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In carrion-flies, than Romeo : they may seize
On the white wonder of dear Juliet's hand,
And steal immortal blessing from her lips,
But Romeo inay not ; he is banished !
Oh, father, hast thou no strong poison mix'd,
No sharp ground knife, no present means of death,
But banishment to torture me withal ?
Fri. Fond madman, hear me speak:
I'll give thee armour, to bear off that word,
Adversity's sweet milk, philosophy:
To comfort thee tho’ thou art banished.
Rom. Yet banished ? hang up philosophy:
Unless philosophy can make a Juliet,
It helps not, it prevails not; talk no more-
Fri. Let me dispute with thee of thy estate.
Rom. Thou canst not speak of what thou dost not
Wert thou as young as I, Juliet thy love,
An hour but married, Tibalt murdered,
Doting like me, and like me banished ;
Then might'st thou speak, then might'st thou tear thy
hair And fall upon the ground, as I do now, Taking the measure of an unmade grave.
[Throwing himself on the Ground. Fri. Arise, one knocks; good Romeo, hide thyself.
Knocks within. Thou wilt be taken--stay a while-stand up ;
Run to my study-By and by-God's will ;
What wilfulness is this !-I come, I come. [Knocks.
Who knocks so hard ? whence come you? what's
Nurse. [Within.] Let me come in, and you
know my errand : I come from Lady Juliet.
Fri, Welcome then.
Enter NURSE. Nurse. Oh, holy Friar, oh tell me, holy Friar, Where is my lady's lord ? where's Romeo? Fri. There, on the ground, with his own tears made
drunk. Nurse. Oh, he is even in my
mistress' case ; Just in her case : Oh, Juliet, Juliet !
Rom. Speak’st thou of Juliet ! how is it with her Since I've sustain'd the childhood of our joy With blood, Where is she? How does she? what
she? Nurse. Oh, she says nothing, sir, but weeps, and
And now falls on her bed, and then starts up,
And Tibalt cries, and then on Romeo calls,
And then falls down again.
Rom. As if that name,
Shot from the deadly level of a gun,
Did murder her. Oh tell me, Friar, tell me,
In what vile part of this anatomy
Doth my name lodge ? tell me, that I may
sack The hateful mansion.
Fri. Hold thy desperate hand :
Art thou a man? thy form cries out thou art ;
Thy tears are womanish, thy wild acts note
Th’unreasonable fury of a beast.
Thou hast amaz’d me. By my holy order,
I thought thy disposition better temper'd.
Hast thou slain Tibalt? wilt thou slay thyself?
And slay thy lady too, that lives in thee?
What, rouse thee, man, thy Juliet is alive;
Go, get thee to thy love, as was decreed ;
Ascend her chamber; hence, and comfort her:
But look thou stay not till the watch be set,
For then thou canst not pass to Mantua,
Where thou shalt live till we can find a time
To blaze your marriage, reconcile your friends,
Beg pardon of thy Prince, and call thee back,
With twenty hundred thousand times more joy,
Than thou went'st forth in lamentation.
Go before, Nurse; Commend me to thy lady,
And bid her hasten all the house to rest ;
Romeo is coming.
Nurse. O lord, I could have staid here all night
To hear good counsel; Oh, what learning is !
My lord, I'll tell my lady you
Rom. Do so, and bid my sweet prepare to chide.
Nurse. Here, sir, a ring she bid me give you, sir : Hie you,
make haste, for it grows very late.
Rom. How well my comfort is reviv'd by this!
Fri. Sojourn in Mantua ; I'll find out your man;
And he shall signify, from time to time,
Every good hap to you that chances here:
Give me thy hand; "Tis late, farewell, good night.
Rom. But that a joy, past joy, calls out on me, It were a grief so soon to part with thee. [Exeunt.
Enter CAPULET, LADY CAPULET, and PARIS.
Cap. Things have fall’n out, sir, so unluckily,
That we have had no time to move our daughter
Look you, she lov'd her kinsman Tibalt dearly,
And so did I-Well, we were born to die-
”Tis very late, she'll not come down to-night.
Par. These times of grief afford no time to woo: Madam, good night, commend me to your daughter.
Cap. Sir Paris, I will make a desperate tender Of my
child's love: I think she will be ruld In all respects by me; nay more, I doubt it not. But, soft; what day? Well, Wednesday is too soon, On Thursday, let it be, you shall be marry'd. We'll keep no great ado—a friend or twoFor, hark you, Tibalt being slain so late, It may be thought we held him carelessly, Being our kinsman, if we revel much ; Therefore we'll have some half a dozen friends, And there's an end. But what say you to Thursday ?
Par. My lord, I would that Thursday were toCap. Well, get you gone-on Thursday be it
then: Go you to Juliet ere you go to bed:
[To LADY CAPULET. Prepare her, wife, against this wedding day. Farewell, my lord-Good night.
Enter Romeo and JULI ET.
Jul. Wilt thou be gone? It is not yet near day :
It was the nightingale, and not the lark,
That pierc'd the fearful hollow of thine ear;
Nightly she sings on yon pomegranate tree:
Believe me, love, it was the nightingale.
Rom. It was the lark, the herald of the morn,
No nightingale. Look, love, what envious streaks
Do lace the severing clouds in yonder east:
Night's candles are burnt out, and jocund day
Stands tip-toe on the misty mountain tops.
I must be gone, and live; or stay, and die.
Jul. Yon light is not day-light, I know it well;
It is some meteor, that the sun exhales,
To be to thee this night a torch-bearer,
And light thee on thy way to Mantua ;
Then stay awhile, thou shalt not go so soon.
Rom. Let me be ta’en ; let me be put to death ;
I am content, if thou wilt have it so.
I'll say, yon grey is not the morning's eye,
"Tis but the pale reflex of Cynthia's brow,
say, ’tis not the lark, whose notes do beat
The vaulty heaven so high above our heads :
Come, death, and welcome : Juliet wills it so.
What says my love ? Let's talk, it is not day.
Jul. It is, it is ; hie hence, away, begone;
It is the lark, that sings so out of tune,
Straining harsh discords, and unpleasing sharps.
Oh now begone, more light and light it grows,
Rom. More light and light ? --more dark and dark
Farewell, my love; one kiss, and I'll begone.
[Romeo descends the Ropeladder,
Enter NURSE. Nurse. Madam. Jul. Nurse. Nurse. Your lady mother's coming to your cham
ber : The day is broke, be wary, look about. Jul. Art thou gone so ? love ! lord ! ah, husband,
I must hear from thee ev'ry day in th’hour,
For in love's hours there are many days.
Oh! by this count I shall be much’in years,
Ere I again behold my
Rom. Farewell : I will omit no opportunity,
That may convey my greetings to thee, love.