored is to rest!
For lo! my troubled gost, alas too sore diseasde
By gostly counsell and advise hath fryer Lawrence easde;
To whom I dyd at large discourse my former lyfe,
And in confession did I tell of all our passed stryfe:
Of Counte Paris sute, and how my lord, my syre,
By my ungrate and stubborne stryfe I styrred unto yre;
But lo, the holy fryer hath by his gostly lore
Made me another woman now than I had been before.
By strength of argumentes he charged so my mynde,
That, though I sought no sure defence my searching thought could find.
So forced I was at length to yield up witles will,
And promist to be ordered by the fryers praysed skill.
Wherefore, albeit I had rashely, long before,
The bed and rytes of mariage for many yeres forswore,
Yet mother, now behold your daughter at your will,
Ready, if you commaunde her aught, your pleasure to fulfill.
Wherefore in humble wise, dere madam, I you pray,
To go unto my lord and syre, withouten long delay;
Of hym fyrst pardon crave of faultes already past,
And shew him, if it pleaseth you, his child is now at last
Obedient to his just and to his skilfull hest,
And that I will, God lending lyfe, on Wensday next, be prest
To wayte on him and you, unto thappoynted place,
Where I will, in your hearing, and before my fathers face,
Unto the Counte geve my fayth and whole assent,
And take him for my lord and spouse; thus fully am I bent;
And that out of your mynde I may remove all doute,
Unto my closet fare I now, to searche and to choose out
The bravest garmentes and the richest jewels there,
Which, better him to please, I mynde on Wensday next to weare;
For if I did excell the famous Gretian rape,
Yet might attyre helpe to amende my bewty and my shape.”

The simple mother was rapt into great delight;
Not halfe a word could she bring forth, but in this joyfull plight
With nimble foote she ran, and with unwonted pace,
Unto her pensive husband, and to him with pleasant face
She tolde what she had heard, and prayseth much the fryer;
And joyfull teares ranne downe the cheekes of this gray-berded syer.
With hands and eyes heaved-up he thankes God in his hart,
And then he sayth: “This is not, wyfe, the fryers first desart;
Oft hath he showde to us great frendship heretofore,
By helping us at nedefull times with wisdomes pretious lore.
In all our common weale scarce one is to be founde
But is, for somme good torne, unto this holy father bounde.
Oh that the thyrd part of my goodes (I doe not fayne)
But twenty of his passed yeres might purchase him agayne!
So much in recompence of frendship would I geve,
So much, in fayth, his extreme age my frendly hart doth greeve.”

These said, the glad old man from home goeth straight abrode,
And to the stately palace hyeth where Paris made abode;
Whom he desyres to be on Wensday next his geast,
At Freetowne, where he myndes to make for him a costly feast.
But loe, the earle saith, such feasting were but lost,
And counsels him till mariage time to spare so great a cost.
For then he knoweth well the charges will be great;
The whilst, his hart desyreth still her sight, and not his meate.
He craves of Capilet that he may straight goe see
Fayre Juliet; wherto he doth right willingly agree.
The mother, warnde before, her daughter doth prepare;
She warneth and she chargeth her that in no wyse she spare
Her courteous speche, her pleasant lookes, and commely grace,
But liberally to geve them foorth when Paris commes in place:
Which she as cunningly could set forth to the shew,
As cunning craftsman to the sale do set theyr wares on rew;
That ere the County dyd out of her sight depart,
So secretly unwares to him she stale away his hart,
That of his lyfe and death the wily wench hath powre;
And now his longing hart thinkes long for theyr appoynted howre
And with importune sute the parents doth he pray
The wedlocke knot to knit soone up, and hast the mariage day.

The woer hath past forth the fyrst day in this sort,
And many other more then this, in pleasure and disport.
At length the wished time of long hoped delight
(As Paris thought) drew nere; but nere approched heavy plight.
Agaynst the bridall day the parentes did prepare
Such rich attyre, such furniture, such store of dainty fare,
That they which did behold the same the night before,
Did thinke and say, a man could scarcely wish for any more.

Nothing did seeme to deere; the deerest thinges were bought;
And, as the written story sayth, in dede there wanted nought,
That longd to his degree, and honor of his stocke;
But Juliet, the whilst, her thoughts within her brest did locke;
Even from the trusty nurce, whose secretnes was tride,
The secret counsell of her hart the nurce-childe seekes to hyde.
For sith, to mocke her dame, she did not sticke to lye,
She thought no sinne with shew of truth to blear her nurces eye.
In chaumber secretly the tale she gan renew,
That at the doore she told her dame, as though it had been trew.
The flattring nurce dyd prayse the fryer for his skill,
And said that she had done right well by wit to order will.
She setteth forth at large the fathers furious rage,
And eke she prayseth much to her the second marriage;
And County Paris now she prayseth ten times more,
By wrong, then she her selfe by right had Romeus praysde before.
Paris shall dwell there still, Romeus shall not retourne;
What shall it boote her all her lyfe to languish still and mourne.
The pleasures past before she must account as gayne;
But if he doe retorne—what then?—for one she shall have twayne.
The one shall use her as his lawful wedded wyfe;
In wanton love with equal joy the other leade his lyfe;
And best shall she be sped of any townish dame,
Of husband and of paramour to fynde her chaunge of game.
These words and like the nurce did speake, in hope to please,
But greatly did these wicked wordes the ladies mynde disease;
But ay she hid her wrath, and seemed well content,
When dayly dyd the naughty nurce new argumentes invent.
But when the bryde perceived her howre aproched nere,
She sought, the best she could, to fayne, and tempered so her cheere,
That by her outward looke no living wight could gesse
Her inward woe; and yet anew renewde is her distresse.
Unto her chaumber doth the pensive wight repayre,
And in her hand a percher light the nurce beares up the stayre.
In Juliets chaumber was her wonted use to lye;
Wherefore her mistres, dreading that she should her work descrye,
As soone as she began her pallet to unfold,
Thinking to lye that night where she was wont to lye of olde,
Doth gently pray her seeke her lodging some where els;
And, lest the crafty should suspect, a ready reason telles.
“Dere frend, quoth she, you knowe, tomorrow is the day
Of new contract; wherefore, this night, my purpose is to pray
Unto the heavenly myndes that dwell above the skyes,
And order all the course of thinges as they can best devyse,
That they so smyle upon the doinges of tomorow,
That all the remnant of my lyfe may be exempt from sorow:

