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William Aldis Wright [1863–1866], The works of William Shakespeare edited by William George Clark... and John Glover [and William Aldis Wright] (Macmillan and Co., London) [word count] [S10701]. To look up a word in a dictionary, select the word with your mouse and press 'd' on your keyboard.
1 note.
DRAMATIS PERSONÆ
THE TRAGEDY OF ROMEO AND JULIET.
PROLOGUE.
Enter
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NOTES.
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AN EXCELLENT CONCEITED TRAGEDIE OF ROMEO AND IULIET.
The Prologue [secondary verse]
The most excellent Tragedie of Romeo and Iuliet.
Enter two Seruingmen of the
Enter Nurse and her man.
Enter Paris.
FINIS.
Two houshold Frends alike in dignitie,
(In faire Verona, where we lay our Scene)
From ciuill broyles broke into enmitie,
Whose ciuill warre makes ciuill hands vncleane.
From forth the fatall loynes of these two foes,
A paire of starre-crost Louers tooke their life:
Whose misaduentures, piteous ouerthrowes,
(Through the continuing of their Fathers strife,
And death-markt passage of their Parents rage)
Is now the two howres traffique of our Stage.
The which if you with patient eares attend,
What here we want wee'l studie to amend. Capolets.
Gregorie, of my word Ile carrie no coales.Mountagues.
Tybalt, they fight, to them the Prince, old Mountague, and his wife, old Capulet and his wife, and other Citizens and part them.
Rebellious subiects enemies to peace,
On paine of torture, from those bloody handes
Throw your mistempered weapons to the ground.
Three Ciuell brawles bred of an airie word,
By the old Capulet and Mountague,
Haue thrice disturbd the quiet of our streets.
If euer you disturbe our streets againe,
Your liues shall pay the ransome of your fault:
For this time euery man depart in peace.
Come Capulet come you along with me,
And Mouutague, come you this after noone,
To know our farther pleasure in this case,
To old free Towne our common iudgement place,
Once more on paine of death each man depart.
Who set this auncient quarrel first abroach?
Speake Nephew, were you by when it began?
Here were the seruants of your aduersaries,
And yours close fighting ere I did approch.
Ah where is Romeo, saw you him to day?
Right glad I am he was not at this fray.
Madame, an houre before the worshipt sunne
Peept through the golden window of the East,
A troubled thought drew me from companie:
Where vnderneath the groue Sicamoure,
That Westward rooteth from the Citties side,
So early walking might I see your sonne.
I drew towards him, but he was ware of me,
And drew into the thicket of the wood:
I noting his affections by mine owne,
That most are busied when th' are most alone,
Pursued my honor, not pursuing his.
Black and portentious must this honor proue,
Vnlesse good counsaile doo the cause remooue.
Why tell me Vncle do you know the cause?
I neyther know it nor can learne of him.
See where he is, but stand you both aside,
Ile know his grieuance, or be much denied.
I would thou wert so happie by thy stay
To heare true shrift. Come Madame lets away.
Good morrow Cosen.
Is the day so young?
But new stroke nine.
Ay me, sad hopes seeme long.
Was that my Father that went hence so fast?
It was, what sorrow lengthens Romeos houres?
Not hauing that, which hauing makes them short.
In loue.
Out.
Of loue.
Out of her fauor where I am in loue.
Alas that loue so gentle in her view,
Should be so tyrranous and rough in proofe.
Alas that loue whose view is muffled still,
Should without lawes giue path-waies to our will:
Where shall we dine? Gods me, what fray was here?
Yet tell me not for I haue heard it all,
Heres much to doe with hate, but more with loue.
Why then, O brawling loue, O louing hate,
O anie thing, of nothing first create!
O heauie lightnes serious vanitie!
Mishapen Caos of best seeming thinges,
Feather of lead, bright smoke, cold fire, sicke health,
Still waking sleepe, that is not what it is:
This loue feele I, which feele no loue in this.
Doest thou not laugh?
No Cose I rather weepe.
Good hart at what?
At thy good hearts oppression.
Why such is loues transgression,
Griefes of mine owne lie heauie at my hart,
Which thou wouldst propagate to haue them prest
With more of thine, this griefe that thou hast showne,
Doth ad more griefe to too much of mine owne:
Loue is a smoke raisde with the fume of sighes
Being purgde, a fire sparkling in louers eyes:
Being vext, a sea raging with a louers teares.
What is it else? A madnes most discreet,
A choking gall, and a preseruing sweet. Farewell Cose.
Nay Ile goe along.
And if you hinder me you doo me wrong.
Tut I haue lost my selfe I am not here,
This is not Romeo, hee's some other where.
Tell me in sadnes whome she is you loue?
What shall I grone and tell thee?
Why no, but sadly tell me who.
Bid a sickman in sadnes make his will.
Ah word ill vrgde to one that is so ill.
In sadnes Cosen I doo loue a woman.
I aimde so right, when as you said you lou'd.
A right good mark-man, and shee's faire I loue.
A right faire marke faire Cose is soonest hit.
But in that hit you misse, shee'le not be hit
With Cupids arrow, she hath Dianaes wit,
And in strong proofe of chastitie well arm'd:
Gainst Cupids childish bow she liues vnharm'd,
Shee'le not abide the siedge of louing tearmes,
Nor ope her lap to Saint seducing gold,
Ah she is rich in beautie, only poore,
That when she dies with beautie dies her store. Paris, old Capulet.
Of honorable reckoning are they both,
And pittie tis they liue at ods so long:
But leauing that, what say you to my sute?
What should I say more than I said before,
My daughter is a stranger in the world,
Shee hath not yet attainde to fourteene yeares:
Let two more sommers wither in their pride,
Before she can be thought fit for a Bride.
Younger than she are happie mothers made.
But too soone marde are these so early maried:
But wooe her gentle Paris, get her heart,
My word to her consent is but a part.
This night I hold an old accustom'd Feast,
Whereto I haue inuited many a guest,
Such as I loue: yet you among the store,
One more most welcome makes the number more.
At my poore house you shall behold this night,
Earth treadding stars, that make darke heauen light:
Such comfort as doo lusty youngmen feele,
When well apparaild Aprill on the heele
Of lumping winter treads, euen such delights
Amongst fresh female buds shall you this night
Inherit at my house, heare all, all see,
And like her most, whose merite most shalbe.
Such amongst view of many myne beeing one,
May stand in number though in reckoning none.
Enter Servingman.
Where are you sirra, goe trudge about
Through faire Verona streets, and seeke them out:
Whose names are written here and to them say,
My house and welcome at their pleasure stay.
Tut man one fire burnes out anothers burning,
One paine is lessned with anothers anguish:
Turne backward, and be holp with backward turning,
One desperate griefe cures with anothers languish.
Take thou some new infection to thy eye,
And the ranke poyson of the old will die.
Your Planton leafe is excellent for that.
For what?
For your broken shin.
Why Romeo art thou mad?
Not mad, but bound more than a mad man is.
Shut vp in prison, kept without my foode,
Whipt and tormented, and Godden good fellow.
Godgigoden, I pray sir can you read,
I mine owne fortune in my miserie.
Perhaps you haue learned it without booke:
but I pray can you read any thing you see?
I if I know the letters and the language.
Yee say honestly, rest you merrie.
Stay fellow I can read.
He reads the Letter.
Seigneur Martino and his wife and daughters, Countie
Anselme and his beauteous sisters, the Ladie widdow of
Vtruuio, Seigneur Placentio, and his louelie Neeces,
Mercutio and his brother Valentine, mine vncle Capulet
Rosaline and
Valentio and his Cosen Tibalt, Lucio
Hellena.
A faire assembly, whether should they come?
Vp.
Whether to supper?
To our house.
Whose house?
My Masters.
Indeed I should haue askt thee that before.
At this same auncient feast of Capulets,
Sups the faire Rosaline whom thou so loues:
With all the admired beauties of Verona,
Goe thither and with vnattainted eye,
Compare her face with some that I shall shew,
And I will make thee thinke thy swan a crow.
When the deuout religion of mine eye
Maintaines such falshood, then turne teares to fire,
And these who often drownde could neuer die,
Transparent Heretiques be burnt for liers.
One fairer than my loue, the all seeing sonne
Nere saw her match, since first the world begun.
Tut you saw her faire none els being by,
Her selfe poysd with her selfe in either eye:
But in that Cristall scales let there be waide,
Your Ladyes loue, against some other maide
That I will shew you shining at this feast,
And she shall scant shew well that now seemes best.
Ile goe along no such sight to be showne,
But to reioyce in splendor of mine owne. Iuliet.Lammas-tide?Lammas Eue at night shall she be fourteene. Susan and she
Susan is
Lammas
Mantua, nay I
Iuliet stande
Iuliet? thou wilt fall backward when
Iuliet? and by my hollidam,
Iuliet?
Veronaes Summer hath not such a flower.
Nay he is a flower, in faith a very flower.
Well Iuliet, how like you of Paris loue.
Ile looke to like, if looking liking moue,
But no more deepe will I engage mine eye,
Then your consent giues strength to make it flie. Romeo and a Page.
What shall this speech bee spoke for our excuse?
Or shall we on without Apologie.
The date is out of such prolixitie,
Weele haue no Cupid hudwinckt with a Scarfe,
Bearing a Tartars painted bow of lath,
Scaring the Ladies like a crow-keeper:
Nor no withoutbooke Prologue faintly spoke
After the Prompter, for our entrance.
