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Nurse. Will you speak well of him, that kill'd your

cousin ? Jul. Shall I speak ill of him, that is my husband ? Ah, poor my lord, what tongue shall smooth thy

When I thy three hours wife have mangled it?
Back, foolish tears, back to your native spring :
Your tributary drops belong to woe,
Which you mistaking, offer up to joy.
My husband lives, that Tibalt would have slain,
And Tibalt's dead, thatwould have kill'd my hus-

band ;
All this is comfort; wherefore weep I then ?
Some word there was worser than Tibalt's death,
That murder'd me ; I would forget it fain,
But, ob, it presses to my memory,
Like damned guilty deeds to sinners' minds ;
Tibalt is dead, and Romeo banished,
That banished, that one word banished,
Hath slain ten thousand Tibalts. In that word
Is father, mother, Tibalt, Romeo, Juliet,
All slain, all dead!
Where is my father, and my mother, Nurse?

Nurse. Weeping and wailing over Tibalt's corse :
Will you go to them ? I will bring you thither.
Jul. Wash they his wounds with tears ! my eyes

shall flow,
When theirs are dry, for Romeo's banishment.

Nurse. I'll find Romeo,
To comfort you, I wot well where he is ;
He is hid at Lawrence' cell.

Jul. Oh find him, give this ring to my true lord, And bid him come to take his last farewell.



The Monastery.


Fri. Romeo, come forth; come forth, thou fearful


Affliction is enamour'd of thy parts;
And thou art wedded to calamity.

Rom. Father, what news? what is the Prince's doom?

What sorrow craves acquaintance at my hand,
That I yet know not ?

Fri. Too familiar

Is my dear son with such sour company.

I bring thee tidings of the Prince's doom.

Rom. What less than death can be the Prince's doom?

Fri. A gentler judgment vanish'd from his lips; Not body's death, but body's banishment.

Rom. Ha! banishment? be merciful, say, death; For exile hath more terior in his look, Much more than death: Do not say, banishment; "Tis death mis-term'd calling death banishment, Thou cutt'st my head off, with a golden axe, And smil'st upon the stroke, that murders me.

Fri. O deadly sin! () rude unthankfulness ! Thy fault our law calls death; but the kind Prince, Taking thy part, hath push'd aside the law, And turn'd that black word, death, to banishment. This is dear mercy, and thou seest it not.

Rom. "Tis torture, and not mercy Heav'n is here, Where Juliet lives. There's more felicity

In carrion-Aics, 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 shall

know my errand : I come from Lady Juliet.

Fri, Welcome then.

your will ?

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 says 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. Ŏh 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 will come.

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.





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.


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