Wherefore, I pray you, leave me here alone this night,
But see that you tomorow comme before the dawning light,
For you must coorle my heare, and set on my attyre;”—
And easely the loving nurce did yelde to her desyre,
For she within her hed dyd cast before no doute;
She little knew the close attempt her nurce-child went about.

The nurce departed once, the chamber door shut close,
Assured that no living wight her doing might disclose,
So powred forth into the vyole of the fryer,
Water, out of a silver ewer, that on the boord stoode by her.
The slepy mixture made, fayre Juliet doth it hyde
Under her bolster soft, and so unto her bed she hyed:
Where divers novel thoughts arise within her hed,
And she is so invironed about with deadly dred,
That what before she had resolved undoubtedly
The same she calleth into doute: and lying doutefully
Whilst honest love did strive with dred of dedly payne,
With handes y-wrong, and weeping eyes, thus gan she to complaine:
“What, is there any one, beneth the heavens hye,
So much unfortunate as I? so much past hope as I?
What, am I not my selfe, of all that yet were borne,
The depest drenched in dispayre, and most in Fortunes skorne?
For loe the world for me hath nothing els to finde,
Beside mishap and wretchednes and anguish of the mynde;
Since that the cruell cause of my unhapines
Hath put me to this sodayne plonge, and brought to such distres.
As, to the end I may my name and conscience save,
I must devowre the mixed drinke that by me here I have,
Whose working and whose force as yet I do not know.—”
And of this piteous plaint began an other doute to growe:
“What do I know, (quoth she) if that this powder shall
Sooner or later then it should or els not woorke at all?
And then my craft descride as open as the day,
The peoples tale and laughing stocke shall I remain for aye.
And what know I, quoth she, if serpentes odious,
And other beastes and wormes that are of nature venomous,
That wonted are to lurke in darke caves under grounde,
And commonly, as I have heard, in dead mens tombes are found,
Shall harme me, yea or nay, where I shall lye as ded?—
Or how shall I that alway have in so freshe ayre been bred,
Endure the loathsome stinke of such an heaped store
Of carcases, not yet consumde, and bones that long before
Intombed were, where I my sleping place shall have,
Where all my auncesters do rest, my kindreds common grave?
Shall not the fryer and my Romeus, when they come,
Fynd me, if I awake before, y-stifled in the tombe?”

And whilst she in these thoughts doth dwell somwhat too long,
The force of her ymagining anon doth waxe so strong,

That she surmisde she saw, out of the hollow vaulte,
A grisly thing to looke upon, the carkas of Tybalt;
Right in the selfe same sort that she few dayes before
Had seene him in his blood embrewed, to death eke wounded sore.
And then when she agayne within her selfe had wayde
That quicke she should be buried there, and by his side be layde,
All comfortles, for she shall living feere have none,
But many a rotten carkas, and full many a naked bone;
Her daynty tender partes gan shever all for dred,
Her golden heares did stande upright upon her chillish hed.
Then pressed with the feare that she there lived in,
A sweate as colde as mountayne yse pearst through her slender skin,
That with the moysture hath wet every part of hers:
And more besides, she vainely thinkes, whilst vainly thus she feares,
A thousand bodies dead have compast her about,
And lest they will dismember her she greatly standes in doute.
But when she felt her strength began to weare away,
By little and little, and in her heart her feare encreased ay,
Dreading that weaknes might, or foolish cowardise,
Hinder the execution of the purposde enterprise,
As she had frantike been, in hast the glasse she cought,
And up she dranke the mixture quite, withouten farther thought.
Then on her brest she crost her armes long and small,
And so, her senses fayling her, into a traunce did fall.

And when that Phœbus bright heaved up his seemely hed,
And from the East in open skies his glistring rayes dispred,
The nurce unshut the doore, for she the key did keepe,
And douting she had slept to long, she thought to breake her slepe;
Fyrst softly dyd she call, then lowder thus did crye,
“Lady, you slepe to long, the earle will rayse you by and by.”
But wele away, in vayne unto the deafe she calles,
She thinkes to speake to Juliet, but speaketh to the walles.
If all the dredfull noyse that might on earth be found,
Or on the roaring seas, or if the dredfull thunders sound,
Had blowne into her eares, I thinke they could not make
The sleping wight before the time by any meanes awake;
So were the sprites of lyfe shut up, and senses thrald;
Wherewith the seely carefull nurce was wondrously apalde.
She thought to daw her now as she had donne of olde,
But loe, she found her parts were stiffe and more than marble colde;
Neither at mouth nor nose found she recourse of breth;
Two certaine argumentes were these of her untimely death.