But let them measure vs by what they will,
Weele measure them a measure and be gone.
A torch for me I am not for this aumbling,
Being but heauie I will beare the light.
Beleeue me Romeo I must haue you daunce.
Not I beleeue me you haue dancing shooes
With nimble soles, I haue a soule of lead
So stakes me to the ground I cannot stirre.
Giue me a case to put my visage in,
A visor for a visor, what care I
What curious eye doth coate deformitie.
Giue me a Torch, let wantons light of hart
Tickle the senceles rushes with their heeles:
For I am prouerbd with a Grandsire phrase,
Ile be a candleholder and looke on,
The game was nere so faire and I am done.
Tut dun's the mouse, the Cunstables old word,
If thou beest Dun, weele draw thee from the mire
Of this surreuerence loue wherein thou stickst.
Leaue this talke, we burne day light here.
Nay thats not so.
I meane sir in delay,
We burne our lights by night, like Lampes by day,
Take our good meaning for our iudgement sits
Three times a day, ere once in her right wits.
So we meane well by going to this maske:
But tis no wit to goe.
Why Romeo may one aske?
I dreamt a dreame to night.
And so did I.
Why what was yours?
That dreamers often lie.
In bed a sleepe while they doe dreame things true.
Ah then I see Queene Mab hath bin with you.
Queene Mab whats she?
She is the Fairies Midwife and doth come
In shape no bigger than an Aggat stone
On the forefinger of a Burgomaster,
Drawne with a teeme of little Atomi,
A thwart mens noses when they lie a sleepe.
Her waggon spokes are made of spinners webs,
The couer, of the winges of Grashoppers,
The traces are the Moone-shine watrie beames,
The collers crickets bones, the lash of filmes,
Her waggoner is a small gray coated flie,
Not halfe so big as is a little worme,
Pickt from the lasie finger of a maide,
And in this sort she gallops vp and downe
Through Louers braines, and then they dream of loue:
O're Courtiers knees: who strait on cursies dreame
O're Ladies lips, who dreame on kisses strait:
Which oft the angrie Mab with blisters plagues,
Because their breathes with sweet meats tainted are:
Sometimes she gallops ore a Lawers lap,
And then dreames he of smelling out a sute,
And sometime comes she with a tithe pigs taile,
Tickling a Parsons nose that lies a sleepe,
And then dreames he of another benefice:
Sometime she gallops ore a souldiers nose,
And then dreames he of cutting forraine throats,
Of breaches ambuscados, countermines,
Of healthes fiue fadome deepe, and then anon
Drums in his eare: at which he startes and wakes,
And sweares a Praier or two and sleepes againe.
This is that Mab that makes maids lie on their backes,
And proues them women of good cariage.
This is the verie Mab that plats the manes of Horses in the night,
And plats the Elfelocks in foule sluttish haire,
Which once vntangled much misfortune breedes.
Peace, peace, thou talkst of nothing.
True I talke of dreames,
Which are the Children of an idle braine,
Begot of nothing but vaine fantasie,
Which is as thinne a substance as the aire,
And more inconstant than the winde,
Which wooes euen now the fros&ebar; bowels of the north,
And being angred puffes away in haste,
Turning his face to the dew-dropping south.
Come, come, this winde doth blow vs from ourselues.
Supper is done and we shall come too late.
I feare too earlie, for my minde misgiues
Some consequence is hanging in the stars,
Which bitterly begins his fearefull date
With this nights reuels, and expiers the terme
Of a dispised life, closde in this breast,
By some vntimelie forfet of vile death:
But he that hath the steerage of my course
Directs my saile, on lustie Gentlemen. Capulet with the ladies.
Welcome Gentlemen, welcome Gentlemen,
Ladies that haue their toes vnplagud with Corns
Will haue about with you, ah ha my Mistresses,
Which of you all will now refuse to dance?
Shee that makes daintie, shee Ile sweare hath Corns.
Am I come neere you now, welcome Gentlemen, welcome,
More lights you knaues, & turn these tables vp,
And quench the fire the roome is growne too hote.
Ah sirra, this vnlookt for sport comes well,
Nay sit, nay sit, good Cosen Capulet:
For you and I are past our standing dayes,
How long is it since you and I were in a Maske?
By Ladie sir tis thirtie yeares at least.
Tis not so much, tis not so much.
Tis since the mariage of Lucentio,
Come Pentecost as quicklie as it will,
Some fiue and twentie yeares, and then we maskt.
Tis more, tis more, his sonne is elder far.
Will you tell me that it cannot be so,
His sonne was but a Ward three yeares agoe,
Good youths I faith. Oh youth's a iolly thing.
What Ladie is that that doth inrich the hand
Of yonder Knight? O shee doth teach the torches to burne bright!
It seemes she hangs vpon the cheeke of night,
Like a rich iewell in an Aethiops eare,
Beautie too rich for vse, for earth too deare:
So shines a snow-white Swan trouping with Crowes,
As this faire Ladie ouer her fellowes showes.
The measure done, ile watch her place of stand,
And touching hers, make happie my rude hand
Did my heart loue till now? Forsweare it sight,
I neuer saw true beautie till this night.
This by his voice should be a Mountague,
Fetch me my rapier boy. What dares the slaue
Come hither couer'd with an Anticke face,
To scorne and ieere at our solemnitie?
Now by the stocke and honor of my kin,
To strike him dead I hold it for no sin.
Why how now cosen, wherfore storme you so.
Vncle this is a Mountague our foe,
A villaine that is hether come in spight,
To mocke at our solemnitie this night.
Young Romeo, is it not?
It is that villaine Romeo.
Let him alone, he beares him like a portly gentleman,
And to speake truth, Verona brags of him,
As of a vertuous and well gouern'd youth:
I would not for the wealth of all this towne,
Here in my house doo him disparagement:
Therefore be quiet take no note of him,
Beare a faire presence, and put off these frownes,
An ill beseeming semblance for a feast.
It fits when such a villaine is a guest,
Ile not indure him.
He shalbe indured, goe to I say, he shall,
Am I the Master of the house or you?
You'le not indure him? God shall mend my soule
You'le make a mutenie amongst my guests,
You'le set Cocke a hoope, you'le be the man.
Vncle tis a shame.
Goe too, you are a saucie knaue.
This tricke will scath you one day I know what.
Well said my hartes. Be quiet:
More light Ye knaue, or I will make you quiet.
Patience perforce with wilfull choller meeting,
Makes my flesh tremble in their different greetings:
I will withdraw, but this intrusion shall
Now seeming sweet, conuert to bitter gall.
If I prophane with my vnworthie hand,
This holie shrine, the gentle sinne is this:
My lips two blushing Pilgrims ready stand,
To smooth the rough touch with a gentle kisse.
Good Pilgrime you doe wrong your hand too much,
Which mannerly deuotion shewes in this:
For Saints haue hands which holy Palmers touch,
And Palme to Palme is holy Palmers kisse.
Haue not Saints lips, and holy Palmers too?
Yes Pilgrime lips that they must vse in praier.
Why then faire saint, let lips do what hands doo,
They pray, yeeld thou, least faith turne to dispaire.
Saints doe not mooue though: grant nor praier forsake.
Then mooue not till my praiers effect I take.
Thus from my lips, by yours my sin is purgde.
Then haue my lips the sin that they haue tooke.
Sinne from my lips, O trespasse sweetly vrgde!
Giue me my sinne againe.
You kisse by the booke.
Madame your mother calles.
What is her mother?
Is she a Mountague? Oh deare account,
My life is my foes thrall.
Nay gentlemen prepare not to be gone,
We haue a trifling foolish banquet towards.
They whisper in his eare.
I pray you let me intreat you Is it so?
Well then I thanke you honest Gentlemen,
I promise you but for your company,
I would haue bin a bed an houre agoe:
Light to my chamber hoe.
Nurse, what is yonder Gentleman?
The sonne and heire of old Tiberio.
Whats he that now is going out of dore?
That as I thinke is yong Petruchio.
Whats he that followes there that would not dance?
I know not.
Goe learne his name, if he be maried,
My graue is like to be my wedding bed.
His name is Romeo and a Mountague, the onely sonne of your great enemie.
My onely Loue sprung from my onely hate,
Too early seene vnknowne, and knowne too late:
Prodigious birth of loue is this to me,
That I should loue a loathed enemie.
Whats this? whats that?
Nothing Nurse but a rime I learnt euen now of oue I dancst with.
Come your mother staies for you, Ile goe a long with you.
Shall I goe forward and my heart is here?
Turne backe dull earth and finde thy Center out.
Romeo, my c&obar;sen Romeo.
Doest thou heare he is wise,
Vpon my life he hath stolne him home to bed.
He came this way, and leapt this Orchard wall.
Call good Mercutio.
Call, nay Ile coniure too.
Well he hath hid himselfe amongst those trees,
To be consorted with the humerous night,
Blinde in his loue, and best befits the darke.
If loue be blind, loue will not hit the marke,
Now will he sit vnder a Medler tree,
And wish his Mistris were that kinde of fruite,
As maides call Medlers when they laugh alone.
Ah Romeo that she were, ah that she were
An open Et cætera, thou a poprin Peare.
Romeo God night, il'e to my trundle bed:
This field bed is too cold for mee.
Come lets away, for tis but vaine,
To seeke him here that meanes not to be found.
He iests at scars that neuer felt a wound:
But soft, what light forth yonder window breakes?
