Jul.
Gallop apace, you fiery-footed steeds,
Tow'rds Phœbus' mansion; such a waggoner,
As Phaeton, would whip you to the west,
And bring in cloudy night immediately.
Spread thy close curtain, love-performing night,(22) ^note

Leap to these arms, untalkt of and unseen.
Lovers can see to do their am'rous rites
By their own beauties: or if love be blind,
It best agrees with night. Come, civil night,
Thou sober-suited matron, all in black,
And learn me how to lose a winning match,
Plaid for a pair of stainless maidenheads.
Hood my unmann'd blood baiting in my cheeks,
With thy black mantle; 'till strange love, grown bold,
Thinks true love acted, simple modesty.
Come, night, come, Romeo! come, thou day in night!
For thou wilt lye upon the wings of night,
Whiter than snow upon a raven's back:
Come, gentle night; come, loving, black-brow'd night!
Give me my Romeo, and, when he shall die,
Take him and cut him out in little stars,
And he will make the face of heav'n so fine,
That all the world shall be in love with night,
And pay no worship to the garish sun.
O, I have bought the mansion of a love,
But not possess'd it; and though I am sold,
Not yet enjoy'd; so tedious is this day,
As is the night before some festival,
To an impatient child that hath new robes,
And may not wear them. O, here comes my nurse! Enter Nurse with cords.
And she brings news; and every tongue, that speaks
But Romeo's name, speaks heav'nly eloquence;
Now, nurse, what news? what hast thou there?
The cords that Romeo bid thee fetch?

Nurse.
Ay, ay, the cords.

Jul.
Ay me, what news?
Why dost thou wring thy hands?

Nurse.
Ah welladay, he's dead, he's dead, he's dead!

We are undone, lady, we are undone.—
Alack, the day! he's gone, he's kill'd, he's dead.

Jul.
Can heaven be so envious?

Nurse.
Romeo can,
Though heav'n cannot. O Romeo! Romeo!
Who ever would have thought it, Romeo?

Jul.
What devil art thou, that dost torment me thus?
This torture should be roar'd in dismal hell.
Hath Romeo slain himself? say thou but, I;
And that bare vowel, I, shall poison more(23) ^note

Than the death-darting eye of cockatrice.

Nurse.
I saw the wound, I saw it with mine eyes,
(God save the mark,) here on his manly breast.
A piteous coarse, a bloody piteous coarse;
Pale, pale as ashes, all bedawb'd in blood,
All in gore blood; I swooned at the sight.

Jul.
O break, my heart!—poor bankrupt, break at once!
To prison, eyes! ne'er look on liberty;
Vile earth to earth resign, end motion here,
And thou and Romeo press one heavy bier!

Nurse.
O Tybalt, Tybalt, the best friend I had:
O courteous Tybalt, honest gentleman,
That ever I should live to see thee dead!

Jul.
What storm is this, that blows so contrary?
Is Romeo slaughter'd? and is Tybalt dead?
My dear-lov'd cousin, and my dearer lord?
Then let the trumpet sound the general Doom,
For who is living, if those two are gone?

Nurse.
Tybalt is dead, and Romeo banished,
Romeo, that kill'd him, he is banished.

Jul.
O God! did Romeo's hand shed Tybalt's blood?

Nurse.
It did, it did, alas, the day! it did.

Jul.
O serpent heart, hid with a flowring face,
Did ever dragon keep so fair a cave?
Beautiful tyrant, fiend angelical!
Dove-feather'd raven! Wolvish-rav'ning Lamb!(24) ^note


Despised substance of divinest show!
Just opposite to what thou justly seem'st,
A damned Saint, an honourable villain!
O nature! what hadst thou to do in hell,
When thou didst bower the Spirit of a fiend
In mortal Paradise of such sweet flesh?
Was ever book containing such vile matter
So fairly bound? O that deceit should dwell
In such a gorgeous palace!