Wherefore as one distraught she to her mother ranne,
With scratched face, and heare betorne, but no word speake she can,
At last with much adoe, “Dead (quoth she) is my childe;”
Now, “Out, alas,” the mother cryde;—and as a tiger wilde,
Whose whelpes, whilst she is gonne out of her den to pray,
The hunter gredy of his game doth kill or cary away;
So raging forth she ran unto her Juliets bed,
And there she found her derling and her onely comfort ded.
Then shriked she out as lowde as serve her would her breth,
And then, that pity was to heare, thus cryde she out on death:
“Ah cruell death (quoth she) that thus against all right,
Hast ended my felicitie, and robde my hartes delight,
Do now thy worst to me, once wreake thy wrath for all,
Even in despite I crye to thee, thy vengeance let thou fall.
Whereto stay I, alas! since Juliet is gonne?
Whereto live I since she is dead, except to wayle and mone?
Alacke, dere chylde, my teares for thee shall never cease;
Even as my dayes of lyfe increase, so shall my plaint increase:
Such store of sorow shall afflict my tender hart,
That dedly panges, when they assayle, shall not augment my smart.”
Then gan she so to sobbe, it seemde her hart would brast;
And while she cryeth thus, behold, the father at the last,
The County Paris, and of gentlemen a route,
And ladies of Verona towne and country round about,
Both kindreds and alies thether apace have preast,
For by theyr presence there they sought to honor so the feast;
But when the heavy news the byden geastes did heare,
So much they mournd, that who had seene theyr count'nance and theyr cheere,
Might easely have judgde by that that they had seene,
That day the day of wrath and eke of pity to have beene.
But more than all the rest the fathers hart was so
Smit with the heavy newes, and so shut up with sodayn woe,
That he ne had the powre his daughter to bewepe,
Ne yet to speake, but long is forsd his teares and plaint to kepe.
In all the hast he hath for skilfull leaches sent;
And, hearing of her passed life, they judge with one assent
The cause of this her death was inward care and thought;
And then with double force againe the doubled sorowes wrought.
If ever there hath been a lamentable day,
A day, ruthfull, unfortunate and fatall, then I say,
The same was it in which through Veron town was spred
The wofull newes how Juliet was sterved in her bed.
For so she was bemonde both of the young and olde,
That it might seeme to him that would the common plaint behold,

That all the common welth did stand in jeopardy;
So universal was the plaint, so piteous was the crye.
For lo, beside her shape and native bewties hewe,
With which, like as she grew in age, her vertues prayses grew,
She was also so wise, so lowly, and so mylde,
That, even from the hory head unto the witles chylde,
She wan the hartes of all, so that there was not one,
Ne great, ne small, but did that day her wretched state bemone.

Whilst Juliet slept, and whilst the other wepen thus,
Our fryer Lawrence hath by this sent one to Romeus,
A frier of his house, (there never was a better,
He trusted him even as himselfe) to whom he gave a letter,
In which he written had of every thing at length,
That past twixt Juliet and him, and of the powders strength;
The next night after that, he willeth him to comme
To helpe to take his Juliet out of the hollow toombe,
For by that time, the drinke, he saith, will cease to woorke,
And for one night his wife and he within his cell shall loorke;
Then shall he cary her to Mantua away,
(Till fickell Fortune favour him,) disguysde in mans aray.

This letter closde he sendes to Romeus by his brother;
He chargeth him that in no case he geve it any other.
Apace our frier John to Mantua him hyes;
And, for because in Italy it is a wonted gyse
That friers in the towne should seledome walke alone,
But of theyr covent aye should be accompanide with one
Of his profession, straight a house he fyndeth out,
In mynd to take some fryer with him, to walke the towne about.
But entred once, he might not issue out agayne,
For that a brother of the house a day before or twayne
Dyed of the plague, a sicknes which they greatly feare and hate;
So were the brethren charged to keepe within their covent gate,
Bard of theyr fellowship that in the towne do wonne;
The towne folke eke commaunded are the fryers house to shonne,
Till they that had the care of health theyr fredome should renew;
Whereof, as you shall shortly heare, a mischeefe great there grewe.
The fryer by this restraint, beset with dred and sorow,
Not knowing what the letters held, differd untill the morowe;
And then he thought in time to send to Romeus.
But whilst at Mantua, where he was, these doinges framed thus,
The towne of Juliets byrth was wholy busied
About her obsequies, to see theyr darling buried.
Now is the parentes myrth quite chaunged into mone,
And now to sorow is retornde the joy of every one;
And now the wedding weades for mourning weades they chaunge,
And Hymene into a dyrge;—alas! it seemeth straunge:

Insteade of mariage gloves, now funerall gloves they have,
And whom they should see married, they follow to the grave.
The feast that should have been of pleasure and of joy,
Hath every dish and cup fild full of sorow and annoye.