It is the East, and Iuliet is the Sunne,
Arise faire S nne, and kill the enuious Moone
That is alreadie sicke, and pale with griefe:
That thou her maid, art far more faire than she.
Be not her maide since she is enuious,
Her vestall liuerie is but pale and greene,
And none but fooles doe weare it, cast it off.
She speakes, but she sayes nothing. What of that?
Her eye discourseth, I will answere it.
I am too bold, tis not to me she speakes,
Two of the fairest starres in all the skies,
Hauing some busines, doe entreat her eyes
To twinckle in their spheares till they returne.
What if her eyes were there, they in her head,
The brightnes of her cheekes would shame those stars:
As day-light doth a Lampe, her eyes in heauen,
Would through the airie region streame so bright,
That birdes would sing, and thinke it were not night.
Oh now she leanes her cheekes vpon her hand,
I would I were the gloue to that same hand,
That I might kisse that cheeke.
Ay me.
She speakes, Oh speake againe bright Angell:
For thou art as glorious to this night beeing ouer my head,
As is a winged messenger of heauen
Vnto the white vpturned woondring eyes,
Of mortals that fall backe to gaze on him,
When he bestrides the lasie pacing cloudes,
And sailes vpon the bosome of the aire.
Ah Romeo, Romeo, wherefore art thou Romeo?
Denie thy Father, and refuse thy name,
Or if thou wilt not be but sworne my loue,
And il'e no longer be a Capulet.
Shall I heare more, or shall I speake to this?
Tis but thy name that is mine enemie.
Whats Mountague? It is nor hand nor foote,
Nor arme, nor face, nor any other part.
Whats in a name? That which we call a Rose,
By any other name would smell as sweet:
So Romeo would, were he not Romeo cald,
Retaine the diuine perfection he owes:
Without that title Romeo part thy name,
And for that name which is no part of thee,
Take all I haue.
I take thee at thy word,
Call me but loue, and il'e be new Baptisde,
Henceforth I neuer will be Romeo.
What man art thou, that thus beskrind in night,
Doest stumble on my counsaile?
By a name I know not how to tell thee.
My name deare Saint is hatefull to my selfe,
Because it is an enemie to thee.
Had I it written I would teare the word.
My eares haue not yet drunk a hundred words
Of that tongues vtterance, yet I know the sound:
Art thou not Romeo and a Mountague?
Neyther faire Saint, if eyther thee displease.
How camst thou hether, tell me and wherfore?
The Orchard walles are high and hard to clime,
And the place death considering who thou art,
If any of my kinsmen finde thee here.
By loues light winges did I oreperch these wals,
For stonie limits cannot hold loue out,
And what loue can doo, that dares loue attempt,
Therefore thy kinsmen are no let to me.
If they doe finde thee they will murder thee.
Alas there lies more perrill in thine eyes,
Then twentie of their swords, looke thou but sweete,
And I am proofe against their enmitie.
I would not for the world they shuld find thee here.
I haue nights cloak to hide thee from their sight,
And but thou loue me let them finde me here:
For life were better ended by their hate,
Than death proroged wanting of thy loue.
By whose directions foundst thou out this place.
By loue, who first did prompt me to enquire,
I he gaue me counsaile and I lent him eyes.
I am no Pilot: yet wert thou as farre
As that vast shore, washt with the furthest sea,
I would aduenture for such Marchandise.
Thou knowst the maske of night is on my face,
Els would a Maiden blush bepaint my cheeks:
For that which thou haste heard me speake to night,
Faine would I dwell on forme, faine faine denie,
What I haue spoke: but farewell complements.
Doest thou loue me? Nay I know thou wilt say I,
And I will take thy word: but if thou swearst,
Thou maiest proue false:
At Louers periuries they say Ioue smiles.
Ah gentle Romeo, if thou loue pronounce it faithfully:
Or if thou thinke I am too easely wonne,
Il'e frowne and say thee nay and be peruerse,
So thou wilt wooe: but els not for the world,
In truth faire Mountague, I am too fond,
And therefore thou maiest thinke my hauiour light:
But trust me gentleman Ile proue more true,
Than they that haue more cunning to be strange.
I should haue bin strange I must confesse,
But that thou ouer-heardst ere I was ware
My true loues Passion: therefore pardon me,
And not impute this yeelding to light loue,
Which the darke night hath so discouered.
By yonder blessed Moone I sweare,
That tips with siluer all these fruit trees tops.
O sweare not by the Moone the vnconstant Moone,
That monthlie changeth in her circled orbe,
Least that thy loue proue likewise variable.
Now by
Nay doo not sweare at all,
Or if thou sweare, sweare by thy glorious selfe,
Which art the God of my Idolatrie,
And il'e beleeue thee.
If my true harts loue
Sweare not at al, though I doo ioy in thee,
I haue small ioy in this contract to night,
It is too rash, too sodaine, too vnaduisde,
Too like the lightning that doth cease to bee
Ere one can say it lightens. I heare some comming,
Deare loue adew, sweet Mountague be true,
Stay but a little and il'e come againe.
O blessed blessed night, I feare being night,
All this is but a dreame I heare and see,
Too flattering true to be substantiall.
Three wordes good Romeo and good night indeed.
If that thy bent of loue be honourable?
Thy purpose marriage, send me word to morrow
By one that il'e procure to come to thee:
Where and what time thou wilt performe that right,
And al my fortunes at thy foote il'e lay,
And follow thee my Lord through out the world.
Loue goes toward loue like schoole boyes from their bookes,
But loue from loue, to schoole with heauie lookes.
Romeo, Romeo, O for a falkners voice,
To lure this Tassell gentle backe againe:
Bondage is hoarse and may not crie aloud,
Els would I teare the Caue where Eccho lies
And make her airie voice as hoarse as mine,
With repetition of my Romeos name.
Romeo?
It is my soule that calles vpon my name,
How siluer sweet sound louers tongues in night.
Romeo?
Madame.
At what a clocke to morrow shall I send?
At the houre of nine.
I will not faile, tis twentie yeares till then.
Romeo I haue forgot why I did call thee backe.
Let me stay here till you remember it.
I shall forget to haue thee still staie here,
Remembring how I loue thy companie.
And il'e stay still to haue thee still forget,
Forgetting any other home but this.
Tis almost morning I would haue thee gone,
But yet no further then a wantons bird,
Who lets it hop a little from her hand,
Like a pore prisoner in his twisted giues,
And with a silke thred puls it backe againe,
Too louing iealous of his libertie.
Would I were thy bird.
Sweet so would I,
Yet I should kill thee with much cherrishing thee.
Good night, good night, parting is such sweet sorrow,
That I shall say good night till it be morrow.
Sleepe dwell vpon thine eyes, peace on thy breast,
I would that I were sleep and peace of sweet to rest.
Now will I to my Ghostly fathers Cell,
His help to craue, and my good hap to tell.
The gray ey'd morne smiles on the frowning night,
Checkring the Easterne clouds with streakes of light,
And flecked darkenes like a drunkard reeles,
From forth daies path, and Titans fierie wheeles:
Now ere the Sunne aduance his burning eye,
The world to cheare, and nights darke dew to drie.
We must vp fill this oasier Cage of ours,
With balefull weeds, and precious iuyced flowers.
Oh mickle is the powerfull grace that lies
In hearbes, plants, stones, and their true qualities:
For nought so vile, that vile on earth doth liue,
But to the earth some speciall good doth giue:
Nor nought so good, but straind from that faire use,
Reuolts to vice and stumbles on abuse:
Vertue it selfe turnes vice being misapplied,
And vice sometimes by action dignified.
Within the infant rinde of this small flower,
Poyson hath residence, and medecine power:
For this being smelt too, with that part cheares ech hart,
Being tasted slaies all sences with the hart.
Two such opposed foes incampe them still,
In man as well as herbes, grace and rude will,
And where the worser is predominant,
Full soone the canker death eats vp that plant.
Good morrow to my Ghostly Confessor.
Benedicite, what earlie tongue so soone saluteth me?
Yong sonne it argues a distempered head,
So soone to bid good morrow to my bed.
Care keepes his watch in euerie old mans eye,
And where care lodgeth, sleep can neuer lie:
But where vnbrused youth with vnstuft braines
Doth couch his limmes, there golden sleepe remaines:
Therefore thy earlines doth me assure,
Thou art vprows'd by some distemperature.
Or if not so, then here I hit it righ
Our Romeo hath not bin a bed to night.
The last was true, the sweeter rest was mine.
God pardon sin, wert thou with Rosaline?
With Rosaline my Ghostly father no,
I haue forgot that name, and that names woe.
Thats my good sonne: but where hast thou bin then?
I tell thee ere thou aske it me againe,
I haue bin feasting with mine enemie:
Where on the sodaine one hath wounded mee
Thats by me wounded, both our remedies
With in thy help and holy phisicke lies,
I beare no hatred blessed man: for loe
My intercession likewise steades my foe.
Be plaine my sonne and homely in thy drift,
Ridling confession findes but ridling shrift.
Then plainely know my harts deare loue is set
On the faire daughter of rich Capulet:
As mine on hers, so hers likewise on mine,
And all combind, saue what thou must combine
By holy marriage: where, and when, and how,
We met, we woo'd, and made exchange of vowes,
Il'e tell thee as I passe: But this I pray,
That thou consent to marrie vs to day.
Holy S. Francis, what a change is here?
Is Rosaline whome thou didst loue so deare
So soone forsooke, lo yong mens loue then lies
Not truelie in their harts, but in their eyes.