Nurse.
There's no trust,
No faith, no honesty in men; all perjur'd;
All, all forsworn; all naught; and all dissemblers.
Ah, where's my man? give me some Aqua vitæ—
These griefs, these woes, these sorrows make me old!
Shame come to Romeo!

Jul.
Blister'd be thy tongue,
For such a wish! he was not born to shame;
Upon his brow shame is asham'd to sit:
For 'tis a throne where honour may be crown'd
Sole monarch of the universal earth.
O, what a beast was I to chide him so?

Nurse.
Will you speak well of him that kill'd your cousin?

Jul.
Shall I speak ill of him, that is my husband?

Ah, poor my lord, what tongue shall smooth thy name,
When I, thy three-hours wife, have mangled it!
But wherefore, villain, didst thou kill my cousin?
That villain cousin would have kill'd my husband.
Back, foolish tears, back to your native spring;
Your tributary drops belong to woe,
Which you, mistaking, offer up to joy.
My husband lives, that Tybalt would have slain;
And Tybalt's dead, that would have kill'd my husband;
All this is comfort; wherefore weep I then?
Some word there was, worser than Tybalt's death,
That murther'd me; I would forget it, fain;
But, oh! it presses to my memory,
Like damned guilty deeds to sinners minds;
Tybalt is dead, and Romeo banished!
That banished, that one word banished,
Hath slain ten thousand Tybalts: Tybalt's death
Was woe enough, if it had ended there:
Or if sow'r woe delights in fellowship,
And needly will be rank'd with other griefs,
Why follow'd not, when she said Tybalt's dead,
Thy Father or thy Mother, nay, or both?
But with a rear-ward following Tybalt's death,
Romeo is banished—to speak that word,
Is, father, mother, Tybalt, Romeo, Juliet,
All slain, all dead!—Romeo is banished!
There is no end, no limit, measure, bound,
In that word's death; no words can that woe sound.
Where is my father, and my mother, nurse?

Nurse.
Weeping and wailing over Tybalt's coarse.
Will you go to them? I will bring you thither.

Jul.
Wash they his wounds with tears? mine shall be spent,
When theirs are dry, for Romeo's banishment.
Take up those Cords;—poor Ropes, you are beguil'd;
Both You and I; for Romeo is exil'd.
He made You for a high way to my Bed:
But I, a Maid, dye Maiden widowed.
Come, Cord; come, Nurse; I'll to my wedding Bed:
And Death, not Romeo, take my Maidenhead!

Nurse.
Hie to your chamber, I'll find Romeo
To comfort you. I wot well, where he is.
Hark ye, your Romeo will be here at night;
I'll to him, he is hid at Lawrence' cell.

Jul.
O find him, give this ring to my true knight,
And bid him come, to take this last farewel. [Exeunt. Scene 3 SCENE changes to the Monastery. Enter Friar Lawrence and Romeo.

Fri.
Romeo, come forth; come forth, thou fearful man;
Affliction is enamour'd of thy parts,
And thou art wedded to calamity.

Rom.
Father, what news? what is the Prince's doom?
What sorrow craves acquaintance at my hand,
That I yet know not?

Fri.
Too familiar
Is my dear son with such sow'r company.
I bring thee tidings of the Prince's doom.

Rom.
What less than dooms-day is the Prince's doom?

Fri.
A gentler judgment vanish'd from his lips,
Not body's death, but body's banishment.

Rom.
Ha, banishment! be merciful, say, death;
For exile hath more terror in his look,
Much more than death. Do not say, banishment.

Fri.
Here from Verona art thou banished:
Be patient, for the world is broad and wide.

Rom.
There is no world without Verona's walls,
But purgatory, torture, hell it self.
Hence banished, is banish'd from the world;
And world-exil'd, is death. That banished
Is death mis-term'd: calling death banishment,
Thou cut'st my head off with a golden ax,
And smil'st upon the stroak that murthers me.