Now throughout Italy this common use they have,
That all the best of every stocke are earthed in one grave;
For every houshold, if it be of any fame;
Doth bylde a tombe, or digge a vault, that beares the houshouldes name;
Wherein, if any of that kindred hap to dye,
They are bestowde; els in the same no other corps may lye.
The Capilets her corps in such a one did lay,
Where Tybalt slaine of Romeus was layde the other day.
An other use there is, that whosoever dyes,
Borne to their church with open face upon the beere he lyes,
In wonted weede attyrde, not wrapt in winding sheet.
So, as by chaunce he walked abrode, our Romeus man did meete
His masters wife; the sight with sorowe straight did wounde
His honest heart; with teares he saw her lodged under ground.
And, for he had been sent to Verone for a spye,
The doinges of the Capilets by wisdom to descrye,
And, for he knew her death dyd tooch his maister most,
Alas! too soone, with heavy newes, he hyed away in post;
And in his house he found his maister Romeus,
Where he, besprent with many teares, began to speake him thus:
“Syr, unto you of late is chaunced so great a harme,
That sure, except with constancy you seeke yourselfe to arme,
I feare that straight you will breathe out your latter breath,
And I, most wretched wight, shall be thoccasion of your death.
Know syr, that yesterday, my lady and your wife,
I wot not by what sodain greefe, hath made exchaunge of life;
And for because on earth she found nought but unrest,
In heaven hath she sought to fynde a place of quiet rest;
And with these weping eyes my selfe have seene her layde,
Within the tombe of Capilets:”—and herewithall he stayde.
This sodayne message sounde, sent forth with sighes and teares,
Our Romeus receaved too soone with open listening eares;
And therby hath sonke in such sorow in his hart,
That loe, his sprite annoyed sore with torment and with smart,
Was like to break out of his prison-house perforce,
And that he might flye after hers, would leave the massy corce:
But earnest love that will not fayle him till his ende,
This fond and sodain fantasy into his head dyd sende:
That if nere unto her he offred up his breath,
That then an hundred thousand parts more glorious were his death:

Eke should his painfull hart a great deale more be eased,
And more also, he vainely thought, his lady better pleased.
Wherefore when he his face hath washt with water cleane,
Lest that the staynes of dryed teares might on his cheekes be seene,
And so his sorow should of every one be spyde,
Which he with all his care did seeke from every one to hyde,
Straight, wery of the house, he walketh forth abrode:
His servant, at the masters hest, in chaumber still abode;
And then fro streate to streate he wandreth up and downe,
To see if he in any place may fynde, in all the towne,
A salve meet for his sore, an oyle fit for his wounde;
And seeking long, alac too soone! the thing he sought, he founde.
An apothecary sate unbusied at his doore,
Whom by his heavy countenance he gessed to be poore.
And in his shop he saw his boxes were but few,
And in his window of his wares there was so small a shew;
Wherefore our Romeus assuredly hath thought,
What by no friendship could be got, with money could be bought;
For nedy lacke is lyke the poor man to compell
To sell that which the cities lawe forbiddeth him to sell.
Then by the hand he drew the nedy man apart,
And with the sight of glittering gold inflamed hath his hart:
“Take fiftie crownes of gold (quoth he) I geve them thee,
So that, before I part from hence, thou straight deliver me
Somme poyson strong, that may in lesse than halfe an howre
Kill him whose wretched hap shall be the potion to devowre.”
The wretch by covetise is wonne, and doth assent
To sell the thing, whose sale ere long, too late, he doth repent.
In haste he poyson sought, and closely he it bounde,
And then began with whispering voyce thus in his eare to rounde:
“Fayr syr, quoth he, be sure this is the speding gere,
And more there is than you shall nede; for halfe of that is there
Will serve, I undertake, in lesse than halfe an howre
To kill the strongest man alive; such is the poysons power.”

Then Romeus, somwhat easd of one part of his care,
Within his bosome putteth up his dere unthrifty ware.
Retoorning home agayne, he sent his man away,
To Verone towne, and chargeth him that he, without delay,
Provyde both instruments to open wide the toombe,
And lightes to shew him Juliet; and stay, till he shall comme,
Nere to the place whereas his loving wife doth rest,
And chargeth him not to bewray the dolours of his brest.
Peter, these heard, his leave doth of his master take;
Betimes he commes to towne, such hast the painfull man dyd make:

And then with busy care he seeketh to fulfill,
But doth disclose unto no wight his wofull maisters will.
Would God, he had herein broken his maisters hest!
Would God, that to the frier he had disclosed all his brest!
But Romeus the while with many a dedly thought
Provoked much, hath caused inke and paper to be brought,
And in few lines he did of all his love dyscoorse,
How by the friers helpe, and by the knowlege of the noorse,
The wedlocke knot was knit, and by what meane that night
And many moe he did enjoy his happy hartes delight;
Where he the poyson bought, and how his lyfe should ende;
And so his wailefull tragedy the wretched man hath pend.

