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But one thing to rcioyce and folace in,
And cruell death hath catch it from my fight.
Nur. O wo, O wofall, wofu!l, wofull day,
Most lamentable day, most woíull day,
That euer, 'euer, I did yet behold,
O day, O day, 0 day, O hatefull day,
Neuer wns feene so blacke a day as this,
O wofull day, O wofull day.
Par. Beguild, diuorced, wronged, spighted, llaine,
Most deteftable death, by thee beguild,
By cruell, cruell thee, quite ouerthrowne,
O loue, o life, not life, but loue in death.
Fat. Despisde, distressed, hated, martird, kild,
Vncomfortable time, why camft thou now,
To murther, murther our folemnitie ?
O child, O child, my foule and not my child,
Dead art thou, alacke my child is dead,
And with my child my joyes are buried.
Fri. Peace 'ho for name, confufions, care liues not
In these confufions, heauen and your felfe
Had part in this faire maid, now heauen hath all,
And all the better is it for the maid :
Your part in her, you could not keepe froin death,
But heauen keepes his part in eternall life :
The molt you fought was her promotion,
For twas your heauen she should be aduanst,
And weepe ye now, seeing she is aduanít
Aboue the cloudes, as high as heauen it felfe.
O in this love, you loue your child so ill,
That you run mad, seeing that she is well :
Shoes not well married, that liues married long,
But shees best married, that dies married yong.
Drie vp your teares, and sticke your rosemarie
On this faire coarse, and as the custome is,
And in her best array beare her to church :
For though some nature bids vs all lament,
Yet natures teates are reasons merriment.
Fa. All things that we ordained festiuall,
Tuine from their office to blacke funerall :
Our instruments to melancholy bells,
Oar wedding cheare to a fad buriall * feast:
Our solemne hymnes to sullen dyrges change :
Our bridall flowers ferue for a buried coarse :
And all things change them to the contrarie.
Fri. Sir go you in ; and madam, go with him,
And go fir Paris, euery onc prepare
To follow this faire coarse vnto her graue :
The heauens do lowre vpon you for some ill :
Moue them no more, by crossing their high will.
Exeunt manet t. Musi. Faith we may púť vp our pipes and be gone.
Nur. Honest goodfellowes, ah put vp, put vp,
For well you know, this is a pitifull cafe.
Fid. I by my troath, the case may be amended.
Enter Will Kempe .
Peter, Mufitions, oh musitions, harts ease, harts ease,
0, and you will haue me liue, play hearis ease,
Fidler. Why harts ease?
Peter. O musitions, because my hart it felfe plaies, my hart
is full g.
O play me some'merrie dumpe to comfort me.
Minstrels. Not a dump we, tis no time to play now.
Pet. You will not then ?
Pet. I will then giue it you foundly.
+ manent mufici. 1 Peter. $ full of woe,
Min. What will you giue vs ?
Pet. No money on my faith, but the gleeke. I will giue you the minstrell.
Min. Then will I giue you the feruing creature.
Pet. Then will I lay the seruing creatures dagger on your pate. I will carie no crochets, Ile re you, Ile fa you, do you note me?
Min. And you re vs, and fa vs, you note vs.
2 M. Pray you put vp your dagger, and put out your wit. Then haue at you
wit. Peter. I will drie-beate you with an yron wit, and put up
my yron dagger. Anfwere me like men. When griping griefes the hart doth wound, then musique with
her Gluer found. Why siluer found, why muficke with her filuer found, what
say you Simon Catling, Min. Mary fir, because siluer hath a sweet sound. Pet. Prateft*, what say you Hugh Rebick? 2 M. I say siluer found, because musitions found for filuer, Pet. Pratest * to, what say you lames Sound poft ? 3 M. Faith I know not what to say.
Pet. O I cry you mercy, you are the finger. I will say for you ; it is musicke with her filuer sound, Because musitions haue no gold for founding : Then musicke with her silver sound with speedy helpe doth lend redresse.
Exit. Min. What a pestilent knaue is this fame?
M. 2. Hang him iacke, come weele in here, tatrie for the mourners, and stay dinner.
Re. If I may trust the Aattering truth of Deepe,
• Pratce. + Excunt,
My dreames presage some ioyfull newes at hand,
My bosomes L. fits lightly in † in his throne :
And all this day an vnaccustomd fpirit,
Lifts me aboue the ground with cheerefull thoughts.
I dreamt my lady came and found me dead,
Strange dreame that giues g a dead man leaue to thinke,
And breathd such life with kisses in my lips,
That I reuiude and was an emperor.
Ah me, how sweet is love it selfe pofsest,
When but loues shadowes are so rich in ioy.
Enter Romeos man ||.
Newes from Verona, how now Balthazer ?
Dost thou not bring me letters from the frier?
How doth my lady, is my father well?
How doth my lady luliet that I aske againe,
For nothing can be ill, if the be well.
Man. Then she is well, and nothing can be ill.
Her body sleepes in Capels monument,
And her immortall part with angells liues,
I saw her laid low in her kindreds vault,
And presently tooke poste to tell it you:
O pardon me for bringing these ill newes,
Since you did leaue it for my office fir.
Ro. Is it euen so ? then I denie you starres.
Thou kaowest my lodging, get me inke and paper,
And hire post horses, I will hence to night.
Man. I do beseech you sir, haue patience :
Your lookes are pale and wild, and do import
Ro. Tush thou art deceiu'd,
Leaue me, and do the thing I bid thee do.
Hast thou no letters to me from the frier ?
| aun Balthasar,
Man. No my good lord.
Ro. No matter, get thee gone,
And hyre those horses, Jie be with thee straight.
Well luliet, I will lie with thee to night :
Lets see for meanes, O mischiefe thou art swift
To enter in the thoughts of desperate men :
I do remember an appothecarie,
And here abouts a * dwels, which late I noted
In tattred weeds, with ouerwhelming browes,
Culling of fimples, meager were his lookes,
Sharpe miferie had worne him to the bones :
And in his needie shop a tortoys hung,
An allegater stuft, and other skins
Of ill shapte fishes, and about his shelues,
A beggerly account of emptie boxes,
Greene earthen pots, bladders and mustie seedes,
Remnants of packthred, and old cakes of roses
Were thinly scattered, to make vp a shew.
Noting this penury, to myselfe I said,
An + if a man did need a poyson now,
Whose fale is present death in Mantua,
Here liucs a caitiffe wretch would fell it him.
O this same thought did but forerun my need,
And this same needie man must sell it me.
As I remember, this thould be the house,
Being holy day the beggers shop is Mut.
What ho appothecarie:
Aho. Who calls fo lowd?
Rom. Come bither man, I see that thou art poore,
Hold, there is fortie duckets, let me haue
A dram of poyson, such soone speeding geare,
As will disperse iç felfe through all the veines,