Fri.
O deadly sin! O rude unthankfulness!
Thy fault our law calls death; but the kind Prince,

Taking thy part, hath rusht aside the law,
And turn'd that black word death to banishment.
This is dear mercy, and thou seest it not.

Rom.
'Tis torture, and not mercy: heav'n is here,
Where Juliet lives; and every cat and dog
And little mouse, every unworthy thing,
Lives here in heaven, and may look on her;
But Romeo may not. More validity,
More honourable state, more courtship lives
In carrion flies, than Romeo: they may seize
On the white wonder of dear Juliet's hand,
And steal immortal blessings from her lips;
(Which even in pure and vestal modesty
Still blush, as thinking their own kisses sin.)
This may flies do, when I from this must fly;
(And say'st thou yet, that exile is not death?)
But Romeo may not;—he is banished.
Hadst thou no Poison mixt, no sharp-ground knife,
No sudden mean of death, tho' ne'er so mean,
But banished to kill me? banished?
O Friar, the Damned use that word in hell;
Howlings attend it: how hast thou the heart,
Being a Divine, a ghostly Confessor,
A sin-absolver, and my friend profest,
To mangle me with that word, banishment?

Fri.
Fond mad man, hear me speak.—

Rom.
O, thou wilt speak again of banishment.

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

Rom.
Yet, banished? hang up philosophy:
Unless philosophy can make a Juliet,
Displant a town, reverse a Prince's doom,
It helps not, it prevails not, talk no more—

Fri.
O, then I see that mad men have no ears.

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

Fri.
Let me dispute with thee of thy estate.

Rom.
Thou canst not speak of what thou dost not feel:
Wert thou as young as I, Juliet thy love,

An hour but married, Tybalt murthered,
Doating like me, and like me banished;
Then might'st thou speak, then might'st thou tear thy hair,
And fall upon the ground as I do now,
Taking the measure of an unmade grave. [Throwing himself on the ground.

Fri.
Arise, one knocks; good Romeo, hide thy self. [Knock within.

Rom.
Not I, unless the breath of heartsick Groans,
Mist-like, infold me from the Search of Eyes. [Knock.

Fri.
Hark, how they knock!—(who's there?)—Romeo, arise.
Thou wilt be taken—(stay a while)—stand up; [Knocks.
Run to my Study—(By and by)—God's will!
What willfulness is this?—I come, I come. [Knock.
Who knocks so hard? whence come you? what's your will?

Nurse. [Within.]
Let me come in, and you shall know my errand:
I come from lady Juliet.

Fri.
Welcome then. Enter Nurse.

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

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

Nurse.
O he is even in my mistress' case,
Just in her case, O woful sympathy!
Piteous predicament! even so lies she,
Blubb'ring and weeping, weeping and blubbering.
Stand up, stand up;—Stand, an you be a Man:
For Juliet's Sake, for her Sake, rise and stand.
Why should you fall into so deep an oh!—

Rom.
Nurse!—

Nurse.
Ah Sir? ah Sir!—Death is the end of all.

Rom.
Speak'st thou of Juliet? how is it with her?
Doth not she think me an old murtherer,

Now I have stain'd the child-hood of our joy
With blood, remov'd but little from her own?
Where is she? and how does she? and what says
My conceal'd lady to our cancell'd love?

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

Rom.
As if that name,
Shot from the deadly level of a gun,
Did murther her, as that name's cursed hand
Murther'd her kinsman.—Tell me, Friar, tell me,
In what vile part of this anatomy
Doth my name lodge? tell me, that I may sack
The hateful mansion. [Drawing his Sword.