The letters closd and seald, directed to his syre,
He locketh in his purse, and then a post-hors doth he hyre.
When he approched nere, he warely lighted downe,
And even with the shade of night he entred Verone towne;
Where he hath found his man, wayting when he should comme,
With lanterne, and with instruments to open Juliets toomme.
Helpe Peter, helpe, quod he, helpe to remove the stone,
And straight when I am gone fro thee, my Juliet to bemone,
See that thou get thee hence, and on the payne of death
I charge thee that thou comme not nere while I abyde beneath,
Ne seeke thou not to let thy masters enterprise,
Which he hath fully purposed to doe, in any wise.
Take there a letter, which, as soon as he shall ryse,
Present it in the morning to my loving fathers eyes;
Which unto him perhaps farre pleasanter shall seeme,
Than eyther I do mynd to say, or thy grose head can deeme.

Now Peter, that knew not the purpose of his hart,
Obediently a little way withdrewe himselfe apart;
And then our Romeus, the vault stone set up upright,
Descended downe, and in his hand he bare the candle light.
And then with piteous eye the body of his wyfe
He gan behold, who surely was the organ of his lyfe;
For whom unhappy now he is, but erst was blyst;
He watred her with teares, and then a hundred times her kyst;
And in his folded armes full straightly he her plight,
But no way could his greedy eyes be filled with her sight:
His fearfull handes he layde upon her stomach colde.
And them on diverse parts besyde the wofull wight did hold.
But when he could not fynd the signes of lyfe he sought,
Out of his cursed box he drewe the poyson that he bought;
Whereof he gredely devowrde the greater part,
And then he cryde, with dedly sigh fetcht from his mourning hart—
“Oh Juliet, of whom the world unworthy was,
From which, for worldes unworthines thy worthy gost did passe,

What death more pleasant could my hart wish to abyde
Then that which here it suffreth now, so nere thy frendly syde?
Or els so glorious tombe how could my youth have craved,
As in one selfe same vaulte with thee haply to be ingraved?
What epitaph more worth, or halfe so excellent,
To consecrate my memorye, could any man invent,
As this our mutual and our piteous sacrifice
Of lyfe, set light for love?”—but while he talketh in this wise,
And thought as yet a while his dolours to enforce,
His tender hart began to faynt, prest with the venoms force;
Which little and little gan to overcomme his hart,
And whilst his busy eyne he threwe about to every part,
He saw, hard by the corce of sleping Juliet,
Bold Tybalts carkas dead, which was not all consumed yet.
To whom, as having life, in this sort speaketh he:
“Ah cosin dere, Tybalt, where so thy restles sprite now be,
With stretched handes to thee for mercy now I crye,
For that before thy kindly howre I forced thee to dye.
But if with quenched lyfe not quenched be thine yre,
But with revengeing lust as yet thy hart be set on fyre,
What more amendes, or cruell wreake desyrest thou
To see on me, then this which here is shewd forth to thee now?
Who reft by force of armes from thee thy loving breath,
The same with his owne hand, thou seest, doth poyson himselfe to death.
And for he caused thee in tombe too soone to lye,
Too soone also, yonger then thou, himselfe he layeth by.”
These sayd, when he gan feele the poysons force prevayle,
And little and little mastred lyfe for aye began to fayle,
Kneeling upon his knees, he said with voyce full lowe,—
“Lord Christ, that so to raunsome me descendest long agoe
Out of thy fathers bosome, and in the virgins wombe
Didst put on fleshe, oh let my plaint out of this hollow toombe,
Perce through the ayre, and graunt my sute may favour finde;
Take pity on my sinneful and my poore affected mynde!
For well enough I know, this body is but clay,
Nought but a masse of sinne, to frayle, and subject to decay.”
Then pressed with extreme greefe he threw with so great force
His overpressed parts upon his ladies wayled corse,
That now his weakened hart, weakened with tormentes past,
Unable to abyde this pang, the sharpest and the last,
Remayned quite deprived of sense and kindly strength,
And so the long imprisoned soule hath freedome wonne at length.
Ah cruell death, too soone, too soone was this devorce,
Twixt youthfull Romeus heavenly sprite, and his fayre earthy corse.

The fryer that knew what time the powder had been taken,
Knew eke the very instant when the sleper should awaken;

But wondring that he could no kinde of aunswer heare,
Of letters which to Romeus his fellow fryer did beare,
Out of Saint Frauncis church hymselfe alone dyd fare,
And for the opening of the tombe meete instrumentes he bare.
Approching nigh the place, and seeing there the light,
Great horror felt he in his hart, by straunge and sodaine sight;
Till Peter, Romeus man, his coward hart made bolde,
When of his masters being there the certain newes he tolde:
“There hath he been, quoth he, this halfe howre at the least,
And in this time, I dare well say, his plaint hath still increast.”
Then both they entered in, where they alas! dyd fynde
The bretheles corps of Romeus, forsaken of the mynde;
Where they have made such mone, as they may best conceve,
That have with perfect frendship loved, whose frend feerce death dyd reve.
But whilst with piteous playnt they Romeus fate bewepe,
An howre too late fayre Juliet awaked out of slepe* ^note

And much amasde to see in tombe so great a light,
She wist not if she saw a dreame, or sprite that walkd by night.

But cumming to her selfe she knew them, and said thus:
“What, fryer Lawrence, is it you? where is my Romeus?”

