Nurse.
Mistress, what mistress Juliet—Fast, I warrant her,
Why, lamb—why l,ady—Fy, you flug-a-bed—
Why, love, I say—Madam, sweet-heart—why, bride—
What, not a word! you take your penny-worths now.
Sleep for a week; for the next night, I warrant,
That you shall rest but little—Heav'n forgive me—
Marry and amen—How sound is she asleep?
I must needs wake her. Madam, madam, madam,
Ay, let the County take you in your bed—
He'll fright you up, i'faith. Will it not be?
What! drest, and in your clothes—and down again!
I must needs wake you. Lady, lady, lady—
Alas, alas! Help! help! my lady's dead,
O, well a-day, that ever I was born?
Hoa! my lord, my lady! Enter Lady Capulet.

La. Cap.
What noise is here?

Nurse.
O, lamentable day!

La. Cap.
What is the matter?

Nurse.
Look—oh, heavy day!

La. Cap.
Oh me, my child, my only life!
Revive, look up, or I will die with thee!
Help, help! call help. Enter Capulet.

Cap.
For shame, bring Juliet forth, her lord is come.

Nurse.
She's dead; she's dead. Alack the day!

Cap.
Ha! let me see her—Out, alas, she's cold,
Her blood is settled, and her joints are stiff;
Life and these lips have long been separated:
Death lies on her, like an untimely frost
Upon the sweetest flower of the field.
Accursed time! unfortunate old man! Enter Friar Lawrence, and Paris, with Musicians.

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

Cap.
Ready to go, but never to return.
O son, the night before the wedding day,
Death has embrac'd thy wife. See, there she lies,
Flower as she was, nipp'd in the bud by him!
Oh Juliet, oh, my child, my child!

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

Cap.
Most miserable hour, that time e'er saw,
In lasting labour of his pilgrimage.
But one, poor one, one poor and loving child,
But one thing to enjoy, and solace in,
And cruel death hath catcht it from my sight.

Fri.
Your daughter lives in peace and happiness;
Heav'n and yourself had part in this fair maid,
Now, Heav'n hath all—Dry up your fruitless tears.
Come, stick your rosemary on this fair corps,
And as the custom of our country is,
Convey her where her ancestors lie tomb'd.

Cap.
All things that we ordain'd to festival,
Turn from their office to black funeral:

Our instruments, to melancholy bells;
Our wedding cheer, to a sad burial feast:
Our solemn hymns, to sullen dirges change;
And bridal flowers serve for a burial coarse.

Fri.
Sir, go you in, and, madam, go with him;
And go, sir Paris, every one prepare
To follow this fair coarse unto her grave.
The Heav'ns do low'r upon you, for some ill;
Move them no more, by crossing their high will.* ^note [Exeunt. End of the Fourth Act.

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