And all the better is it for the maid.

Your part in her you could not keep from death;
But heaven keeps his part in eternal life.
The most, you fought was, her promotion;
For 'twas your heaven, fhe fhould be advanc'd:
And weep you now, seeing she is advanc'd,
Above the clouds, as high as heaven itself?
Oh, in this love you love your child fo ill,
That you run mad, feeing that fhe is well.
She's not well married, that lives married long;
But she's beft married, that dies married young.
Dry up your tears, and ftick your rosemary
On this fair corfe; and, as the custom is,
In all her beft array, bear her to church :
7 For tho' fond nature bids us all lament,
Yet nature's tears are reafon's merriment.

Cap. All things, that we ordained festival,
Turn from their office to black funeral:
Our inftruments, to melancholy bells;
Our wedding chear, to a fad funeral feast;
Our folemn hymns, to fullen dirges change;
Our bridal flowers ferve for a buried corse;
And all things change them to the contrary.
Fri. Sir, go you in, and, Madam, go with him;
And go, Sir Paris; every one prepare
To follow this fair corfe unto her grave.
The heavens do lower upon you, for fome ill;
Move them no more, by croffing their high will.

[Exeunt Capulet, lady Capulet, Paris, and Friar. Muf. 'Faith, we may put up our pipes and be gone. Nurfe. Honest good fellows, ah, put up, put up; For, well you know, this is a pitiful cafe.

[Exit Nurfe.

7 For tho' fome nature bids us all lament,] Some nature? Sure, it is the general rule of nature, or the could not bid us all lament. I have ventured to fubftitute an epithet, which, I fufpect, was loft in the idle corrupted word jome; and which admirably quadrates with the verfe fucceeding this. THEOB.

Muf

Muf. Ay, by my troth, the cafe may be amended.

Enter Peter.

Pet. Muficians, oh, musicians, heart's cafe, heart's cafe:

Oh, an you will have me live, play heart's ease.
Muf. Why, heart's eafe.

8

Pet. O muficians, because my heart itself plays,My heart itself is full of woe.

merry dump, to comfort me.

9 O, play me fome

Muf. Not a dump we; 'tis no time to play now.
Pet. You will not then?

Muf. No.

Pet. I will then give it you foundly.

Muf. What will you give us?

Pet. No money, on my faith; but the gleek. I will give you the minstrel.

Muf. Then will I give you the ferving-creature. Pet. Then will I lay the ferving-creature's dagger on your pate. I will carry no crotchets. I'll re you, I'll fa you, do you note me?

Muf. An you re us, and fa us, you note us.

2 Muf. 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:

My heart itself is full of woe.] This, if I mistake not, is the beginning of an old ballad. STEEVENS.

90, play me fome merry dump, to comfort me.] This is not in the folio, but the answer plainly requires it. JOHNSON. A dump anciently fignified fome kind of dance, as well as forrow. So in Humour out of Breath, a comedy, by John Day, 1607:

"He loves nothing but an Italian dump,
"Or a French brawl."

STEEVENS.

When griping grief the heart doth wound, 2 And doleful dumps the mind oppress, Then mufick with her filver found

Why filver found! why, mufick with her filver found? What fay you, Simon Catling?

1 Muf. Marry, Sir, because filver hath a fweet found.

Pet. Prateft! What fay you, 3 Hugh Rebeck? 2 Muf. I fay filver found, because musicians found for filver.

Pet. Prateft too! What fay you, James SoundBoard?

3 Muf. 'Faith, I know not what to say.

Pet. O, I cry you mercy! you are the finger: I will fay for you. It is, mufick with her filver found, because musicians have no gold for founding. • Then mufick with her filver found

With Speedy help doth lend redrefs.

[Exit finging. Muf. What a peftilent knave is this fame?

2 Muf. Hang him, Jack! come, we'll in here, tarry for the mourners, and stay dinner. [Exeunt.

2 This line I have recovered from the old copy, which was wanting to complete the ftanza as it is afterwards repeated. STEEVENS.

3 Hugh Rebeck?] The fidler is fo called from an inftrument with three ftrings, which is mentioned by feveral of the old writers. So in Beaumont and Fletcher's Knight of the Burning Peftle:

66

"Tis prefent death for these fidlers to tune their " rebecks before the Great Turk's grace.'

STEEV,

ACT

F may truft the flattering truth of sleep,

I'My dreams prefage fome joyful news at hand:

3 My bofom's lord fits lightly on his throne; And all this day an unaccustom'd fpirit

Lifts me above the ground with chearful thoughts. I dreamt, my lady came and found me dead; (Strange dream! that gives a dead man leave to think)

I The acts are here properly enough divided, nor did any better diftribution than the editors have already made, occur to me in the perufal of this play; yet it may not be improper to remark, that in the first folio, and I fuppofe the foregoing editions are in the fame ftate, there is no divifion of the acts, and therefore fome future editor may try, whether any improvement can be made, by reducing them to a length more equal, or interrupting the action at more proper intervals. JOHNSON.

2

If I may truft the flattering TRUTH of fleep,] The fenfe is, If I may only trust the honesty of fleep, which I know however not to be fo nice as not often to practife flattery. JOHNSON.

The oldeft copy reads, the flattering eye of fleep. Whether this reading ought to fuperfede the more modern one, I shall not pretend to determine: it appears to me, however, the most eafily intelligible of the two. STEEVENS.

3 My bofom's lord-] Thefe three lines are very gay and pleafing. But why does Shakespeare give Romeo this involuntary cheerfulness juft before the extremity of unhappiness ? Perhaps to fhew the vanity of trufting to thofe uncertain and cafual exaltations or depreffions, which many confider as certain foretokens of good and evil. JOHNSON.

The poet has explained this paffage himself a little further

"How oft, when men are at the point of death,
"Have they been merry? which their keepers call
"A lightning before death."

STEEVENS.

And

And breath'd fuch life with kiffes in my lips,
That I reviv'd, and was an emperor.
Ah me! how fweet is love itself poffeft,
When but love's fhadows are fo rich in joy!

Enter Balthafar.

News from Verona! -How now, Balthafar?
Doft thou not bring me letters from the friar?
How doth my lady? is my father well?
How doth my Juliet? That I afk again;
For nothing can be ill, if fhe be well.

Balth. Then he is well, and nothing can be ill;
Her body fleeps in Capulets' monument,
And her immortal part with angels lives.
I faw her laid low in her kindred's vault,
And presently took poft to tell it you.
O, pardon me for bringing thefe ill news,
Since you did leave it for my office, Sir.

Rom. Is it even fo? then I defy you, stars 4 !— Thou know'st my lodging: get me ink and paper, And hire poft-horses: I will hence to-night.

Balth. Pardon me, Sir, I dare not leave you thus 5. Your looks are pale and wild, and do import Some mifadventure.

Rom. Tufh, thou art deceiv'd.

Leave me, and do the thing I bid thee do:

Haft thou no letters to me from the friar?
Balth. No, my good lord.

Rom. No matter: get thee gone,

And hire thofe horfes; I'll be with thee ftraight.

[Exit Balthafar. Well, Juliet, I will lie with thee to-night.

4 —I defy you, ftars!] The folio reads-deny you, stars. STEEVENS.

Pardon me, Sir, I dare not leave you thus.] This line is taken from the quarto, 1597. The quarto, 1609, and the folio read,

"I do beseech you, Sir, have patience." STEEVENS.

Let's