And then the auncient frier, that greatly stood in feare
Lest if they lingred over long they should be taken theare,

In few plaine woordes the whole that was betyde, he tolde,
And with his fingar shewd his corps out-stretched, stiffe, and colde;
And then persuaded her with pacience to abyde
This sodain great mischaunce; and sayth, that he will soone provyde
In some religious house for her a quiet place,
Where she may spend the rest of lyfe, and where in time percase
She may with wisdomes meane measure her mourning brest,
And unto her tormented soule call back exiled rest.
But loe, as soon as she had cast her ruthfull eye
On Romeus face, that pale and wan fast by her side dyd lye,
Straight way she dyd unstop the conduites of her teares,
And out they gushe;—with cruell hand she tare her golden heares.

But when she neither could her swelling sorow swage,
Ne yet her tender hart abyde her sickness furious rage,
Falne on his corps she lay long panting on his face,
And then with all her force and strength the ded corps did embrace,
As though with sighes, with sobs, with force, and busy payne,
She would him rayse, and him restore from death to lyfe agayne:
A thousand times she kist his mouth, as cold as stone,
And it unkist againe as oft; then gan she thus to mone:
“Ah pleasant prop of all my thoughts, ah onely grounde
Of all the sweete delightes that yet in all my lyfe I founde,
Did such assured trust within thy hart repose,
That in this place and at this time, thy church-yard thou hast chose,
Betwixt the armes of me, thy perfect loving make,
And thus by meanes of me to ende thy life, and for my sake?
Even in the flowring of thy youth, when unto thee
Thy lyfe most deare (as to the most) and pleasant ought to bee,
How could this tender corps withstand the cruell fight
Of furious death, that wonts to fray the stoutest with his sight?
How could thy dainty youth agree with willing hart
In this so fowle infected place to dwell, where now thou art?
Where spitefull Fortune hath appoynted thee to bee
The dainty foode of greedy wormes, unworthy sure of thee.
Alas, alas, alas, what neded now anew
My wonted sorowes, doubled twise, againe thus to renewe:
Which both the time and eke my patient long abode
Should now at length have quenched quite, and under foote have trode?
Ah wretch and caytive that I am, even when I thought
To fynd my painfull passions salve, I myst the thing I sought;
And to my mortall harme the fatal knife I grounde,
That gave to me so depe, so wide, so cruell dedly wounde.
Ah thou, most fortunate and most unhappy tombe!
For thou shalt beare, from age to age, witnes in time to comme
Of the most perfect league betwixt a payre of lovers,
That were the most unfortunate and fortunate of others;
Receave the latter sigh, receave the latter pang,
Of the most cruell of cruell slaves that wrath and death ay wrang.”
And when our Juliet would continue still her mone,
The fryer and the servant fled, and left her there alone;
For they a sodayne noyse fast by the place did heare,
And lest they might be taken there, greatly they stoode in feare.
When Juliet saw herselfe left in the vaulte alone,
That freely she might woorke her will, for let or stay was none,

Then once for all she tooke the cause of all her harmes,
The body dead of Romeus, and clasped it in her armes;
Then she with earnest kisse sufficiently did prove,
That more than by the feare of death, she was attaint by love;
And then, past deadly feare, (for lyfe ne had she care)
With hasty hand she did draw out the dagger that he ware.
“O welcome death, quoth she, end of unhappines,
That also art beginning of assured happines,
Feare not to darte me nowe, thy stripe no longer stay,
Prolong no longer now my lyfe, I hate this long delaye;
For straight my parting sprite, out of this carkas fled,
At ease shall finde my Romeus sprite emong so many ded.
And thou my loving lord, Romeus, my trusty feer,
If knowledge yet doe rest in thee, if thou these woordes dost heer,
Receve thou her, whom thou didst love so lawfully,
That causd alas! thy violent death, although unwillingly;
And therefore willingly offers to thee her gost,
To thend that no wight els but thou might have just cause to boste
Thinjoying of my love, which ay I have reserved
Free from the rest, bound unto thee, that hast it well deserved:
That so our parted sprites from light that we see here,
In place of endlesse light and blisse may ever live y-fere.”
These said, her ruthlesse hand through gyrt her valiant hart:
Ah, ladies, helpe with teares to wayle the ladies dedly smart!
She grones, she stretcheth out her limmes, she shuttes her eyes,
And from her corps the sprite doth flye;—what should I say? she dies.
The watchemen of the towne the whilst are passed by,
And through the gates the candle light within the tombe they spye;
Whereby they did suppose inchaunters to be comme,
That with prepared instruments had opend wide the tombe,
In purpose to abuse the bodies of the ded,
Which, by their science ayde abusde, do stand them oft in sted.
Theyr curious harts desyre the truth hereof to know;
Then they by certaine steppes descend, where they do fynd below,
In clasped armes y-wrapt the husband and the wyfe,
In whom as yet they seemd to see somme certaine markes of lyfe.
But when more curiously with leysure they did vew,
The certainty of both theyr deathes assuredly they knew:
Then here and there so long with carefull eye they sought,
That at the length hidden they found the murthrers;—so they thought.
In dongeon depe that night they lodgde them under grounde;
The next day do they tell the prince the mischefe that they found.