Iesu Maria, what a deale of brine
Hath washt thy sallow cheekes for Rosaline?
How much salt water cast away in waste,
To season loue, that of loue doth not taste.
The sunne not yet thy sighes from heauen cleares,
Thy old grones ring yet in my ancient eares,
And loe vpon thy cheeke the staine doth sit,
Of an old teare that is not washt off yet.
If euer thou wert thus, and these woes thine,
Thou and these woes were all for Rosaline,
And art thou changde, pronounce this sentence then
Women may fal, when ther's no strength in men.
Thou chidst me oft for louing Rosaline.
For doating, not for louing, pupill mine.
And badst me burie loue.
Not in a graue,
To lay one in another out to haue.
I pree thee chide not, she whom I loue now
Doth grace for grace, and loue for loue allow:
The other did not so.
Oh she knew well
Thy loue did read by rote, and could not spell.
But come young Wauerer, come goe with mee,
In one respect Ile thy assistant bee:
For this alliaunce may so happie proue,
To turne your Housholds rancour to pure loue.
Why whats become of Romeo? came he not home to night?
Not to his Fathers, I spake with his man.
Ah that same pale hard hearted wench, that Rosaline,
Torments him so, that he will sure run mad.
Tybalt the Kinsman of olde Capolet
Hath sent a Letter to his Fathers House:
Some Challenge on my life.
Romeo will answere it.
I, anie man that can write may answere a letter.
Nay, he will answere the letters master if hee bee challenged.
And an olde hare hore, and an olde hare hore
is verie good meate in Lent:
But a hare thats hoare is too much for a score,
if it hore ere it be spent.
Bid her get leaue to morrow morning
To come to shrift to Frier Laurence cell:
And stay thou Nurse behinde the Abbey wall,
My man shall come to thee, and bring along
The cordes, made like a tackled staire,
Which to the high top-gallant of my ioy
Must be my conduct in the secret night.
Hold, take that for thy paines.
No, not a penie truly.
I say you shall not chuse.
Well, to morrow morning she shall not faile.
Farewell, be trustie, and Ile quite thy paine.
Peter, take my fanne, and goe before.
The clocke stroke nine when I did send my Nurse
In halfe an houre she promist to returne.
Perhaps she cannot finde him. Thats not so.
Oh she is lazie, Loues heralds should be thoughts,
And runne more swift, than hastie powder fierd,
Doth hurrie from the fearfull Cannons mouth.
Enter Nurse.
Oh now she comes. Tell me gentle Nurse,
What sayes my Loue?
Nay stay sweet Nurse, I doo intreate thee now,
What sayes my Loue, my Lord, my Romeo?
Goe, hye you straight to Friar Laurence Cell,
And frame a scuse that you must goe to shrift:
There stayes a Bridegroome to make you a Bride.
Now comes the wanton blood vp in your cheekes,
I must prouide a ladder made of cordes,
With which your Lord must clime a birdes nest soone.
I must take paines to further your delight,
But you must beare the burden soone at night.
Doth this newes please you now?
How doth her latter words reuiue my hart.
Thankes gentle Nurse, dispatch thy busines,
And Ile not faile to meete my Romeo.
Now Father Laurence, in thy holy grant
Consists the good of me and Iuliet.
Without more words I will doo all I may,
To make you happie if in me it lye.
This morning here she pointed we should meet,
And consumate those neuer parting bands,
Witnes of our harts loue by ioyning hands,
And come she will.
I gesse she will indeed,
Youths loue is quicke, swifter than swiftest speed.
Enter Iuliet somewhat fast, and embraceth Romeo.
See where she comes.
So light of foote nere hurts the troden flower:
Of loue and ioy, see see the soueraigne power.
Romeo.
My Iuliet welcome. As doo waking eyes
(Cloasd in Nights mysts) attend the frolicke Day,
So Romeo hath expected Iuliet,
And thou art come.
I am (if I be Day)
Come to my Sunne: shine foorth, and make me faire.
All beauteous fairnes dwelleth in thine eyes.
Romeo from thine all brightnes doth arise.
Come wantons, come, the stealing houres do passe
Defer imbracements till some fitrer time,
Part for a while, you shall not be alone,
Till holy Church haue ioynd ye both in one.
Lead holy Father, all delay seemes long.
Make hast, make hast, this lingring doth vs wrong.
O, soft and faire makes sweetest worke they say.
Hast is a common hindrer in crosse way.
I pree thee good Mercutio lets retire,
The day is hot, the Capels are abroad.
This Gentleman the Princes neere Alie.
My very frend hath tane this mortall wound
In my behalfe, my reputation staind
With Tibalts slaunder, Tybalt that an houre
Hath beene my kinsman. Ah Iuliet
Thy beautie makes me thus effeminate,
And in my temper softens valors steele.
Ah Romeo Romeo braue Mercutio is dead,
That gallant spirit hath a spir'd the cloudes,
Which too vntimely scornd the lowly earth.
This daies black fate, on more daies doth depend
This but begins what other dayes must end.
Heere comes the furious Tibalt backe againe.
A liue in tryumph and Mercutio slaine?
Away to heauen respectiue lenity:
And fier eyed fury be my conduct now.
Now Tibalt take the villaine backe againe,
Which late thou gau'st me: for Mercutios soule,
Is but a little way aboue the cloudes,
And staies for thine to beare him company.
Or thou, or I, or both shall follow him.
Romeo away, thou seest that Tibalt's slaine,
The Citizens approach, away, begone
Thou wilt be taken.
Ah I am fortunes slaue.
Wher's he that slue Mercutio, Tybalt that villaine?
There is that Tybalt.
Vp sirra goe with vs1 note.
Where be the vile beginners of this fray?
Ah Noble Prince I can discouer all
The most vnlucky mannage of this brawle.
Heere lyes the man slaine by yong Romeo,
That slew thy kinsman braue Mercutio,
Tibalt, Tybalt, O my brothers child,
Vnhappie sight? Ah the blood is spilt
Of my deare kinsman, Prince as thou art true:
For blood of ours, shed bloud of Mountagew.
Speake Benuolio who began this fray?
Tibalt heere slaine whom Romeos hand did slay.
Romeo who spake him fayre bid him bethinke
How nice the quarrell was.
But Tibalt still persisting in his wrong,
The stout Mercutio drewe to calme the storme,
Which Romeo seeing cal'd stay Gentlemen,
And on me cry'd, who drew to part their strife,
And with his agill arme yong Romeo,
As fast as tung crydepeace, sought peace to make.
While they were enterchanging thrusts and blows,
Vnder yong Romeos laboring arme to part,
The furious Tybalt cast an enuious thrust,
That rid the life of stout Mercutio.
With that he fled, but presently return'd,
And with his rapier braued Romeo:
That had but newly entertain'd reuenge.
And ere I could draw forth my rapyer
To part their furie, downe did Tybalt fall,
And this way Romeo fled.
He is a Mountagew and speakes partiall,
Some twentie of them fought in this blacke strife:
And all those twenty could but kill one life.
I doo intreate sweete Prince thoult iustice giue,
Romeo slew Tybalt, Romeo may not liue.
And for that offence
Immediately we doo exile him hence.
I haue an interest in your hates proceeding,
My blood for your rude braules doth lye a bleeding.
But Ile amerce you with so large a fine,
That you shall all repent the losse of mine.
I will be deafe to pleading and excuses,
Nor teares nor prayers shall purchase for abuses.
Pittie shall dwell and gouerne with vs still:
Mercie to all but murdrers, pardoning none that kill.
Gallop apace you fierie footed steedes
To Phœbus mansion, such a Waggoner
As Phaeton, would quickly bring you thether,
And send in cloudie night immediately.
Enter Nurse wringing her hands, with the ladder of cordes in her lap.
But how now Nurse: O Lord, why lookst thou sad?
What hast thou there, the cordes?
I, I, the cordes: alacke we are vndone,
We are vndone, Ladie we are vndone.
What diuell art thou that torments me thus?
Alack the day, hees dead, hees dead, hees dead,
This torture should be roard in dismall hell.
Can heauens be so enuious?
Romeo can if heauens cannot.
I saw the wound, I saw it with mine eyes.
God saue the sample, on his manly breast:
A bloodie coarse, a piteous bloodie coarse,
All pale as ashes, I swounded at the sight.
Ah Romeo, Romeo, what disaster hap
Hath seuerd thee from thy true Juliet?
Ah why should Heauen so much conspire with Woe,
Or Fate enuie our happie Marriage,
So soone to sunder vs by timelesse Death?
O Tybalt, Tybalt, the best frend I had,
O honest Tybalt, curteous Gentleman.
What storme is this that blowes so contrarie,
Is Tybalt dead, and Romeo murdered:
My deare loude cousen, and my dearest Lord.
Then let the trumpet sound a generall doome
These two being dead, then liuing is there none.
Tybalt is dead, and Romeo banished,
Romeo that murdred him is banished.
Ah heauens, did Romeos hand shed Tybalts blood?
It did, it did, alacke the day it did.
O serpents hate, hid with a flowring face:
O painted sepulcher, including filth.
Was neuer booke containing so foule matter,
So fairly bound. Ah, what meant Romeo?
There is no truth, no faith, no honestie in men:
All false, all faithles, periurde, all forsworne.
Shame come to Romeo.
A blister on that tung, he was not borne to shame:
Vpon his face Shame is ashamde to sit.
But wherefore villaine didst thou kill my Cousen?