Fri.
Hold thy desperate hand:
Thy tears are womanish, thy wild acts denote
Th' unreasonable fury of a beast.
Unseemly Woman in a seeming Man!
And ill-beseeming Beast in seeming Both!
Thou hast amaz'd me. By my holy Order,
I thought thy disposition better temper'd.
Hast thou slain Tybalt? wilt thou slay thy self?
And slay thy lady, that in thy Life lives,
By doing damned Hate upon thy self?
Why rail'st thou on thy Birth, the Heav'n, and Earth,
Since Birth, and Heav'n, and Earth, all three do meet
In thee at once, which Thou at once would'st lose?
Fie! fie! thou sham'st thy Shape, thy Love, thy Wit,
Which, like an Usurer, abound'st in all,
And usest none in that true use indeed,
Which should bedeck thy Shape, thy Love, thy Wit.
Thy noble Shape is but a Form of Wax,
Digressing from the Valour of a Man;
Thy dear Love sworn, but hollow Perjury,
Killing that Love, which thou hast vow'd to cherish.
Thy Wit, that Ornament to Shape and Love,
Mis-shapen in the Conduct of them Both,
Like Powder in a skill-less Soldier's Flask,
Is set on Fire by thine own Ignorance,

And thou dismember'd with thine own Defense.
What, rouse thee, man, thy Juliet is alive,
For whose dear sake thou wast but lately dead:
There art thou happy. Tybalt would kill thee,
But thou slew'st Tybalt; there thou'rt happy too.
The law, that threatned death, became thy friend,
And turn'd it to exile; there art thou happy;
A pack of blessings light upon thy back,
Happiness courts thee in her best array,
But, like a misbehav'd and sullen wench,
Thou pout'st upon thy fortune and thy love.
Take heed, take heed, for such die miserable.
Go, get thee to thy love, as was decreed,
Ascend her chamber, hence and comfort her:
But, look, thou stay not 'till the Watch be set;
For then thou canst not pass to Mantua:
Where thou shalt live, 'till we can find a time
To blaze your marriage, reconcile your friends,
Beg pardon of thy Prince, and call thee back
With twenty hundred thousand times more joy,
Than thou went'st forth in lamentation.
Go before, nurse; commend me to thy lady,
And bid her hasten all the house to bed,
Which heavy sorrow makes them apt unto.
Romeo is coming.

Nurse.
O lord, I could have staid here all night long,
To hear good counsel: oh, what Learning is!
My lord, I'll tell my lady you will come.

Rom.
Do so, and bid my Sweet prepare to chide.

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

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

Fri.
Sojourn in Mantua; I'll find out your man,
And he shall signifie from time to time
Every good hap to you that chances here:
Give me thy hand, 'tis late, farewel, good night.

Rom.
But that a joy, past joy, calls out on me,
It were a grief, so brief to part with thee. [Exeunt.

Scene 4 SCENE changes to Capulet's House. Enter Capulet, Lady Capulet, and Paris.

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

Par.
These times of woe afford no time to wooe:
Madam, good night; commend me to your daughter.

La. Cap.
I will, and know her Mind early to morrow:
To night she's mew'd up to her heaviness.

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

Par.
Monday, my lord.

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

Par.
My lord, I would that Thursday were to morrow.

Cap.
Well, get you gone—on Thursday be it then:
Go you to Juliet ere you go to bed, [To lady Cap.
Prepare her, wife, against this wedding-day.
Farewel, my lord—light to my chamber, hoa!

'Fore me, it is so very late, that we
May call it early by and by. Good night. [Exeunt. Scene 5 SCENE, Juliet's Chamber looking to the Garden. Enter Romeo and Juliet, above at a window; a ladder of ropes set.

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

Rom.
It was the Lark, the herald of the morn,
No Nightingale. Look, love, what envious streaks
Do lace the severing clouds in yonder east:
Night's candles are burnt out, and jocund day
Stands tiptoe on the misty mountains' tops.
I must be gone and live, or stay and dye.

Jul.
Yon light is not day-light, I know it well:
It is some meteor that the Sun exhales,
To be to thee this night a torch-bearer,
And light thee on thy way to Mantua;
Then stay a while, thou shalt not go so soon.

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

Jul.
It is, it is; hie hence, be gone, away:
It is the lark that sings so out of tune,
Straining harsh discords, and unpleasing sharps.
Some say, the lark makes sweet division;
This doth not so: for she divideth us.