The newes was by and by throughout the towne dyspred,
Both of the taking of the fryer, and of the two found ded.
Thether you might have seene whole housholdes forth to ronne,
For to the tombe where they did heare this wonder straunge was donne,
The great, the small, the riche, the poore, the yong, the olde,
With hasty pace do ronne to see, but rew when they beholde.
And that the murtherers to all men might be knowne,
(Like as the murders brute abrode through all the towne was blowne)
The prince did straight ordaine, the corses that were founde
Should be set forth upon a stage hye raysed from the grounde,
Right in the selfe same fourme, shewde forth to all mens sight,
That in the hollow valt they had been found that other night;
And eke that Romeus man and fryer Lawrence should
Be openly examined; for els the people would
Have murmured, or faynd there were some waighty cause
Why openly they were not calde, and so convict by lawes.

The holy fryer now, and reverent by his age,
In great reproche set to the shew upon the open stage,
(A thing that ill beseemde a man of silver heares)
His beard as whyte as mylke he bathes with great fast-falling teares:
Whom straight the dredfull judge commaundeth to declare
Both, how this murther had been donne, and who the murthrers are;
For that he nere the tombe was found at howres unfitte,
And had with hym those yron tooles for such a purpose fitte.
The frier was of lively sprite and free of speche,
The judges words appald him not, ne were his wittes to seeche.
But with advised heed a while fyrst did he stay,
And then with bold assured voyce aloud thus gan he say:
“My lordes, there is not one among you, set togyther,
So that, affection set aside, by wisdome he consider
My former passed lyfe, and this my extreme age,
And eke this heavy sight, the wreke of frantike Fortunes rage,
But that, amased much, doth wonder at this chaunge,
So great, so sodainly befalne, unlooked for, and straunge.
For I that in the space of sixty yeres and tenne,
Since fyrst I did begin, to soone, to lead my lyfe with men,
And with the worldes vaine thinges myselfe I did acquaint.
Was never yet, in open place, at any time attaynt
With any cryme, in weight as heavy as a rushe,
Ne is there any stander by can make me gylty blushe;
Although before the face of God I doe confesse
Myselfe to be the sinfulst wretch of all this mighty presse.

When readiest I am and likeliest to make
My great accompt, which no man els for me shall undertake;
When wormes, the earth, and death, doe cyte me every howre,
Tappeare before the judgment seat of everlasting powre,
And falling ripe I steppe upon my graves brinke,
Even then, am I, most wretched wight, as eche of you doth thinke,
Through my most haynous deede, with hedlong sway throwne downe,
In greatest daunger of my lyfe, and damage of renowne.
The spring, whence in your head this new conceite doth ryse,
(And in your hart increaseth still your vayne and wrong surmise)
May be the hugenes of these teares of myne, percase,
That so abundantly downe fall by eyther syde my face;
As though the memory in scriptures were not kept
That Christ our Saviour himselfe for ruth and pitie wept:
And more, who so will reade, y-written shall he fynde,
That teares are as true messengers of mans ungylty mynde.
Or els, a liker proofe that I am in the cryme,
You say these present yrons are, and the suspected time;
As though all howres alike had not been made above!
Did Christ not say, the day had twelve? whereby he sought to prove,
That no respect of howres ought justly to be had,
But at all times men have the choyce of doing good or bad;
Even as the sprite of God the harts of men doth guyde,
Or as it leaveth them to stray from vertues path asyde.
As for the yrons that were taken in my hand,
As now I deeme, I nede not seke to make ye understand
To what use yron first was made, when it began;
How of it selfe it helpeth not, ne yet can hurt a man.
The thing that hurteth is the malice of his will,
That such indifferent thinges is wont to use and order yll.
Thus much I thought to say, to cause you so to know
That neither these my piteous teares, though nere so fast they flowe,
Ne yet these yron tooles, nor the suspected time,
Can justly prove the murther donne, or damne me of the cryme:
No one of these hath powre, ne powre have all the three,
To make me other than I am, how so I seeme to be.
But sure my conscience, if I so gylt deserve,
For an appeacher, witnesse, and a hangman, eke should serve;
For through mine age, whose heares of long time since were hore,
And credyt greate that I was in, with you, in time tofore,
And eke the sojorne short that I on earth must make,
That every day and howre do loke my journey hence to take,

My conscience inwardly should more torment me thrise,
Then all the outward deadly payne that all you could devyse.
But God I prayse, I feele no worme that gnaweth me,
And from remorses pricking sting I joy that I am free:
I meane, as touching this, wherewith you troubled are,
Wherewith you should be troubled still, if I my speche should spare.
But to the end I may set all your hartes at rest,
And pluck out all the scrupuls that are rooted in your brest,
Which might perhappes henceforth increasing more and more,
Within your conscience also increase your curelesse sore,
I sweare by yonder heavens, whither I hope to clym,
(And for a witnes of my woordes my hart attesteth him,
Whose mighty hande doth welde them in theyr violent sway,
And on the rolling stormy seas the heavy earth doth stay)
That I will make a short and eke a true dyscourse
Of this most wofull tragedy, and shew both thend and sourse
Of theyr unhappy death, which you perchaunce no lesse
Will wonder at then they alas! poore lovers in distresse,
Tormented much in mynd, not forcing lively breath,
With strong and patient hart did yelde them selfe to cruell death:
Such was the mutual love wherein they burned both,
And of theyr promyst frendshippes fayth so stedy was the troth.”

