Juliet on a bed.
Re-enter Nurse.
Nurse.
Mistress,—what, mistress? Juliet—Fast, I warrant her.
Why, lamb—why, Lady—Fy, you slug-a-bed—
Why, love, I say—Madam—Sweet-heart—why? Bride—
What, not a word!—You take your pennyworths now;
Sleep for a week; for the next night, I warrant,
The County Paris hath set up his Rest,
That you shall rest but little—God forgive me—
Marry, and amen!—How sound is she asleep?
I 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 cloaths—and down again!
I must needs wake you: Lady, lady, lady—
Alas! alas! help! help! my lady's dead.
O, well-a-day that ever I was born!
Some Aqua-vitæ. Ho! my Lord, my lady!
Enter Lady Capulet.
La. Cap.
What noise is here?
Nurse.
O lamentable day!
La. Cap.
What's the matter?
Nurse.
Look,—oh heavy day!
La. Cap.
Oh me, oh me, my child, my only life!
Revive, look up, or I will die with thee;
Help, help! call help.
-- 103 --
Enter Capulet.
Cap.
For shame, bring Juliet forth. Her Lord is come.
Nurse.
She's dead, deceas'd, 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 flow'r of all the field.
Accursed time! unfortunate old man!
Nurse.
O lamentable day!
La. Cap.
O woeful Time!
Cap.
Death, that hath ta'en her hence to make me wail,
Ties up my Tongue, and will not let me speak.
Enter Friar Lawrence, and Paris with Musicians.
Fri.
Come, is the bride ready to go to church?
Cap.
Ready to go, but never to return.
O son, the night before thy wedding-day
Hath Death lain with thy wife. See, there she lies,
Flow'r as she was, deflowered now by him.
Death is my son-in-law.—
Par.
Have I thought long to see this morning's face,
And doth it give me such a sight as this!
La. Cap.
Accurs'd, unhappy, wretched, hateful day!
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 rejoice and solace in,
And cruel death hath catch'd it from my sight.
-- 104 --
Nurse.
1 noteO woe! oh woful, woful, woful, day!
Most lamentable day! most woful day!
That ever, ever, I did yet behold.
Oh day! oh day! oh day! oh hateful day!
Never was seen so black a day as this.
Oh woful day, oh woful day!
Par.
Beguil'd, divorced, wronged, spighted, slain,
Most detestable Death, by thee beguil'd,
By cruel, cruel thee quite overthrown:—
O Love, O Life,—not Life, but Love in Death!—
Cap.
Despis'd, distressed, hated, martyr'd, kill'd,
Uncomfortable Time! why cam'st thou now
To murder, murder our Solemnity?
O Child! O Child! My Soul, and not my Child!
Dead art thou! dead; alack! my Child is dead;
And, with my Child, my Joys are buried.
Fri.
2 note
Peace, ho, for Shame! Confusion's Cure lives not
In these Confusions: Heaven and yourself
Had part in this fair Maid; now Heav'n hath all;
And all the better is it for the Maid.
Your part in her you could not keep from Death;
But Heav'n keeps his part in eternal Life.
-- 105 --
The most, you sought, was her Promotion;
For 'twas your Heaven, she should be advanc'd:
And weep you now, seeing she is advanc'd,
Above the Clouds, as high as Heav'n himself?
Oh, in this Love you love your Child so ill,
That you run mad, seeing, that she is well.
She's not well married, that lives married long;
But she's best married, that dies married young.
Dry up your Tears, and stick your Rosemary
On this fair Coarse; and, as the Custom is,
And in her best Array, bear her to Church.
3 noteFor tho' fond Nature bids us all lament,
Yet Nature's Tears are Reason's Merriment.
Cap.
All Things, that we ordained festival,
Turn from their Office to black Funeral;
Our Instruments to melancholy Bells,
Our wedding Chear to a sad Funeral Feast;
Our solemn Hymns to sullen Dirges change,
Our bridal Flow'rs serve for a buried Coarse;
And all things change them to the contrary.
Fri.
Sir, go you in, and, Madam, go with him;
And go, Sir Paris; ev'ry 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.
[Exeunt Capulet, Lady Capulet, Paris, and Friar.
-- 106 --
Samuel Johnson [1765], The plays of William Shakespeare, in eight volumes, with the corrections and illustrations of Various Commentators; To which are added notes by Sam. Johnson (Printed for J. and R. Tonson [and] C. Corbet [etc.], London) [word count] [S11001].
