The Complete Works of William Shakespeare Part 464

I come from Lady Juliet.

Friar. Welcome then.

Enter Nurse.

Nurse. O holy friar, O, tell me, holy friar Where is my lady's lord, where's Romeo?

Friar. There on the ground, with his own tears made drunk.

Nurse. O, he is even in my mistress' case, Just in her case!

Friar. O woeful sympathy!

Piteous predicament!

Nurse. Even so lies she, Blubb'ring and weeping, weeping and blubbering.

Stand up, stand up! Stand, an you be a man.

For Juliet's sake, for her sake, rise and stand!

Why should you fall into so deep an O?

Rom. (rises) Nurse- Nurse. Ah sir! ah sir! Well, death's the end of all.

Rom. Spakest thou of Juliet? How is it with her?

Doth not she think me an old murtherer, Now I have stain'd the childhood of our joy With blood remov'd but little from her own?

Where is she? and how doth she! and what says My conceal'd lady to our cancell'd love?

Nurse. O, she says nothing, sir, but weeps and weeps; And now falls on her bed, and then starts up, And Tybalt calls; and then on Romeo cries, And then down falls again.

Rom. As if that name, Shot from the deadly level of a gun, Did murther her; as that name's cursed hand Murder'd her kinsman. O, 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. [Draws his dagger.]

Friar. Hold thy desperate hand.

Art thou a man? Thy form cries out thou art; Thy tears are womanish, thy wild acts denote The unreasonable fury of a beast.

Unseemly woman in a seeming man!

Or ill-beseeming beast in seeming both!

Thou hast amaz'd me. By my holy order, I thought thy disposition better temper'd.

Hast thou slain Tybalt? Wilt thou slay thyself?

And slay thy lady that in thy life lives, By doing d.a.m.ned hate upon thyself?

Why railest thou on thy birth, the heaven, and earth?

Since birth and heaven and earth, all three do meet In thee at once; which thou at once wouldst lose.

Fie, fie, thou shamest thy shape, thy love, thy wit, Which, like a usurer, abound'st in all, And usest none in that true use indeed Which should bedeck thy shape, thy love, thy wit.

Thy n.o.ble shape is but a form of wax Digressing from the valour of a man; Thy dear love sworn but hollow perjury, Killing that love which thou hast vow'd to cherish; Thy wit, that ornament to shape and love, Misshapen in the conduct of them both, Like powder in a skilless soldier's flask, is get afire by thine own ignorance, And thou dismemb'red with thine own defence.

What, rouse thee, man! Thy Juliet is alive, For whose dear sake thou wast but lately dead.

There art thou happy. Tybalt would kill thee, But thou slewest Tybalt. There art thou happy too.

The law, that threat'ned death, becomes thy friend And turns it to exile. There art thou happy.

A pack of blessings light upon thy back; Happiness courts thee in her best array; But, like a misbhav'd and sullen wench, Thou pout'st upon thy fortune and thy love.

Take heed, take heed, for such die miserable.

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 pa.s.s to Mantua, Where thou shalt live till we can find a time To blaze your marriage, reconcile your friends, Beg pardon of the 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 bed, Which heavy sorrow makes them apt unto.

Romeo is coming.

Nurse. O Lord, I could have stay'd here all the night To hear good counsel. O, 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 is a ring she bid me give you, sir.

Hie you, make haste, for it grows very late. Exit.

Rom. How well my comfort is reviv'd by this!

Friar. Go hence; good night; and here stands all your state: Either be gone before the watch be set, Or by the break of day disguis'd from hence.

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 brief to part with thee.

Farewell.

Exeunt.

Scene IV.

Capulet's house

Enter Old Capulet, his Wife, and Paris.

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 Tybalt dearly, And so did I. Well, we were born to die.

'Tis very late; she'll not come down to-night.

I promise you, but for your company, I would have been abed an hour ago.

Par. These times of woe afford no tune to woo.

Madam, good night. Commend me to your daughter.

Lady. I will, and know her mind early to-morrow; To-night she's mew'd up to her heaviness.

Cap. Sir Paris, I will make a desperate tender Of my child's love. I think she will be rul'd In all respects by me; nay more, I doubt it not.

Wife, go you to her ere you go to bed; Acquaint her here of my son Paris' love And bid her (mark you me?) on Wednesday next- But, soft! what day is this?

Par. Monday, my lord.

Cap. Monday! ha, ha! Well, Wednesday is too soon.

Thursday let it be- a Thursday, tell her She shall be married to this n.o.ble earl.

Will you be ready? Do you like this haste?

We'll keep no great ado- a friend or two; For hark you, Tybalt being slain so late, It may be thought we held him carelessly, Being our kinsman, if we revel much.

Therefore we'll have some half a dozen friends, And there an end. But what say you to Thursday?

Par. My lord, I would that Thursday were to-morrow.

Cap. Well, get you gone. A Thursday be it then.

Go you to Juliet ere you go to bed; Prepare her, wife, against this wedding day.

Farewell, My lord.- Light to my chamber, ho!

Afore me, It is so very very late That we may call it early by-and-by.

Good night.

Exeunt

Scene V.

Capulet's orchard.

Enter Romeo and Juliet aloft, at the Window.

Jul. Wilt thou be gone? It is not yet near day.

It was the nightingale, and not the lark, That pierc'd the fearful hollow of thine ear.

Nightly she sings on yond pomegranate tree.

Believe me, love, it was the nightingale.

Rom. It was the lark, the herald of the morn; No nightingale. Look, love, what envious streaks Do lace the severing clouds in yonder East.

Night's candles are burnt out, and jocund day Stands tiptoe on the misty mountain tops.

I must be gone and live, or stay and die.

Jul. Yond light is not daylight; I know it, I.