And then the auncient fryer began to make discourse,
Even from the first, of Romeus and Juliets amours;
How first by sodayn sight the one the other chose,
And twixt them selfe dyd knitte the knotte which onely death might lose;
And how, within a while, with hotter love opprest,
Under confessions cloke, to him themselfe they have addrest;
And how with solemne othes they have protested both,
That they in hart are maried by promise and by othe;
And that except he graunt the rytes of church to geve,
They shall be forst by earnest love in sinneful state to live:
Which thing when he had wayde, and when he understoode
That the agreement twixt rhem twayne was lawfull, honest, good,
And all thinges peysed well, it seemed meet to bee
(For lyke they were of noblenesse, age, riches, and degree);
Hoping that so at length ended might be the stryfe
Of Montagewes and Capelets, that led in hate theyr lyfe,
Thinking to woorke a woorke well-pleasing in Gods sight,
In secret shrift he wedded them; and they the selfe same night
Made up the mariage in house of Capilet,
As well doth know (if she be askt) the nurce of Juliet.
He told how Romeus fled for reving Tybalts lyfe,
And how, the whilst, Paris the earle was offred to his wife;
And how the lady dyd so great a wrong dysdayne,
And how to shrift unto his church she came to him agayne;

And how she fell flat downe before his feete aground,
And how she sware, her hand and blody knife should wound
Her harmeles hart, except that he some meane dyd fynde
To dysappoynt the earles attempt: and spotles save her mynde.
Wherefore, he doth conclude, although that long before
By thought of death and age he had refusde for evermore
The hidden artes which he delighted in, in youth,
Yet wonne by her importunenes, and by his inward ruth,
And fearing lest she would her cruell vowe dyscharge,
His closed conscience he had opened and set at large;
And rather did he choose to suffer for one tyme
His soule to be spotted somdeale with small and easy cryme,
Then that the lady should, wery of lyving breath,
Murther her selfe, and daunger much her seely soule by death:
Wherefore his auncient artes agayne he puts in ure,
A certain powder gave he her, that made her slepe so sure,
That they her held for dead; and how that fryer John
With letters sent to Romeus to Mantua is gone;
Of whom he knoweth not as yet, what is become;
And how that ded he found his frend within her kindreds tombe.
He thinkes with poyson strong, for care the yong man stervde,
Supposing Juliet dead; and how that Juliet hath carved,
With Romeus dagger drawne her hart, and yelded breath,
Desyrous to accompany her lover after death;
And how they could not save her, so they were afeard,
And hidde themselfe, dreading the noyse of watchmen, that they heard.
And for the proofe of this his tale, he doth desyer
The judge to send forthwith to Mantua for the fryer,
To learne his cause of stay, and eke to read his letter;
And, more beside, to thend that they might judge his cause the better,
He prayeth them depose the nurce of Juliet,
And Romeus man, whom at unawares besyde the tombe he met.

Then Peter, not so much, as erst he was, dismayd:
My lordes, quoth he, too true is all that fryer Laurence sayd.
And when my maister went into my mystres grave,
This letter that I offer you, unto me then he gave,
Which he him selfe dyd write, as I do understand,
And charged me to offer them unto his fathers hand.
The opened packet doth conteyne in it the same
That erst the skilfull fryer said; and eke the wretches name
That had at his request the dedly poyson sold,
The price of it, and why he bought, his letters plaine have tolde.
The case unfolded so and open now it lyes,
That they could wish no better proofe, save seeing it with theyr eyes:

So orderly all thinges were tolde, and tryed out,
That in the prease there was not one that stoode at all in doute.

The wyser sort, to counsell called by Escalus,
Have geven advyse, and Escalus sagely decreeth thus:
The nurse of Juliet is banisht in her age,
Because that from the parentes she dyd hyde the mariage,
Which might have wrought much good had it in time been knowne,
Where now by her concealing it a mischeefe great is growne;
And Peter, for he dyd obey his masters hest,
In woonted freedome had good leave to lead his lyfe in rest:
Thapothecary high is hanged by the throte,
And, for the paynes he tooke with him, the hangman had his cote.
But now what shall betyde of this gray-bearded syre,
Of fryer Laurence thus araynde, that good barefooted fryre?
Because that many time he woorthily did serve
The common welth, and in his lyfe was never found to swerve,
He was discharged quyte, and no mark of defame
Did seem to blot or touch at all the honor of his name.
But of himselfe he went into an hermitage,
Two miles from Veron towne, where he in prayers past forth his age;
Till that from earth to heaven his heavenly sprite dyd flye:
Fyve years he lived an hermite, and an hermite dyd he dye.
The straungnes of the chaunce, when tryed was the truth,
The Montagewes and Capelets hath moved so to ruth,
That with their emptyed teares theyr choler and theyr rage
Has emptied quite; and they, whose wrath no wisdom could asswage,
Nor threatening of the prince, ne mynd of murthers donne,
At length, (so mighty Jove it would) by pitye they are wonne.

And lest that length of time might from our myndes remove
The memory of so perfect, sound, and so approved love,
The bodies dead, removed from vaulte where they did dye,
In stately tombe, on pillars great of marble, rayse they hye.
On every side above were set, and eke beneath,
Great store of cunning epitaphes, in honor of theyr death.
And even at this day the tombe is to be seene * ^note;
So that among the monuments that in Verona been,

There is no monument more worthy of the sight,
Then is the tombe of Juliet and Romeus her knight. Imprinted at London in Flete Strete within Temble barre, at the signe of the hand and starre, by Richard Tottill the xix day of November, An. do. 1562.

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