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 sou'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 itself.
Hence banished, is banish'd from the world;
And world-exil'd, is death. That banishment,
Is death mis-term'd; calling death banishment,
Thou cut'st my head off with a golden ax,
And smil'st upon the stroke that murders 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. ^{6 note}

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 ev'n 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 murdered,
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 thyself. [Knock within.

Rom.
Not I, unless the breath of heart-sick 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 wilfulness 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! ev'n 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.
^{7 note}
Why should you fall into so deep an—

Rom.
Oh, 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 murderer,
Now I have stain'd the childhood of our joy
With blood, remov'd but little from her own?
Where is she? and how does she? and what says
My conceal'd lady to our ^{8 note}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 murder her, as that name's cursed hand
Murder'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.
Art thou a man? thy form cries out thou art.
Thy tears are womanish, thy wild acts denote
Th' unreasonable fury of a beast.
^{9 note}

Hast thou slain Tybalt? wilt thou slay thyself?
And slay thy lady, that in thy life lives,
By doing damned Hate upon thyself?
^{1 note}

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.
^{3 note}Go hence. Good night. And ^{4 note}here stands all your state;
Either begone before the watch be set,
Or by the break of day, disguis'd from hence.

Sojourn in Mantua; I'll find out your man,
And he shall signify from time to time
Every good hap to you, that chances here.
Give me thy hand. 'Tis late. 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. 5 ^noteSCENE VI.

Changes to Capulet's House. Enter Capulet, Lady Capulet, and Paris.

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

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.
^{6 note}

In all respects by me; nay more, I doubt it not.
Wife, go you to her ere 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 late, that we may call
It early by and by. Good night. [Exeunt.

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