Some say, the lark and loathed toad change eyes;
O, now I would they had chang'd voices too!
O now be gone, more light and light it grows.

Rom.
More light and light?—More dark and dark our Woes. Enter Nurse.

Nurse.
Madam,—

Jul.
Nurse?

Nurse.
Your lady mother's coming to your chamber:
The day is broke, be wary, look about. [Exit Nurse.

Jul.
Then, Window, let Day in, and let Life out.

Rom.
Farewell, farewell; one Kiss, and I'll descend. [Romeo descends.

Jul.
Art thou gone so? love! lord! ah husband! friend!
I must hear from thee ev'ry day in th' hour,
For in a minute there are many days.
O, by this count I shall be much in years,
Ere I again behold my Romeo.

Rom.
Farewel: I will omit no opportunity,
That may convey my greetings, love, to thee.

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

Rom.
I doubt it not; and all these woes shall serve(25) ^note

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

Rom.
And trust me, love, in mine eye so do you:
Dry Sorrow drinks our blood. Adieu, adieu. [Exit Romeo.

Jul.
Oh fortune, fortune, all men call thee fickle:

If thou art fickle, what dost thou with him
That is renown'd for faith? be fickle, fortune:
For then, I hope, thou wilt not keep him long,
But send him back. Enter lady Capulet.

La. Cap.
Ho, daughter, are you up?

Jul.
Who is't, that calls? is it my lady mother?
What unaccustom'd cause procures her hither?

La. Cap.
Why, how now, Juliet?

Jul.
Madam, I am not well.

La. Cap.
Evermore weeping for your cousin's death?
What, wilt thou wash him from his Grave with tears?
An if thou could'st, thou could'st not make him live;
Therefore, have done. Some Grief shews much of Love;
But much of Grief shews still some want of Wit.

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

La. Cap.
So shall you feel the Loss, but not the Friend
Which you do weep for.

Jul.
Feeling so the Loss,
I cannot chuse but ever weep the Friend.

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

Jul.
What villain, Madam?

La. Cap.
That same villain, Romeo.

Jul.
Villain and he are many miles asunder.
God pardon him! I do, with all my Heart:
And, yet, No Man like He doth grieve my Heart.

La. Cap.
That is, because the Traytor lives.

Jul.
I, Madam, from the Reach of these my hands:—
Would, None but I might venge my Cousin's Death!

La. Cap.
We will have Vengeance for it, fear Thou not:
Then weep no more. I'll send to one in Mantua,
Where That same banish'd Runagate doth live,
Shall give him such an unaccustom'd Dram,
That he shall soon keep Tybalt Company.
And then, I hope, thou wilt be satisfy'd.

Jul.
Indeed, I never shall be satisfied

With Romeo, till I behold him—dead—
Is my poor Heart so for a Kinsman vext.
Madam, if You could find out but a Man
To bear a poyson, I would temper it;
That Romeo should upon receipt thereof
Soon sleep in Quiet.—O, how my heart abhors
To hear him nam'd,—and cannot come to him—
To wreak the Love I bore my slaughter'd Cousin,
Upon his body that hath slaughter'd him.

La. Cap.
Find Thou the Means, and I'll find such a Man.
But now I'll tell thee joyful Tidings, Girl.

Jul.
And joy comes well in such a needful time.
What are they, I beseech your ladyship?

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

Jul.
Madam, in happy time, what day is this?

La. Cap.
Marry, my child, early next Thursday morn,
The gallant, young and noble Gentleman,
The County Paris, at St. Peter's church,
Shall happily make thee a joyful bride.

Jul.
Now, by St. Peter's church, and Peter too,
He shall not make me there a joyful bride.
I wonder at this haste, that I must wed
Ere he, that must be husband, comes to wooe.
I pray you, tell my lord and father, Madam,
I will not marry yet: and when I do,
It shall be Romeo, whom you know I hate,
Rather than Paris.—These are news, indeed!