That villaine Cousen would haue kild my husband.
All this is comfort. But there yet remaines
Worse than his death, which faine I would forget:
But ah, it presseth to my memorie,
Romeo is banished. Ah that word Banished
Is worse than death. Romeo is banished,
Is Father, Mother, Tybalt, Iuliet,
All killd, all slaine, all dead, all banished.
Where are my Father and my Mother Nurse?
Weeping and wayling ouer Tybalts coarse.
Will you goe to them?
I, I, when theirs are spent,
Mine shall he shed for Romeos banishment.
Ladie, your Romeo will be here to night,
Ile to him, he is hid at Laurence Cell.
Doo so, and beare this Ring to my true Knight,
And bid him come to take his last farewell.
Romeo come forth, come forth thou fearfull man,
Affliction is enamourd on thy parts,
And thou art wedded to Calamitie.
Father what newes, what is the Princes doome,
What Sorrow craues acquaintance at our hands,
Which yet we know not.
Too familiar
Is my yong sonne with such sowre companie:
I bring thee tidings of the Princes doome.
What lesse than doomes day is the Princes doome?
A gentler iudgement vanisht from his lips,
Not bodies death, but bodies banishment.
Ha, Banished? be mercifull, say death:
For Exile hath more terror in his lookes,
Than death it selfe, doo not say Banishment.
Hence from Verona art thou banished:
Be patient, for the world is broad and wide.
There is no world without Verona walls,
But purgatorie, torture, hell it selfe.
Hence banished, is banisht from the world:
And world exilde is death. Calling death banishment,
Thou cutst my head off with a golden axe,
And smilest vpon the stroke that murders me.
Oh monstrous sinne, O rude vnthankfulnes:
Thy fault our law calls death, but the milde Prince
(Taking thy part) hath rushd aside the law,
And turnd that blacke word death to banishment:
This is meere mercie, and thou seest it not.
Tis torture and not mercie, heauen is heere
Where Iuliet liues: and euerie cat and dog,
And little mouse, euerie vnworthie thing
Liue here in heauen, and may looke on her,
But Romeo may not. More validitie,
More honourable state, more courtship liues
In carrion flyes, than Romeo: they may seaze
On the white wonder of faire Iuliets skinne,
And steale immortall kisses from her lips;
But Romeo may not, he is banished.
Flies may doo this, but I from this must flye.
Oh Father hadst thou no strong poyson mixt,
No sharpe ground knife, no present meane of death,
Though nere so meane, but banishment
To torture me withall: ah, banished.
O Frier, the damned vse that word in hell:
Howling attends it. How hadst thou the heart,
Being a Diuine, a ghostly Confessor,
A sinne absoluer, and my frend profest,
To mangle me with that word, Banishment?
Thou fond mad man, heare me but speake a word,
O, thou wilt talke againe of Banishment.
Ile giue thee armour to beare off this word,
Aduersities sweete milke, philosophie,
To comfort thee though thou be banished.
Yet Banished? hang vp philosophie,
Vnlesse philosophie can make a Juliet,
Displant a Towne, reuerse a Princes doome,
It helpes not, it prevailes not, talke no more.
O, now I see that madmen haue no eares.
How should they, when that wise men haue no eyes.
Let me dispute with thee of thy estate.
Thou canst not speak of what thou dost not feele.
Wert thou as young as I, Iuliet thy Loue,
An houre but married, Tybalt murdred.
Doting like me, and like me banished,
Then mightst thou speake, then mightst thou teare thy hayre.
And fall vpon the ground as I doe now,
Taking the measure of an vnmade graue.
Romeo arise, stand vp thou wilt be taken,
I heare one knocke, arise and get thee gone.
Hoe Fryer.
Gods will what wilfulnes is this?
Hoe Fryer open the doore,
By and by I come. Who is there?
One from Lady Iuliet.
Then come neare.
Oh holy Fryer, tell mee oh holy Fryer,
Where is my Ladies Lord? Wher's Romeo?
There on the ground, with his owne teares made
drunke.
Oh he is euen in my Mistresse case.
Iust in her case. Oh wofull simpathy,
Pitteous predicament, euen so lyes shee,
Weeping and blubbring, blubbring and weeping:
Stand vp, stand vp, stand and you be a man.
For Iuliets sake, for her sake rise and stand,
Why should you fall into so deep an O.
Nurse.
Ah sir, ah sir. Wel death's the end of all.
Spakest thou of Iuliet, how is it with her?
Doth she not thinke me an olde murderer,
Now I haue stainde the childhood of her ioy,
With bloud remou'd but little from her owne?
Where is she? and how doth she? And what sayes
My conceal'd Lady to our canceld loue?
Oh she saith nothing, but weepes and pules,
And now fals on her bed, now on the ground,
And Tybalt cryes, and then on Romeo calles.
As if that name shot from the deadly leuel of a gun
Did murder her, as that names cursed hand
Murderd her kinsman. Ah tell me holy Fryer
In what vile part of this Anatomy
Doth my name lye? Tell me that I may sacke
The hatefull mansion?
Ah?
Hold, stay thy hand: art thou a man? thy forme
Cryes out thou art, but thy wilde actes denote
The vnresonable furyes of a beast.
Vnseemely woman in a seeming man,
Or ill beseeming beast in seeming both.
Thou hast amaz'd me. By my holy order,
I thought thy disposition better temperd,
Hast thou slaine Tybalt? wilt thou slay thy selfe?
And slay thy Lady too, that liues in thee?
Rouse vp thy spirits, thy Lady Iuliet liues,
For whose sweet sake thou wert but lately dead:
There art thou happy. Tybalt would kill thee,
But thou sluest Tybalt, there art thou happy too.
A packe of blessings lights vpon thy backe,
Happines Courts thee in his best array:
But like a misbehaude and sullen wench
Thou frownst vpon thy Fate that smilles on thee.
Take heede, take heede, for such dye miserable.
Goe get thee to thy loue as was decreed:
Ascend her Chamber Window, hence and comfort her,
But looke thou stay not till the watch be set:
For then thou canst not passe to Mantua.
Nurse prouide all things in a readines,
Comfort thy Mistresse, haste the house to bed,
Which heauy sorrow makes them apt vnto.
Good Lord what a thing learning is.
I could haue stayde heere all this night
To heare good counsell. Well Sir,
Ile tell my Lady that you will come.
Doe so and bidde my sweet prepare to childe,
Farwell good Nurse.
Heere is a Ring Sir, that she bad me giue you,
How well my comfort is reuiud by this.
Soiorne in Mantua, Ile finde out your man,
And he shall signifie from time to time:
Euery good hap that doth befall thee heere.
Farwel.
But that a joy, past joy cryes out on me,
It were a griefe so breefe to part with thee.
Thinges haue fallen out Sir so vnluckily,
That we haue had no time to moue my daughter.
Looke yee Sir, she lou'd her kinsman dearely,
And so did I. Well, we were borne to dye,
Wife wher's your daughter, is she in her chamber?
I thinke she meanes not to come downe to night.
These times of woe affoord no time to wooe,
Maddam farwell, commend me to your daughter.
Sir Paris? Ile make a desperate tender of my child.
I thinke she will be rulde in all respectes by mee:
But soft what day is this?
Munday my Lord.
Oh then Wensday is too soone,
On Thursday let it be: you shall be maried.
Wee'le make no great a doe, a frend or two, or so:
For looke ye Sir, Tybalt being slaine so lately,
It will be thought we held him care leslye:
If we should reuell much, therefore we will haue
Some halfe a dozen frends and make no more adoe.
But what say you to Thursday.
My Lorde I wishe that Thursday were to morrow.
Wife goe you to your daughter, ere you goe to bed.
Acquaint her with the County Paris loue,
Fare well my Lord till Thursday next.
Wife gette you to your daughter. Light to my Chamber.
Afore me it is so very very late,
That we may call it earely by and by.
Wilt thou be gone? It is not yet nere day,
It was the Nightingale and not the Larke
That pierst the fearfull hollow of thine eare:
Nightly she sings on yon Pomegranate tree,
Beleeue me loue, it was the Nightingale.
It was the Larke, the Herald of the Morne,
And not the Nightingale. See Loue what enuious strakes
Doo lace the seuering clowdes in yonder East.
Nights candles are burnt out, and iocond Day
Stands tiptoes on the mystie mountaine tops.
I must be gone and liue, or stay and dye.
Yon light is not day light, I know it I:
It is some Meteor that the Sunne exhales,
To be this night to thee a Torch-bearer,
And light thee on thy way to Mantua.
Then stay awhile, thou shalt not goe soone.
Let me stay here, let me be tane, and dye:
If thou wilt haue it so, I am content.
Ile say yon gray is not the Mornings Eye,
It is the pale reflex of Cynthias brow.
Ile say it is the Nightingale that beates
The vaultie heauen so high aboue our heads,
And not the Larke the Messenger of Morne.
Come death and welcome, Iuliet wils it so.
What sayes my Loue? lets talke, tis not yet day.
It is, it is, begone, flye hence away.
It is the Larke that sings so out of tune,
Straining harsh Discords and vnpleasing Sharpes.
Some say, the Larke makes sweete Diuision:
This doth not so: for this diuideth vs.
Some say the Larke and loathed Toad change eyes,
I would that now they had changd voyces too:
Since arme from arme her voyce doth vs affray,
Hunting thee hence with Huntsvp to the day.
So now be gone, more light and light it growes.
More light and light, more darke and darke our woes.
