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There art thou happy. Tybalt would kill thee,
But thou Nueft Tybalt, there art thou happy too.
A packe of blessings lights vpon thy backe,
Happines courts thee in his best array:
But like a misbehaude and sullen wench
Thou frownst vpon thy fate that smilles on thee.
Take heede, take heede, for such dye miserable.
Goe get thee to thy loue as was decreed:
Ascend her chamber window, hence and comfort her,
But looke thou stay not till the watch be fet:
For then thou canst not paffe to Mantua.
Nurse prouide all things in a readines,
Comfort thy mistresse, haste the house to bed,
Which heauy forrow makes them apt vnto.
Nur. Good lord what a thing learning is,
I could haue stayde heere all this night
To heare good counsell. Well sir,
Ile tell my lady that you
Rom. Doe fo and bidde my sweet prepare to childe,
Farwell good nurse.
Nurse offers to goe in and turnes againe. Nur. Heere is a ring fir, that she bad me giue you, Rom. How well my comfort is reuiud by this.
Exit Nurse. Fr. Soiorne in Mantua, Ile finde out your man, And he shall signifie 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 so breefe to part with thce.
Enter olde Capolet and his wife, with county Paris.
Cap. Thinges haue fallen out sir so vnluckily,
That we haue had no time to moue my daughter.
Looke yee fir, she lou'd her kinsman dearely,
And so did I. Well, we were borne to dye,
Wife wher's your daughter, is she in her chamber?
I thinke she meanes not to come downe to night.
Par. These times of woe affoord do 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 desperate tender of my child. I thinke she will be rulde in all respecles by mee : But soft what day is this?
Par. Munday my lord.
Cap. Oh then Wensday is too foone,
On Thursday let it be : you shall be maried.
Wee'le make no great a doe,' a frend or two, or so :
For looke ye fir, Tybalt being Naine so lately,
It will be thought we held him careleslye :
If we should reuell much, therefore we will have
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 goe 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 so very very late, That we may call it earely by and by.
Enter Romeo and Iuliet at the window.
lul. Wilt thou be gone? It is not yet nere day,
It was the nightingale and not the larke
That pierst the fearfull hollow of thine eare :
Nightly she sings on yon pomegranate tree,
Beleeue me love, it was the nightingale.
Rom. It was the larke, the herald of the morne,
And not the nightingale. See loue what enuious strakes
Doo lace the seuering clowdes in yonder east.
Nights candles are burnt out, and iocond day
Stands tiptoes on the mystie mountaine tops.
I must be gone and live, or stay and dye.
Jul. Yon light is not day light, I know it I:
It is some 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 soone.
Rom. Let me stay here, let me be tane, and dye :
If thou wilt haue it fo, I am content.
Ile say yon gray is not the mornings eye,
It is the pale reflex of Gynthias brow.
He say it is the nightingale that beates
The vaultie heauen so high aboue our heads,
And not the larke the messenger of morne.
Come death and welcome, Juliet wils it so.
What sayes my loue ? lets talke, tis not yet day.
Jul. It is, it is, begone, flye hence away.
It is the larke that sings fo out of tune,
Straining harsh discords and vnpleasing sharpes.
Some say the larke makes sweete diuision:
This doth not so : for this diuideth vs.
Some say 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 huntsvp 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 kisfe and Ile descend.
He goeth downe.
Jul. Art thou gone so, my lord, my loue, my frend?
I must heare from thee euerie day in the hower :
For in an hower there are manie minutes,
Minutes are dayes, so will I number them :
Oh, by this count I shall be much in yeares,
Ere I see thee againe.
Rom. Farewell, I will omit no opportunitie
That may conueigh my greetings loue to thee.
Iul. Oh, thinkst thou we shall euer meete againe.
Rom. No doubt, no doubt, and all this woe shall serue
For sweete discourses in the time to come.
Jul. Oh God, I have an ill diuining foule.
Me thinkes I see 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 trust me loue, in my eye fo doo you,
Drie sorrow drinkes our blood : adieu, adieu.
Nur. Madame beware, take heed the day is broke, Your mother's comming to your chamber, make all sure.
She goeth downe from the window.
Enter Iuliets mother, Nurse.
Moth. Where are you daughter?
Nur. What ladie, lambe, what Tuliet ?
Iul. 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 cosens death :
I thinke thoult wash him from his graue with teares.
Iul. I cannot chuse, having so great a losse.
Moth. I cannot blame thee.
But it greenes thee more that villaine lives.
Iul. What villaine madame ?
Motb. That villaine Romeo.
Iul. Villaine and he are manie miles a funder.
Moth. Content thee girle, if I could finde a man
I soone would send to Mantua where he is,
That should bestow on him so sure a draught,
As he Mould soone beare Tybalt companie.
Iul. Finde you the meanes, and Ile finde such 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 passe. I come to bring thee ioyfull newes ?
Iul. And ioy comes well in such a needful time.
Moth. Well then, thou hast 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.
hul. 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. Madame I will not marrie
yet. And when I doo, it shal be rather Romeo whom I hate, Than countie Paris that I cannot loue.