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Have I thought long to see this morning's face,
And doth it give me such a sight as this?
Accurs'd, unhappy, wretched, hateful day!
Most miserable hour that e'er time saw
In lasting labour of his pilgrimage!
But one, poor one, one poor and loving child,
But one thing to rejoice and solace in,
And cruel death hath catch'd it from my sight!
O woe! O woeful, woeful, woeful day!
Most lamentable day, most woeful day
That ever, ever, I did yet behold!
O day! O day! O day! O hateful day!
Never was seen so black a day as this:
O woeful day! O woeful day!
Beguil'd, divorced, wronged, spited, slain!
Most detestable death, by thee beguil'd,
By cruel cruel thee quite overthrown!--
O love! O life!--not life, but love in death!
Despis'd, distressed, hated, martyr'd, kill'd!--
Uncomfortable time, why cam'st thou now
To murder, murder our solemnity?--
O child! O child!--my soul, and not my child!--
Dead art thou, dead!--alack, my child is dead;
And with my child my joys are buried!
Peace, ho, for shame! confusion's cure lives not
In these confusions. Heaven and yourself
Had part in this fair maid; now heaven hath all,
And all the better is it for the maid:
Your part in her you could not keep from death;
But heaven keeps his part in eternal life.
The most you sought was her promotion;
For 'twas your heaven she should be advanc'd:
And weep ye now, seeing she is advanc'd
Above the clouds, as high as heaven itself?
O, in this love, you love your child so ill
That you run mad, seeing that she is well:
She's not well married that lives married long:
But she's best married that dies married young.
Dry up your tears, and stick your rosemary
On this fair corse; and, as the custom is,
In all her best array bear her to church;
For though fond nature bids us all lament,
Yet nature's tears are reason's merriment.
All things that we ordained festival
Turn from their office to black funeral:
Our instruments to melancholy bells;
Our wedding cheer to a sad burial feast;
Our solemn hymns to sullen dirges change;
Our bridal flowers serve for a buried corse,
And all things change them to the contrary.
Sir, go you in,--and, madam, go with him;--
And go, Sir Paris;--every one prepare
To follow this fair corse unto her grave:
The heavens do lower upon you for some ill;
Move them no more by crossing their high will.
[Exeunt Capulet, Lady Capulet, Paris, and Friar.]
Faith, we may put up our pipes and be gone.
Honest good fellows, ah, put up, put up;
For well you know this is a pitiful case.
Ay, by my troth, the case may be amended.
Musicians, O, musicians, 'Heart's ease,' 'Heart's ease':
O, an you will have me live, play 'Heart's ease.'
Why 'Heart's ease'?
O, musicians, because my heart itself plays 'My heart is
full of woe': O, play me some merry dump to comfort me.
Not a dump we: 'tis no time to play now.
You will not then?
I will then give it you soundly.
What will you give us?
No money, on my faith; but the gleek,--I will give you the
Then will I give you the serving-creature.
Then will I lay the serving-creature's dagger on your pate.
I will carry no crotchets: I'll re you, I'll fa you: do you note
An you re us and fa us, you note us.
Pray you put up your dagger, and put out your wit.
Then have at you with my wit! I will dry-beat you with an
iron wit, and put up my iron dagger.--Answer me like men:
'When griping grief the heart doth wound,
And doleful dumps the mind oppress,
Then music with her silver sound'--
why 'silver sound'? why 'music with her silver sound'?--
What say you, Simon Catling?
Marry, sir, because silver hath a sweet sound.
Pretty!--What say you, Hugh Rebeck?
I say 'silver sound' because musicians sound for silver.
Pretty too!--What say you, James Soundpost?
Faith, I know not what to say.
O, I cry you mercy; you are the singer: I will say for you.
It is 'music with her silver sound' because musicians have no
gold for sounding:--
'Then music with her silver sound
With speedy help doth lend redress.'
What a pestilent knave is this same!
Hang him, Jack!--Come, we'll in here; tarry for the
mourners, and stay dinner.
Scene I. Mantua. A Street.
If I may trust the flattering eye of sleep,
My dreams presage some joyful news at hand;
My bosom's lord sits lightly in his throne;
And all this day an unaccustom'd spirit
Lifts me above the ground with cheerful thoughts.
I dreamt my lady came and found me dead,--
Strange dream, that gives a dead man leave to think!--
And breath'd such life with kisses in my lips,
That I reviv'd, and was an emperor.
