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NURSE. Ah, sir! ah, sir !_Well, death 's the end of all.
Rom. Speak'st 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 conceald 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.
As if that name,
Shot from the deadly level of a gun,
Did murther her; as that name's cursed hand
Murther'd her kinsman.—0 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.
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!
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 slain Tybalt? wilt thou slay thyself?
And slay thy lady that in thy life lives",
By doing damned hate upon thyself ?
Why rail'st 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 sham'st thy shape, thy love, thy wit:
Which, like an usurer, abound'st in all,
And usest none in that true use indeed
Which would bedeck thy shape, thy love, thy wit.
Thy noble 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,
Mis-shapen in the conduct of them both,
Like powder in a skill-less soldier's flask 40,
Is set on fire by thine own ignorance,
And thou dismember'd 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 slew'st Tybalt; there art thou happy a :
The law, that threaten'd death, became thy friend,
And turn'd it to exile; there art thou happy :
A pack of blessing lights upon thy back;
Happiness courts thee in her best array ;
But, like a misbehav'd and sullen wench,
Thou puttest up 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 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 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 : 0, 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. 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 ; 't is late: farewell; good night.
• (A), which modern editors have followed, gives “ happy too."
Thus (A); the folio, mis-shaped. • Puttest up. So the folio; (D) reads pouts thy fortune, which modern editors have adopted, with the addition of upon. Is to put up used as to put aside?
Rom. But that a joy past joy calls out on me,
It were a grief so brief to part with thee:
SCENE IV.-A Room in Capulet's House.
Enter CAPULET, LADY CAPULET, and PARIS.
Cap. Things have fallen 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.-
"T is very late, she 'll not come down to-night :
I promise you, but for your company,
I would have been a-bed an hour ago.
Par. These times of woe afford no time to woo ;
Madam, good night: commend me to your daughter.
La. Cap. I will, and know her mind early to-morrow;
To-night she's mew'd a 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?
Monday, my lord.
Cap. Monday? ha! ha! Well, Wednesday is too soon,
O'Thursday let it be ;-o' Thursday, tell her,
She shall be married to this noble 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 :-0' 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 !
* Another term of falconry. The mew is the hawk's cage.
Afore me, it is so very late, that we
May call it early by and by :-Good night.
SCENE V.—Loggia to Juliet's Chamber 41,
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 yon pomegranate-tree:
Believe me, love, it was the nightingale.
Rom. It was the lark, the herald of the morn 43,
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's tops ;
I must be gone and live, or stay and die.
JUL. Yon light is not daylight, I know it, I:
It is some meteor that the sun exhales,
To be to thee this night a torchbearer,
And light thee on thy way to Mantua :
Therefore stay yet, thou need'st not to be gone.
Rom. Let me be ta’en, let me be put to death :
I am content, so thou wilt have it so.
I 'll say, yon grey is not the morning's eye,
"T is but the pale reflex of Cynthia's brow;
Nor that is not the lark, whose notes do beat
The vaulty heaven so high above our heads :
I have more care to stay than will to go ;-
Come, death, and welcome !-Juliet wills it so.--
How is 't, my soul ? let 's talk, it is not day.
JUL. It is, it is, hie hence, be gone, away;
It is the lark that sings so out of tune,
Straining harsh discords, and unpleasing sharps.
Some say the lark makes sweet divisiona ;
This doth not so, for she divideth us :
Some say, the lark and loathed toad change eyes;
0, now I would they had chang'd voices too!
Sweet division. A division in music is a number of quick notes sung to one syllable; a kind of warbling. This continued to prevail in vocal music till rather recently. Handel, governed by custom rather than by his own better taste, introduces divisions in many of his airs and choruses. Steevens, in his note on this word, mistakes the meaning entirely.
Since arm from arm that voice doth us affray,
Hunting thee hence with hunts-up to the day 44.
O, now be gone; more light and light it grows.
Rom. More light and light ?—more dark and dark our woes.
JUL. Nurse ?
NURSE. Your lady mother is coming to your chamber:
The day is broke ; be wary, look about.
JUL. Then, window, let day in, and let life out.
Rom. Farewell, farewell! one kiss, and I 'll descend. [Romeo descends.
Jul. Art thou gone so ? love! lord! ay-husband, friend a !
I must hear from thee every day in the hour,
For in a minute there are many days:
0! by this count I shall be much in years,
Ere I again behold my Romeo.
Rom. Farewell! I will omit no opportunity
That may convey my greetings, love, to thee.
JUL. O, thinkest thou we shall ever meet again?
Rom. I doubt it not; and all these woes shall serve
For sweet discourses in our time to come
JUL. O God! I have an ill-divining soul" ;
Methinks, I see thee, now thou art so low b,
As one dead in the bottom of a tomb:
Either my eyesight fails, or thou look’st pale.
Rom. And trust me, love, in my eye so do you:
Dry sorrow drinks our blood. Adieu! adieu!
[Exit Romeo. JUL. O fortune, fortune ! all men call thee fickle:
If thou art fickle, what dost thou with him
That is renown'd for faith? Be fickle, fortune;
For then, I hope, thou wilt not keep him long,
But send him back.
LA. CAP. (Within.] Ho, daughter! are you up?
Jul. Who is 't that calls ? is it my lady mother?
Is she not down so late, or up so early?
What unaccustom'd cause procures her hither?
Enter LADY CAPULET.
LA. Cap. Why, how now, Juliet?
Madam, I am not well.
LA. CAP. Evermore weeping for your cousin's death?
What, wilt thou wash him from his grave with tears ?
An if thou couldst, thou couldst not make him live:
* (A) reads, "my love, my lord, my friend," which has supplied the modern text."