Shakespeare's First Folio Part 507

Fri. Harke how they knocke: (Who's there) Romeo arise, Thou wilt be taken, stay a while, stand vp:

Knocke.

Run to my study: by and by, G.o.ds will What simplenesse is this: I come, I come.

Knocke.

Who knocks so hard?

Whence come you? what's your will?

Enter Nurse.

Nur. Let me come in, And you shall know my errand: I come from Lady Iuliet

Fri. Welcome then

Nur. O holy Frier, O tell me holy Frier, Where's my Ladies Lord? where's Romeo?

Fri. There on the ground, With his owne teares made drunke

Nur. O he is euen in my Mistresse case, Iust in her case. O wofull simpathy: Pittious predicament, euen so lies she, Blubbring and weeping, weeping and blubbring, Stand vp, stand vp, stand and you be a man, For Iuliets sake, for her sake rise and stand: Why should you fall into so deepe an O

Rom. Nurse

Nur. Ah sir, ah sir, deaths the end of all

Rom. Speak'st thou of Iuliet? how is it with her?

Doth not she thinke me an old Murtherer, Now I haue stain'd the Childhood of our ioy, With blood remoued, but little from her owne?

Where is she? and how doth she? and what sayes My conceal'd Lady to our conceal'd Loue?

Nur. Oh she sayes nothing sir, but weeps and weeps, And now fals on her bed, and then starts vp, And Tybalt calls, and then on Romeo cries, And then downe falls againe

Ro. As if that name shot from the dead leuell of a Gun, Did murder her, as that names cursed hand Murdred her kinsman. Oh tell me Frier, tell me, In what vile part of this Anatomie Doth my name lodge? Tell me, that I may sacke The hatefull Mansion

Fri. Hold thy desperate hand: Art thou a man? thy forme cries out thou art: Thy teares are womanish, thy wild acts denote The vnreasonable Furie of a beast.

Vnseemely woman, in a seeming man, And ill beseeming beast in seeming both, Thou hast amaz'd me. By my holy order, I thought thy disposition better temper'd.

Hast thou slaine Tybalt? wilt thou slay thy selfe?

And slay thy Lady, that in thy life lies, By doing d.a.m.ned hate vpon thy selfe?

Why rayl'st thou on thy birth? the heauen and earth?

Since birth, and heauen and earth, all three do meete In thee at once, which thou at once would'st loose.

Fie, fie, thou sham'st thy shape, thy loue, thy wit, Which like a Vsurer abound'st in all: And vsest none in that true vse indeed, Which should bedecke thy shape, thy loue, thy wit: Thy n.o.ble shape, is but a forme of waxe, Digressing from the Valour of a man, Thy deare Loue sworne but hollow periurie, Killing that Loue which thou hast vow'd to cherish.

Thy wit, that Ornament, to shape and Loue, Mishapen in the conduct of them both: Like powder in a skillesse Souldiers flaske, Is set a fire by thine owne ignorance, And thou dismembred with thine owne defence.

What, rowse thee man, thy Iuliet is aliue, For whose deare sake thou wast but lately dead.

There art thou happy. Tybalt would kill thee, But thou slew'st Tybalt, there art thou happie.

The law that threatned death became thy Friend.

And turn'd it to exile, there art thou happy.

A packe or blessing light vpon thy backe, Happinesse Courts thee in her best array, But like a mishaped and sullen wench, Thou puttest vp thy Fortune and thy Loue: Take heed, take heed, for such die miserable.

Goe get thee to thy Loue as was decreed, Ascend her Chamber, hence and comfort her: But looke thou stay not till the watch be set, For then thou canst not pa.s.se to Mantua, Where thou shalt liue till we can finde a time To blaze your marriage, reconcile your Friends, Beg pardon of thy Prince, and call thee backe, With twenty hundred thousand times more ioy Then thou went'st forth in lamentation.

Goe before Nurse, commend me to thy Lady, And bid her hasten all the house to bed, Which heauy sorrow makes them apt vnto.

Romeo is comming

Nur. O Lord, I could haue staid here all night, To heare good counsell: oh what learning is!

My Lord Ile tell my Lady you will come

Rom. Do so, and bid my Sweete prepare to chide

Nur. Heere sir, a Ring she bid me giue you sir: Hie you, make hast, for it growes very late

Rom. How well my comfort is reuiu'd by this

Fri. Go hence, Goodnight, and here stands all your state: Either be gone before the watch be set, Or by the breake of day disguis'd from hence, Soiourne in Mantua, Ile find out your man, And he shall signifie from time to time, Euery good hap to you, that chaunces heere: Giue me thy hand, 'tis late, farewell, goodnight

Rom. But that a ioy past ioy, calls out on me, It were a griefe, so briefe to part with thee: Farewell.

Exeunt.

Enter old Capulet, his Wife and Paris.

Cap. Things haue falne out sir so vnluckily, That we haue had no time to moue our Daughter: Looke you, she Lou'd her kinsman Tybalt dearely, And so did I. Well, we were borne to die.

'Tis very late, she'l not come downe to night: I promise you, but for your company, I would haue bin a bed an houre ago

Par. These times of wo, affoord no times to wooe: Madam goodnight, commend me to your Daughter

Lady. I will, and know her mind early to morrow, To night, she is mewed vp to her heauinesse

Cap. Sir Paris, I will make a desperate tender Of my Childes loue: I thinke 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 Sonne Paris Loue, And bid her, marke you me, on Wendsday next, But soft, what day is this?

Par. Monday my Lord

Cap. Monday, ha ha: well Wendsday is too soone, A Thursday let it be: a Thursday tell her, She shall be married to this n.o.ble Earle: Will you be ready? do you like this hast?

Weele keepe no great adoe, a Friend or two, For harke you, Tybalt being slaine so late, It may be thought we held him carelesly, Being our kinsman, if we reuell much: Therefore weele haue some halfe a dozen Friends, And there an end. But what say you to Thursday?

Paris. My Lord, I would that Thursday were to morrow

Cap. Well, get you gone, a Thursday, be it then: Go you to Iuliet ere you go to bed, Prepare her wife, against this wedding day.

Farewell my Lord, light to my Chamber hoa, Afore me, it is so late, that we may call it early by and by, Goodnight.

Exeunt.

Enter Romeo and Iuliet aloft.

Iul. Wilt thou be gone? It is not yet neere day: It was the Nightingale, and not the Larke, That pier'st the fearefull hollow of thine eare, Nightly she sings on yond Pomgranet tree, Beleeue me Loue, it was the Nightingale

Rom. It was the Larke the Herauld of the Morne: No Nightingale: looke Loue what enuious streakes Do lace the seuering Cloudes in yonder East: Nights Candles are burnt out, and Iocond day Stands tipto on the mistie Mountaines tops, I must be gone and liue, or stay and die

Iul. Yond light is not daylight, I know it I: It is some Meteor that the Sun exhales, To be to thee this night a Torch-bearer, And light thee on thy way to Mantua.

Therefore stay yet, thou need'st not be gone, Rom. Let me be tane, let me be put to death, I am content, so thou wilt haue it so.

Ile say yon gray is not the mornings eye, 'Tis but the pale reflexe of Cinthias brow.

Nor that is not Larke whose noates do beate The vaulty heauen so high aboue our heads, I haue more care to stay, then will to go: Come death and welcome, Iuliet wills it so.

How ist my soule, lets talke, it is not day

Iuli. It is, it is, hie hence be gone away: It is the Larke that sings so out of tune, Straining harsh Discords, and vnpleasing Sharpes.