Farewell my Loue, one kisse and Ile descend.
Art thou gone so, my Lord, my Loue, my Frend?
I must heare from thee euerie day in the hower:
For in an hower there are manie minutes,
Minutes are dayes, so will I number them:
Oh, by this count I shall be much in yeares,
Ere I see thee againe.
Farewell, I will omit no opportunitie
That may conueigh my greetings loue to thee.
Oh, thinkst thou we shall euer meete againe.
No doubt, no doubt, and all this woe shall serue
For sweete discourses in the time to come.
Oh God, I have an ill diuining soule.
Me thinkes I see thee now thou art below
Like one dead in the bottome of a Tombe:
Either mine ey-sight failes, or thou lookst pale.
And trust me Loue, in my eye so doo you,
Drie sorrow drinkes our blood: adieu, adieu.
Madame beware, take heed the day is broke,
Your Mother's comming to your Chamber, make all sure.
Where are you Daughter?
What Ladie, Lambe, what Iuliet?
How now, who calls?
It is your Mother.
Why how now Juliet?
Madam, I am not well.
What euermore weeping for your Cosens death:
I thinke thoult wash him from his graue with teares.
I cannot chuse, hauing so great a losse.
I cannot blame thee.
But it greeues thee more that Villaine liues.
What Villaine Madame?
That Villaine Romeo.
Villaine and he are manie miles a sunder.
Content thee Girle, if I could finde a man
I soone would send to Mantua where he is,
That should bestow on him so sure a draught,
As he should soone beare Tybalt companie.
Finde you the meanes, and Ile finde such a man:
For whilest he liues, my heart shall nere be light
Till I behold him, dead is my poore heart.
Thus for a Kinsman vext?
Well let that passe. I come to bring thee ioyfull newes?
And ioy comes well in such a needfull time.
Well then, thou hast a carefull Father Girle,
And one who pittying thy needfull state,
Hath found thee out a happie day of ioy.
What day is that I pray you?
Marry my Childe,
The gallant, yong and youthfull Gentleman,
The Countie Paris at Saint Peters Church,
Early next Thursday morning must prouide,
To make you there a glad and ioyfull Bride.
Now by Saint Peters Church and Peter too,
He shall not there make mee a ioyfull Bride.
Are these the newes you had to tell me of?
Marrie here are newes indeed. Madame I will not marrie yet.
And when I doo, it shalbe rather Romeo whom I hate,
Than Countie Paris that I cannot loue.
Here comes your Father, you may tell him so.
Why how now, euermore showring?
In one little bodie thou resemblest a sea, a barke, a storme:
For this thy bodie which I tearme a barke,
Still floating in thy euerfalling teares,
And tost with sighes arising from thy hart:
Will without succour shipwracke presently.
But heare you Wife, what haue you sounded her, what saies she to it?
I haue, but she will none she thankes ye:
Would God that she were married to her graue.
What will she not, doth she not thanke vs, doth
she not wexe proud?
Not proud ye haue, but thankfull that ye haue:
Proud can I neuer be of that I hate,
But thankfull euen for hate that is ment loue.
Proud and I thanke you, and I thanke you not,
And yet not proud. Whats here, chop logicke.
Proud me no prouds, nor thanke me no thankes,
But fettle your fine ioynts on Thursday next
To goe with Paris to Saint Peters Church,
Or I will drag you on a hurdle thether.
Out you greene sicknes baggage, out you tallow face.
Good father heare me speake?
I tell thee what, eyther resolue on thursday next
To goe with Paris to Saint Peters Church:
Or henceforth neuer looke me in the face.
Speake not, reply not, for my fingers ytch.
Why wife, we thought that we were scarcely blest
That God had sent vs but this onely chyld:
But now I see this one is one too much,
And that we haue a crosse in hauing her.
Mary God in heauen blesse her my Lord,
You are too blame to rate her so.
And why my Lady wisedome? hold your tung,
Good prudence smatter with your gossips, goe.
Why my Lord I speake no treason.
Oh goddegodden.
Vtter your grauity ouer a gossips boule,
For heere wee need it not.
My lord ye are too hotte.
Gods blessed mother wife it mads me,
Day, night, early, late, at home, abroad,
Alone, in company, waking or sleeping,
Still my care hath beene to see her matcht.
And hauing now found out a Gentleman,
Of Princely parentage, youthfull, and nobly trainde.
Stuft as they say with honorable parts,
Proportioned as ones heart coulde wish a man:
And then to haue a wretched whyning foole,
A puling mammet in her fortunes tender,
To say I cannot loue, I am too young, I pray you pardon mee?
But if you cannot wedde Ile pardon you.
Graze where you will, you shall not house with me.
Looke to it, thinke ont, I doe not vse to iest.
I tell yee what, Thursday is neere,
Lay hand on heart, aduise, bethinke your selfe,
If you be mine, Ile giue you to my frend:
If not, hang, drowne, starue, beg,
Dye in the streetes: for by my Soule
Ile neuer more acknowledge thee,
Nor what I haue shall euer doe thee good,
Thinke ont, looke toot, I doe not vse to iest.
Is there no pitty hanging in the cloudes,
That lookes into the bottom of my woes?
I doe beseech you Madame, cast me not away,
Defer this mariage for a day or two,
Or if you cannot, make my mariage bed
In that dimme monument where Tybalt lyes.
Nay be assured I will not speake a word.
Do what thou wilt for I haue done with thee.
Ah Nurse what comfort? what counsell canst thou giue me.
Now trust me Madame, I know not what to say:
Your Romeo he is banisht, and all the world to nothing
He neuer dares returne to challendge you.
Now I thinke good you marry with this County,
Oh he is a gallant Gentleman, Romeo is but a dishclout
In respect of him. I promise you
I thinke you happy in this second match.
As for your husband he is dead:
Or twere as good he were, for you haue no vse of him.
Speakst thou this from thy heart?
I and from my soule, or els beshrew them both.
Amen.
What say you Madame?
Well, thou hast comforted me wondrous much,
I pray thee goe thy waies vnto my mother
Tell her I am gone hauing displeasde my Father.
To Fryer Laurence Cell to confesse me,
And to be absolu'd.
I will, and this is wisely done.
Auncient damnation, O most cursed fiend.
Is it more sinne to wish me thus forsworne,
Or to dispraise him with the selfe same tongue
That thou hast praisde him with aboue compare
So many thousand times? Goe Counsellor,
Thou and my bosom henceforth shalbe twaine.
Ile to the Fryer to know his remedy,
If all faile els, I haue the power to dye.
On Thursday say ye: the time is very short,
My Father Capolet will haue it so,
And I am nothing slacke to slow his hast.
You say you doe not know the Ladies minde?
Vneuen is the course, I like it not.
Immoderately she weepes for Tybalts death,
And therefore haue I little talkt of loue.
For Venus smiles not in a house of teares,
Now Sir, her father thinkes it daungerous:
That she doth giue her sorrow so much sway.
And in his wisedome hasts our mariage,
To stop the inundation of her teares.
Which too much minded by her selfe alone
May be put from her by societie.
Now doe ye know the reason of this hast.
I would I knew not why it should be slowd.
Heere comes the lady to my cell,
Welcome my loue, my Lady and my wife:
That may be sir, when I may be a wife,
That may be, must be loue, on thursday next.
What must be shalbe.
Thats a certaine text.
What come ye to confession to this Fryer.
To tell you that were to confesse to you.
Do not deny to him that you loue me.
I will confesse to you that I loue him,
So I am sure you will that you loue me.
And if I doe, it wilbe of more price,
Being spoke behinde your backe, than to your face.
Poore soule that face is much abus'd with teares.
The teares haue got small victory by that,
For it was bad enough before their spite.
Thou wrongst it more than teares by that report.
That is no wrong sir, that is a truth:
And what I spake I spake it to my face.
Thy face is mine and thou hast slaundred it.
It may be so, for it is not mine owne.
Are you at leasure holy Father now:
Or shall I come to you at euening Masse?
My leasure serues me pensive daughter now.
My Lord we must entreate the time alone.
God sheild I should disturbe deuotion,
Iuliet farwell, and keep this holy kisse.
Goe shut the doore and when thou hast done so,
Come weepe with me that am past cure, past help,
Ah Iuliet I already know thy griefe,
I heare thou must and nothing may proroge it,
On Thursday next be married to the Countie.
Tell me not Frier that thou hearst of it,
Vnlesse thou tell me how we may preuent it.
Giue me some sudden counsell: els behold
Twixt my extreames and me, this bloodie Knife
Shall play the Vmpeere, arbitrating that
Which the Commission of thy yeares and arte
Could to no issue of true honour bring.
Speake not, be briefe: for I desire to die,
If what thou speakst, speake not of remedie.
Stay Juliet, I doo spie a kinde of hope,
Which craues as desperate an execution,
As that is desperate we would preuent.
If rather than to marrie Countie Paris
Thou hast the strength or will to slay thy selfe,
Tis not vnlike that thou wilt vndertake
A thing like death to chyde away this shame,
Thou coapst with death it selfe to flye from blame.
And if thou doost, Ile giue thee remedie.
Oh bid me leape (rather than marrie Paris)
From off the battlements of yonder tower:
Or chaine me to some steepie mountaines top,
Where roaring Beares and sauage Lions are:
Or shut me nightly in a Charnell-house,
With reekie shankes, and yeolow chaples sculls:
Or lay me in tombe with one new dead:
Things that to heare them namde haue made me tremble;
And I will doo it without feare or doubt,
To keep my selfe a faithfull vnstaind Wife
To my deere Lord, my deerest Romeo.