La. Cap.
Here comes your father, tell him so your self,
And see, how he will take it at your hands. Enter Capulet, and Nurse.

Cap.
When the Sun sets, the Air doth drizzle Dew;
But for the Sunset of my Brother's Son
It raines downright.—
How now? a conduit, girl? what, still in tears?

Evermore show'ring? in one little body
Thou counterfeit'st a bark, a sea, a wind;
For still thy eyes, which I may call the sea,
Do ebb and flow with tears; the bark thy body is,
Sailing in this salt flood: the winds thy sighs,
Which, raging with thy tears, and they with them,
Without a sudden calm, will overset
Thy tempest-tossed body—How now, wife?
Have you deliver'd to her our decree?

La. Cap.
Ay, Sir; but she will none, she gives you thanks:
I would, the fool were married to her Grave!

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

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

Cap.
How now! how now! Chop Logick? What is This?
Proud! and I thank you! and I thank you not!
And yet not proud!—Why, Mistress Minion, You,
Thank me no thankings, nor proud me no prouds,
But settle your fine joints 'gainst Thursday next,
To go with Paris to Saint Peter's church:
Or I will drag thee on a hurdle thither.
Out, you green-sickness-carrion! Out, you baggage!
You Tallow-face!

La. Cap.
Fie, fie, what are you mad?

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

Cap.
Hang thee, young baggage! disobedient wretch!
I tell thee what, get thee to church o' Thursday,
Or never after look me in the face.
Speak not, reply not, do not answer me;
My fingers itch. Wife, we scarce thought us blest,
That God had sent us but this only child;

But now I see this One is one too much,
And that we have a Curse in having her:
Out on her, hilding!—

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

Cap.
And why, my lady Wisdom? hold your tongue,
Good Prudence, smatter with your gossips, go.

Nurse.
I speak no treason—O, god-ye-good-den—
May not one speak?

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

La. Cap.
You are too hot.

Cap.
God's bread! it makes me mad: day, night, late, early,
At home, abroad, alone, in company,
Waking, or sleeping, still my care hath been
To have her match'd; and having now provided
A gentleman of noble parentage,
Of fair demeans, youthful, and nobly allied,
Stuff'd, as they say, with honourable parts,
Proportion'd as one's thought would wish a man:
And then to have a wretched puling fool,
A whining mammet, in her fortune's Tender,
To answer, I'll not wed,—I cannot love,—
I am too young,—I pray you, pardon me—
But, if you will not wed, I'll pardon you:
Graze where you will, you shall not house with me;
Look to't, think on't, I do not use to jest.
Thursday is near; lay hand on heart, advise;
If you be mine, I'll give you to my friend:
If you be not, hang, beg, starve, die i'th' streets;
For, by my soul, I'll ne'er acknowledge thee,
Nor what is mine shall ever do thee good:
Trust to't, bethink you, I'll not be forsworn. [Exit.

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

In that dim monument where Tybalt lies.

La. Cap.
Talk not to me, for I'll not speak a word:
Do as thou wilt, for I have done with thee. [Exit.

Jul.
O God! O Nurse, how shall this be prevented?
My Husband is on Earth, my Faith in Heav'n;
How shall that Faith return again to Earth,
Unless that Husband send it me from Heav'n,
By leaving Earth?—Comfort me, counsel me.
Alack, alack, that heav'n should practise stratagems
Upon so soft a subject as my self!
What say'st thou? ha'st thou not a word of Joy?
Some Comfort, Nurse.—

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

Jul.
Speakest thou from thy heart?

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

Jul.
Amen.

Nurse.
What?

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

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

Jul.
Ancient Damnation! O most wicked Fiend!
Is it more sin to wish me thus forsworn,
Or to dispraise my lord with that same tongue
Which she hath prais'd him with above compare,

So many thousand times? go, Counsellor,—
Thou and my bosom henceforth shall be twain:
I'll to the Friar, to know his remedy:
If all else fail, my self have power to die. [Exit.

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