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There art thou happy. Tybalt would kill thee,
But thou flueft Tybalt, there art thou happy too.
A packe of bleffings lights vpon thy backe,
Happines courts thee in his best array:

But like a misbehaude and fullen wench

Thou frownft vpon thy fate that fmilles on thee.
Take heede, take heede, for fuch dye miferable.
Goe get thee to thy loue as was decreed:

Afcend her chamber window, hence and comfort her,
But looke thou ftay not till the watch be fet:
For then thou canst not paffe to Mantua.
Nurfe prouide all things in a readines,
Comfort thy miftreffe, hafte the house to bed,
Which heauy forrow makes them apt vnto.
Nur. Good lord what a thing learning is,
I could haue ftayde heere all this night
To heare good counfell. Well fir,

Ile tell my lady that you will come.

Rom. Doe fo and bidde my fweet prepare to childe,
Farwell good nurse.

Nurfe offers to goe in and turnes againe.
Nur. Heere is a ring fir, that she bad me giue you,
Rem. How well my comfort is reuiud by this.

Fr. Soiorne in Mantua, Ile finde out your man,
And he fhall fignifie from time to time:
Euery good hap that doth befall thee heere.
Farwell.

Rom. But that a ioy, past ioy cryes out on me,
It were a griefe fo breefe to part with thee.

Exit Nurfe.

Enter olde Capolet and his wife, with county Paris.
Cap. Thinges haue fallen out fir fo vnluckily,
That we haue had no time to moue my daughter.

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Looke

Looke yee fir, fhe lou'd her kinfman dearely,
And fo did I. Well, we were borne to dye,
Wife wher's your daughter, is fhe in her chamber?
I thinke she meanes not to come downe to night.
Par. These times of woe affoord no time to wooe,
Maddam farwell, commend me to your daughter.

Paris offers to goe in, and Capolet calles him againe.
Cap. Sir Paris? Ile make a defperate tender of my child.
I thinke she will be rulde in all refpectes by mee :
But foft what day is this?

Par. Munday my lord.

Cap. Oh then Wenfday is too foone,

On Thursday let it be you fhall be maried.
Wee'le make no great a doe, a frend or two, or so:
For looke ye fir, Tybalt being flaine fo lately,

It will be thought we held him careleЛlye:

If we should reuell much, therefore we will haue
Some halfe a dozen frends and make no more adoe.
But what fay you to Thursday.

Paris. My lorde I wishe that Thursday were to morrow. Cap. Wife goe you to your daughter, ere you go 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 fo very very late,

That we may call it earely by and by.

Enter Romeo and Iuliet at the window.

Iul. Wilt thou be gone? It is not yet nere day,
It was the nightingale and not the larke
That pierft the fearfull hollow of thine eare:
Nightly fhe fings on yon pomegranate tree,
Beleeue me loue, it was the nightingale.

Exeunt.

Rom.

Rom. It was the larke, the herald of the morne,
And not the nightingale. See loue what enuious strakes
Doo lace the feuering clowdes in yonder east.
Nights candles are burnt out, and iocond day
Stands tiptoes on the myftie mountaine tops.
I must be gone and liue, or ftay and dye.
Jul. Yon light is not day light, I know it I:
It is fome meteor that the funne exhales,
To be this night to thee a torch-bearer,
And light thee on thy way to Mantua.
Then stay a while, thou shalt not goe foone.
Rom. Let me stay here, let me be tane, and dye:
If thou wilt haue it fo, I am content.

Ile fay yon gray is not the mornings eye,
It is the pale reflex of Cynthias brow.
Ile fay it is the nightingale that beates
The vaultie heauen so high aboue our heads,
And not the larke the meffenger of morne.
Come death and welcome, Juliet wils it fo.
What fayes my loue? lets talke, tis not yet day.
Jul. It is, it is, begone, flye hence away.
It is the larke that fings fo out of tune,
Straining harsh difcords and vnpleafing sharpes.
Some fay the larke makes fweete diuifion:
This doth not fo: for this diuideth vs.
Some fay 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 huntfvp to the day.

So now be gone, more light and light it growes.

Rom. More light and light, more darke and darke our woes, Farewell my loue, one kiffe and Ile defcend.

He goeth downe,

Jul. Art thou gone fo, my lord, my loue, my frend?

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I must heare from thee euerie day in the hower :
For in an hower there are manie minutes,
Minutes are dayes, fo will I number them :
Oh, by this count I shall be much in yeares,
Ere I fee thee againe.

Rom. Farewell, I will omit no opportunitie
That may conueigh my greetings loue to thee.

Iul. Oh, thinkft thou we shall euer meete againe.

Rom. No doubt, no doubt, and all this woe fhall ferue
For fweete difcourfes in the time to come.

Jul. Oh God, I have an ill diuining foule.
Me thinkes I fee thee now thou art below
Like one dead in the bottome of a tombe :
Either mine ey-fight failes, or thou lookst pale.
Rom. And truft me loue, in my eye fo doo you,
Drie forrow drinkes our blood: adieu, adieu.

Enter Nurse haftely.

Nur. Madame beware, take heed the day is broke, Your mother's comming to your chamber, make all fure.

Exit

She goeth downe from the window.

Enter Iuliets mother, Nurfe.

Moth. Where are you daughter?

Nur. What ladie, lambe, what Iuliet?

Jul. How now, who calls?

Nur. It is your mother.

Moth. Why how now Juliet ?

Iul. Madam, I am not well.

Moth. What euermore weeping for your cofens death: I thinke thoult wash him from his graue with teares.

Iul. I cannot chufe, hauing fo great a losse.

Moth.

Moth. I cannot blame thee.

But it greenes thee more that villaine liues.

Iul. What villaine madame ?

Moth. That villaine Romeo.

Jul. Villaine and he are manie miles a funder.

Moth. Content thee girle, if I could finde a man
I foone would fend to Mantua where he is,
That should bestow on him fo fure a draught,

As he should foone beare Tybalt companie.

Iul. Finde you the meanes, and Ile finde fuch a man : For whileft he liues, my heart shall nere be light

Till I behold him, dead is my poore heart.

Thus for a kinsman vext?

Moth. Well let that paffe. I come to bring thee ioyfull

newes ?

Iul. And ioy comes well in such a needful time.
Moth. Well then, thou haft a carefull father girle,

And one who pittying thy needfull state,
Hath found thee out a happie day of ioy.
Iul. What day is that I pray you?
Moth. Marry my childe,

The gallant, yong and youthfull gentleman,
The countie Paris at faint Peters church,
Early next Thursday morning must prouide,
To make you there a glad and ioyfull bride.
Iul. Now by faint 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.

yet.

Madame I will not marrie

And when I doo, it fhal be rather Romeo whom I hate,
Than countie Paris that I cannot loue.

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