Hold Iuliet, hie thee home, get thee to bed,
Let not thy Nurse lye with thee in thy Chamber:
And when thou art alone, take thou this Violl,
And this distilled Liquor drinke thou off:
When presently through all thy veynes shall run
A dull and heauie slumber, which shall seaze
Each vitall spirit: for no Pulse shall keepe
His naturall progresse, but surcease to beate:
No signe of breath shall testifie thou liust.
And in this borrowed likenes of shrunke death,
Thou shalt remaine full two and fortie houres.
And when thou art laid in thy Kindreds Vault,
Ile send in hast to Mantua to thy Lord,
And he shall come and take thee from thy graue.
Frier I goe, be sure thou send for my deare Romeo.
Where are you sirra?
Heere forsooth.
Goe, prouide me twentie cunning Cookes.
Well get you gone.
Exit Seruingman.
But wheres this Head-strong?
Shees gone (my Lord) to Frier Laurence Cell
To be confest.
Ah, he may hap to doo some good of her,
A headstrong selfewild harlotrie it is. Iuliet.
See here she commeth from Confession,
Where I haue learned to repent the sin
Of froward wilfull opposition
Gainst you and your behests, and am enioynd
By holy Laurence to fall prostrate here,
And craue remission of so foule a fact.
Why thats well said.
Now before God this holy reuerent Frier
All our whole Citie is much bound vnto.
Goe tell the Countie presently of this,
For I will haue this knot knit vp to morrow.
Nurse, will you go with me to my Closet,
To sort such things as shall be requisite
Against to morrow,
I pree thee doo, good Nurse goe in with her,
Helpe her to sort Tyres, Rebatoes, Chaines,
And I will come vnto you presently,
Come sweet hart, shall we goe:
I pree thee let vs.
Me thinks on Thursday would be time enough.
I say I will haue this dispatcht to morrow,
Goe one and certefie the Count thereof.
I pray my Lord, let it be Thursday.
I say to morrow while shees in the mood.
We shall be short in our prouision.
Let me alone for that, goe get you in,
Now before God my heart is passing light,
To see her thus conformed to our will.
Come, come, what need you anie thing else?
Nothing good Nurse, but leaue me to my selfe:
For I doo meane to lye alone to night.
What are you busie, doo you need my helpe?
No Madame, I desire to lye alone,
For I haue manie things to thinke vpon.
Well then good night, be stirring Iuliet,
The Countie will be earlie here to morrow.
Farewell, God knowes when wee shall meete againe.
Ah, I doo take a fearfull thing in hand.
What if this Potion should not worke at all,
Must I of force be married to the Countie?
This shall forbid it. Knife, lye thou there.
What if the Frier should giue me this drinke
To poyson mee, for feare I should disclose
Our former marriage? Ah, I wrong him much,
He is a holy and religious Man:
I will not entertaine so bad a thought.
What if I should be stifled in the Toomb?
Awake an houre before the appointed time:
Ah then I feare I shall be lunaticke,
And playing with my dead forefathers bones,
Dash out my franticke braines. Me thinkes I see
My Cosin Tybalt weltring in his bloud,
Seeking for Romeo: stay Tybalt stay.
Romeo I come, this doe I drinke to thee.
Thats well said Nurse, set all in redines,
The Countie will be heere immediatly.
Make hast, make hast, for it is almost day,
The Curfewe bell hath rung, t'is foure a clocke,
Looke to your bakt meates good Angelica.
I you haue beene a mouse hunt in your time.
A Ielous hood, a Ielous hood: How now sirra?
What haue you there?
Well goe thy way, thou shalt be logger head.
Come, come, make hast call vp your daughter,
The Countie will be heere with musicke straight.
Gods me hees come, Nurse call vp my daughter.
How now whats the matter?
Alack the day, shees dead, shees dead, shees dead.
Accurst, vnhappy, miserable time.
Come, come, make hast, wheres my daughter?
Ah shees dead, shees dead.
Stay, let me see, all pale and wan.
Accursed time, vnfortunate olde man.
What is the bride ready to goe to Church?
Ready to goe, but neuer to returne.
O Sonne the night before thy wedding day,
Hath Death laine with thy bride, flower as she is,
Deflowerd by him, see, where she lyes,
Death is my Sonne in Law, to him I giue all that I haue,
Haue I thought long to see this mornings face,
And doth it now present such prodegies?
Accurst, vnhappy, miserable man,
Forlorne, forsaken, destitute I am:
Borne to the world to be a slaue in it.
Distrest, remediles, and vnfortunate.
O heauens, O nature, wherefore did you make me,
To liue so vile, so wretched as I shall.
O heere she lies that was our hope, our ioy,
And being dead, dead sorrow nips vs all.
And all our ioy, and all our hope is dead,
Dead, lost, vndone, absented, wholy fled.
Cruel, vniust, impartiall destinies,
Why to this day haue you preseru'd my life?
To see my hope, my stay, my ioy, my life,
Depriude of sence, of life, of all by death,
Cruell, vniust, impartiall destinies.
O sad fac'd sorrow map of misery,
Why this sad time haue I desird to see.
This day, this vniust, this impartiall day
Wherein I hop'd to see my comfort full,
To be depriude by suddaine destinie.
O woe, alacke, distrest, why should I liue?
To see this day, this miserable day.
Alacke the time that euer I was borne.
To be partaker of this destinie.
Alacke the day, alacke and welladay.
O peace for shame, if not for charity.
Your daughter liues in peace and happines,
And it is vaine to wish it otherwise.
Come sticke your Rosemary in this dead coarse,
And as the custome of our Country is,
In all her best and sumptuous ornaments,
Conuay her where her Ancestors lie tomb'd,
Let it be so, come wofull sorrow mates,
Let vs together taste this bitter fate.
Put vp, put vp, this is a wofull case.
I by my troth Mistresse is it, it had need be mended.
When griping griefe the heart doth wound,
And dolefull dumps the minde oppresse:
Then musique with her siluer sound,
Why siluer sound? Why siluer sound?
I thinke because musicke hath a sweet sound,
Pretie, what say you Mathew minikine?
I thinke because Musitions sound for siluer.
Prettie too: come, what say you?
Farewell and be hangd: come lets goe.
If I may trust the flattering Eye of Sleepe,
My Dreame presagde some good euent to come.
My bosome Lord sits chearfull in his throne,
And I am comforted with pleasing dreames.
Me thought I was this night alreadie dead:
(Strange dreames that giue a dead man leaue to thinke)
And that my Ladie Iuliet came to me,
And breathd such life with kisses in my lips,
That I reuiude and was an Emperour.
Enter Balthasar his man booted.
Newes from Verona. How now Balthasar,
How doth my Ladie? Is my Father well?
How fares my Juliet? that I aske againe:
If she be well, then nothing can be ill.
Then nothing can be ill, for she is well,
Her bodie sleepes in Capels Monument,
And her immortall parts with Angels dwell.
Pardon me Sir, that am the Messenger of such bad tidings.
Is it euen so? then I defie my Starres.
Goe get me incke and paper, hyre post horse,
I will not stay in Mantua to night.
Pardon me Sir, I will not leaue you thus,
Your lookes are dangerous and full of feare:
I dare not, nor I will not leaue you yet.
Doo as I bid thee, get me incke and paper,
And hyre those horse: stay not I say.
Exit Balthasar.
Well Iuliet, I will lye with thee to night.
Lets see for meanes. As I doo remember
Here dwells a Pothecarie whom oft I noted
As I past by, whose needie shop is stufft
With beggerly accounts of emptie boxes:
And in the same an Aligarta hangs,
Olde endes of packthred, and cakes of Roses,
Are thinly strewed to make vp a show.
Him as I noted, thus with my selfe I thought:
And if a man should need a poyson now,
(Whose present sale is death in Mantua)
Here he might buy it. This thought of mine
Did but forerunne my need: and here about he dwels.
Being Holiday the Beggers shop is shut.
What ho Apothecarie, come forth I say.
Who calls, what would you sir?
Heeres twentie duckates,
Giue me a dram of some such speeding geere,
As will dispatch the wearie takers life,
As suddenly as powder being fierd
From forth a Cannons mouth.
Such drugs I haue I must of force confesse,
But yet the law is death to those that sell them.
Art thou so bare and full of pouertie,
And doost thou feare to violate the Law?
The Law is not thy frend, nor the Lawes frend,
And therefore make no conscience of the law:
Vpon thy backe hangs ragged Miserie,
And starued Famine dwelleth in thy cheekes.
My pouertie but not my will consents.
I pay thy pouertie, but not thy will.
Hold take you this, and put it in anie liquid thing
you will, and it will serue had you the liues of twenty men.
Hold, take this gold, worse poyson to mens soules
Than this which thou hast giuen me. Goe hye thee hence,
Goe buy the cloathes, and get thee into flesh.
Come cordiall and not poyson, goe with mee
To Iuliets Graue: for there mvst I vse thee.
What Frier Laurence, Brother, ho?
This same should be the voyce of Frier Iohn.
What newes from Mantua, what will Romeo come?
Going to seeke a barefoote Brother out,
One of our order to associate mee,
Here in this Cittie visiting the sick,
Whereas the infectious pestilence remaind:
And being by the Searchers of the Towne
Found and examinde, we were both shut vp.