Ah me! how sweet is love itself possess'd,
When but love's shadows are so rich in joy!
News from Verona!--How now, Balthasar?
Dost thou not bring me letters from the friar?
How doth my lady? Is my father well?
How fares my Juliet? that I ask again;
For nothing can be ill if she be well.
Then she is well, and nothing can be ill:
Her body sleeps in Capel's monument,
And her immortal part with angels lives.
I saw her laid low in her kindred's vault,
And presently took post to tell it you:
O, pardon me for bringing these ill news,
Since you did leave it for my office, sir.
Is it even so? then I defy you, stars!--
Thou know'st my lodging: get me ink and paper,
And hire post-horses. I will hence to-night.
I do beseech you, sir, have patience:
Your looks are pale and wild, and do import
Tush, thou art deceiv'd:
Leave me, and do the thing I bid thee do.
Hast thou no letters to me from the friar?
No, my good lord.
No matter: get thee gone,
And hire those horses; I'll be with thee straight.
Well, Juliet, I will lie with thee to-night.
Let's see for means;--O mischief, thou art swift
To enter in the thoughts of desperate men!
I do remember an apothecary,--
And hereabouts he dwells,--which late I noted
In tatter'd weeds, with overwhelming brows,
Culling of simples; meagre were his looks,
Sharp misery had worn him to the bones;
And in his needy shop a tortoise hung,
An alligator stuff'd, and other skins
Of ill-shaped fishes; and about his shelves
A beggarly account of empty boxes,
Green earthen pots, bladders, and musty seeds,
Remnants of packthread, and old cakes of roses,
Were thinly scatter'd, to make up a show.
Noting this penury, to myself I said,
An if a man did need a poison now,
Whose sale is present death in Mantua,
Here lives a caitiff wretch would sell it him.
O, this same thought did but forerun my need;
And this same needy man must sell it me.
As I remember, this should be the house:
Being holiday, the beggar's shop is shut.--
What, ho! apothecary!
Who calls so loud?
Come hither, man.--I see that thou art poor;
Hold, there is forty ducats: let me have
A dram of poison; such soon-speeding gear
As will disperse itself through all the veins
That the life-weary taker mall fall dead;
And that the trunk may be discharg'd of breath
As violently as hasty powder fir'd
Doth hurry from the fatal cannon's womb.
Such mortal drugs I have; but Mantua's law
Is death to any he that utters them.
Art thou so bare and full of wretchedness
And fear'st to die? famine is in thy cheeks,
Need and oppression starveth in thine eyes,
Contempt and beggary hangs upon thy back,
The world is not thy friend, nor the world's law:
The world affords no law to make thee rich;
Then be not poor, but break it and take this.
My poverty, but not my will consents.
I pay thy poverty, and not thy will.
Put this in any liquid thing you will,
And drink it off; and, if you had the strength
Of twenty men, it would despatch you straight.
There is thy gold; worse poison to men's souls,
Doing more murders in this loathsome world
Than these poor compounds that thou mayst not sell:
I sell thee poison; thou hast sold me none.
Farewell: buy food and get thyself in flesh.--
Come, cordial and not poison, go with me
To Juliet's grave; for there must I use thee.
Scene II. Friar Lawrence's Cell.
[Enter Friar John.]
Holy Franciscan friar! brother, ho!
[Enter Friar Lawrence.]
This same should be the voice of Friar John.
Welcome from Mantua: what says Romeo?
Or, if his mind be writ, give me his letter.
Going to find a barefoot brother out,
One of our order, to associate me,
Here in this city visiting the sick,
And finding him, the searchers of the town,
Suspecting that we both were in a house
Where the infectious pestilence did reign,
Seal'd up the doors, and would not let us forth;
So that my speed to Mantua there was stay'd.
Who bare my letter, then, to Romeo?
I could not send it,--here it is again,--
Nor get a messenger to bring it thee,
So fearful were they of infection.
Unhappy fortune! by my brotherhood,
The letter was not nice, but full of charge
Of dear import; and the neglecting it
May do much danger. Friar John, go hence;
Get me an iron crow and bring it straight
Unto my cell.
Brother, I'll go and bring it thee.
Now must I to the monument alone;
Within this three hours will fair Juliet wake:
She will beshrew me much that Romeo
Hath had no notice of these accidents;
But I will write again to Mantua,
And keep her at my cell till Romeo come;--
Poor living corse, clos'd in a dead man's tomb!
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