La. Cap. O me! O me! my child, my only life, Revive, look up, or I will die with thee! Help, help! call help. Enter CAPULET. Cap. For shame! bring Juliet forth; her lord is come. Nurse. She's dead, deceas'd, she's dead; alack the day! La. Cap. Alack the day! she's dead, she's dead, she's dead. Cap. Ha! let me see her. Out, alas! she's cold; Her blood is settled, and her joints are stiff; Life and these lips have long been separated: Death lies on her, like an untimely frost Upon the sweetest flower of all the field. 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 LAURENCE 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 : there she lies, Flower as she was, deflowered by him. Death is my son-in-law, Death is my heir; My daughter he hath wedded. I will die, And leave him all; life, living, all is death's! 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 e'er time saw But one, poor one, one poor and loving child, And cruel Death hath catch'd it from my sight. That ever, ever, I did yet behold! O day! O day! O day! O hateful day! Par. Beguil'd, divorced, wronged, spited, slain ! Most detestable death, by thee beguil'd, By cruel, cruel thee quite overthrown! O love! O life! not life, but love in death! To murther, murther our solemnity? O child! O child! my soul, and not my child! And with my child my joys are buried. Fri. Peace, ho! for shame! confusion's cure lives not In these confusions. Had part in this fair And all the better is Heaven and yourself maid; now Heaven hath all; Your part in her you could not keep from death, But she's best married that dies married young. Cap. All things, that we ordained festival, him; And go, Sir Paris : every one prepare To follow this fair corse unto her grave. The Heavens do low'r upon you for some ill; 1 Mus. 'Faith, we may put up our pipes, and be gone. Nurse. Honest good fellows, ah! put up, put up; for, well you know, this is a pitiful case. [Exit Nurse. 1 Mus. Ay, by my troth, the case may be amended. Enter PETER. ease, Pet. Musicians, O, musicians! Heart's Heart's ease: O, an you will have me live, playHeart's ease. 1 Mus. Why Heart's ease? Pet. O, musicians! because my heart itself plays -My heart is full [of woe]: O, play me some merry dump, to comfort me. 2 Mus. Not a dump we: 'tis no time to play now. Pet. You will not then? Mus. No. Pet. I will, then, give it you soundly. 1 Mus. What will you give us? Pet. No money, on my faith; but the gleek: 1 will give you the minstrel. 1 Mus. Then will I give you the serving-creature. Pet. Then will I lay the serving-creature's dagger on your pate. I will carry no crotchets: I'll re you, I'll fa you. Do you note me? 1 Mus. An you re us, and fa us, you note us. 2 Mus. Pray you, put up your dagger, and put out your wit. Pet. Then have at you with my wit. I will drybeat you with an iron wit, and put up my iron dagger. Answer me like men: When griping grief the heart doth wound, And doleful dumps the mind oppress, Then music, with her silver sound; Why "silver sound"? why "music with her silver sound"? What say you, Simon Catling? 1 Mus. Marry, sir, because silver hath a sweet sound. Pet. Pretty! What say you, Hugh Rebeck? 2 Mus. I say sound for silver. "silver sound," because musicians Pet. Pretty too! What say you, James Soundpost? 3 Mus. 'Faith, I know not what to say. Pet. O, I cry you mercy! you are the singer: I will say for you. It is "music with her silver sound," because musicians have no gold for sounding: Then music, with her silver sound, With speedy help doth lend redress. 2 Mus. [Exit. 1 Mus. What a pestilent knave is this same ! Hang him, Jack! Come, we'll in here; tarry for the mourners, and stay dinner. [Exeunt. ACT V. SCENE I. — Mantua. A Street. Enter ROMEO. ROMEO. F I may trust the flattering sooth of sleep, IF My dreams presage some joyful news at hand. My bosom's lord sits lightly in his throne; And all this day an unaccustom'd spirit Lifts me above the ground with cheerful thoughts. I dream'd my lady came and found me dead, (Strange dream, that gives a dead man leave to think!) And breath'd such life with kisses in my lips, Ah me! how sweet is love itself possess'd, Enter BALTHASAR. News from Verona! - How now, Balthasar? |