Who bare my letters then to Romeo?
I haue them still, and here they are.
Now by my holy Order,
The letters were not nice, but of great weight.
Goe get thee hence, and get me presently
A spade and mattocke.
Well I will presently go fetch thee them.
Now must I to the Monument alone,
Least that the Ladie should before I come
Be wakde from sleepe. I will hye
To free her from that Tombe of miserie.
Put out the torch, and lye thee all along
Vnder this Ew-tree, keeping thine eare close to the hollow ground.
And if thou heare one tread within this Churchyard,
Staight giue me notice.
I will my Lord.
Sweet Flower, with flowers I strew thy Bridale bed:
Sweete Tombe that in thy circuite dost containe,
The perfect modell of eternitie:
Faire Iuliet that with Angells dost remaine,
Accept this latest fauour at my hands,
That liuing honourd thee, and being dead
With funerall praises doo adorne thy Tombe.
Boy whistles and calls.
My Lord.
The boy giues warning, something doth approach.
What cursed foote wanders this was to night,
To stay my obsequies and true loues rites?
What with a torch, muffle me night a while.
Giue mee this mattocke, and this wrentching Iron.
And take these letters, early in the morning,
See thou deliuer them to my Lord and Father.
So get thee gone and trouble me no more.
Why I descend into this bed of death,
Is partly to behold my Ladies face,
But chiefly to take from her dead finger,
A precious ring which I must vse
In deare imployment: but if thou wilt stay,
Further to prie in what I vndertake,
By heauen Ile teare thee ioynt by ioynt,
And strewe thys hungry churchyard with thy lims.
The time and my intents are sauage, wilde.
Well, Ile be gone and not trouble you.
So shalt thou win my fauour, take thou this,
Commend me to my Father, farwell good fellow.
Yet for all this will I not part from hence.
Thou detestable maw, thou womb of death,
Gorde with the dearest morsell of the earth.
Thus I enforce thy rotten iawes to ope.
This is that banisht haughtie Mountague,
That murderd my loues cosen, I will apprehend him.
Stop thy vnhallowed toyle vile Mountague.
Can vengeance be pursued further then death?
I doe attach thee as a fellon heere,
The Law condemnes thee, and therefore thou must dye,
I must indeed, and therefore came I hither,
Good youth be gone, tempt not a desperate man.
Heape not another sinne vpon my head
By sheding of thy bloud, I doe protest
I loue thee better then I loue my selfe:
For I come hyther armde against my selfe,
I doe defie thy coniurations:
And doe attach thee as a fellon heere.
What dost thou tempt me, then haue at thee boy.
O Lord they fight, I will goe call the watch.
Ah I am slaine, if thou be mercifull
Open the tombe, lay me with Iuliet.
Yfaith I will, let me peruse this face,
Mercutios kinsman, noble County Paris?
What said my man, when my betossed soule
Did not regard him as we past a long.
Did he not say Paris should haue maried
Iuliet? eyther he said so, or I dreamd it so.
But I will satisfie thy last request,
For thou hast prizd thy loue aboue thy life.
Death lye thou there, by a dead man interd,
How oft haue many at the houre of death
Beene blith and pleasant? which their keepers call
A lightning before death But how may I
Call this a lightning. Ah deare Iuliet,
How well thy beauty doth become this graue?
O I beleeue that vnsubstanciall death,
Is amorous, and doth court my loue.
Therefore will I, O heere, O euer heere,
Set vp my euerlasting rest
With wormes, that are thy chamber mayds.
Come desperate Pilot now at once runne on
The dashing rockes thy sea-sicke weary barge.
Heers to my loue. O true Apothecary:
Thy drugs are swift: thus with a kisse I dye.
Falls.
Enter Fryer with a Lanthorne.
How oft to night haue these my aged feete
Stumbled at graues as I did passe along.
Whose there?
A frend and one that knowes you well.
Who is it that consorts so late the dead,
What light is yon? if I be not deceiued,
Me thinkes it burnes in Capels monument?
It doth so holy Sir, and there is one
That loues you dearly.
Who is it?
Romeo.
How long hath he beene there?
Full halfe an houre and more.
Goe with me thether.
I dare not sir, he knowes not I am heere:
On paine of death he chargde me to be gone,
And not for to disturbe him in his enterprize.
Then must I goe: my minde presageth ill.
Fryer stoops and lookes on the blood and weapons.
What bloud is this that staines the entrance
Of this marble stony monument?
What meanes these maisterles and goory weapons?
Ah me I doubt, whose heere? what Romeo dead?
Who and Paris too? what vnluckie houre
Is accessary to so foule a sinne?
Iuliet rises.
The Lady sturres.
2 note Ah comfortable Fryer.
I doe remember well where I should be,
And what we talkt of: but yet I cannot see
Him for whose sake I vndertooke this hazard.
Lady come foorth, I heare some noise at hand,
We shall be taken, Paris he is slaine,
And Romeo dead: and if we heere be tane
We shall be thought to be as accessarie.
I will prouide for you in some close Nunery.
Ah leaue me, leaue me, I will not from hence.
I heare some noise, I dare not stay, come, come.
Goe get thee gone.
Whats heere a cup closde in my louers hands?
Ah churle drinke all, and leaue no drop for me.
This way, this way.
I, noise? then must I be resolute.
O happy dagger thou shalt end my feare,
Rest in my bosome, thus I come to thee.
Come looke about, what weapons haue we heere?
See frends where Iuliet two daies buried,
New bleeding wounded, search and see who's neare,
Attach and bring them to vs presently.
Captaine heers a Fryer with tooles about him,
Fitte to ope a tombe.
A great suspition, keep him safe.
Heeres Romeos Man.
Keepe him to be examinde.
What early mischiefe calls vs vp so soone.
O noble Prince, see here
Where Juliet that hath lyen intoombd two dayes,
Warme and fresh bleeding, Romeo and Countie Paris
Likewise newly slaine.
Search seeke about to finde the murderers.
What rumor's this that is so early vp?
The people in the streetes crie Romeo,
And some on Iuliet: as if they alone
Had been the cause of such a mutinie.
See Wife, this dagger hath mistooke:
For (loe) the backe is emptie of yong Mountague.
And it is sheathed in our Daughters breast.
Come Mountague, for thou art early vp,
To see thy Sonne and Heire more early downe.
Dread Souereigne, my Wife is dead to night,
And yong Benuolio is deceased too:
What further mischiefe can there yet be found?
First come and see, then speake.
O thou vntaught, what manners is in this
To presse before thy Father to a graue.
Come seale your mouthes of outrage for a while,
And let vs seeke to finde the Authors out
Of such a hainous and seld seene mischaunce.
Bring forth the parties in suspition.
I am the greatest able to doo least.
Most worthie Prince, heare me but speake the truth.
And Ile informe you how these things fell out.
Juliet here slaine was married to that Romeo,
Without her Fathers or her Mothers grant:
The Nurse was priuie to the marriage.
The balefull day of this vnhappie marriage,
Was Tybalts doomesday: for which Romeo
Was banished from hence to Mantua.
He gone, her Father sought by foule constraint
To marrie her to Paris: But her Soule
(Loathing a second Contract) did refuse
To giue consent; and therefore did she vrge me
Either to finde a meanes she might auoyd
What so her Father sought to force her too:
Or els all desperately she threatned
Euen in my presence to dispatch her selfe.
Then did I giue her, (tutord by mine arte)
A potion that should make her seeme as dead:
And told her that I would with all post speed
Send hence to Mantua for her Romeo,
That he might come and take her from the Toombe.
But he that had my Letters (Frier John)
Seeking a Brother to associate him,
Whereas the sicke infection remaind,
Was stayed by the Searchers of the Towne,
But Romeo vnderstanding by his man,
That Iuliet was deceasde, returnde in post
Vnto Verona for to see his loue.
What after happened touching Paris death,
Or Romeos is to me vnknowne at all.
But when I came to take the Lady hence,
I found them dead, and she awakt from sleep:
Whom faine I would haue taken from the tombe,
Which she refused seeing Romeo dead.
Anone I heard the watch and then I fled,
What after happened I am ignorant of.
And if in this ought haue miscaried.
By me, or by my meanes let my old life
Be sacrificd some houre before his time.
To the most strickest rigor of the Law.
We still haue knowne thee for a holy man,
Wheres Romeos man, what can he say in this?
I brought my maister word that shee was dead,
And then he poasted straight from Mantua,
Vnto this Toombe. These Letters he deliuered me,
Charging me early giue them to his Father.
Lets see the Letters, I will read them ouer.
Where is the Counties Boy that calld the Watch?
I brought my Master vnto Juliets graue,
But one approaching, straight I calld my Master.
At last they fought, I ran to call the Watch.
And this is all that I can say or know.
These letters doe make good the Fryers wordes,
Come Capolet, and come olde Mountagewe.
Where are these enemies? see what hate hath done,
Come brother Mountague giue me thy hand,
There is my daughters dowry: for now no more
Can I bestowe on her, thats all I haue.
But I will giue them more, I will erect
Her statue of pure golde:
That while Verona by that name is knowne.
There shall no statue of such price be set,
As that of Romeos loued Iuliet.
As rich shall Romeo by his Lady lie,
Poore Sacrifices to our Enmitie.
A gloomie peace this day doth with it bring.
Come, let vs hence,
To haue more talke of these sad things.
Some shall be pardoned and some punished:
For nere was heard a Storie of more woe,
Than this of Iuliet and her Romeo.
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