 Act 3 of The Tragedy of Romeo and Juliet by William Shakespeare This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information and to find out how you can volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Sam Stinson. Act 3. Scene 1. A Public Place. Enter Mercutio Benvolio and Men. Benvolio. I pray thee, good Mercutio, let's retire. The day is hot, the capulets abroad, and if we meet we shall not escape a brawl, for now these hot days is the mad blood stirring. Mercutio. Thou art like one of these fellows that, when he enters the confines of a tavern, claps me his sword upon the table, and says, God send me no need of thee, and by the operation of the second cup draws him on the drawer, when indeed there is no need. Benvolio. Am I like such a fellow? Mercutio. Come, come, thou art as hot a jack in thy mood as any in Italy, and as soon moved to be moody, and as soon moody to be moved. Benvolio. And what, too? Mercutio. Nay, and there were two such. We should have none shortly, for one would kill the other. Thou, why thou wilt quarrel with a man that hath a hair more or a hair less in his beard, than thou hast. Thou wilt quarrel with a man for cracking nuts, having no other reason, but because thou hast hazel eyes. What eye but such an eye would spy out such a quarrel? Thy head is as full of quarrels, as an egg is full of meat, and yet thy head hath been beaten as Adel as an egg for quarreling. Thou hast quarreled with a man for coughing in the street, because he hath wakened thy dog, that hath lain asleep in the sun. Dits thou not fall out with a tailor, for wearing his new doublet before Easter, with another for tying his new shoes with an old ribbon? And yet, thou wilt tutor me from quarreling? Benvolio. And I were so apt to quarrel as thou art. Any man should buy the fee simple of my life for an hour and a quarter. Mercutio. The fee simple. Oh, simple. Enter Tybalt and others. Benvolio. Buy my head. Here come the capulets. Mercutio. Buy my heel. I care not. Tybalt. Follow me close, for I will speak to them. Gentlemen, good den. A word with one of you. Mercutio. And but one word with one of us? Couple it with something. Make it a word and a blow. Tybalt. You shall find me apt enough to that, sir, and you will give me occasion. Mercutio. Could you not take some occasion without giving? Tybalt. Mercutio. Thou consortest with Romeo. Mercutio. Consort. What dost thou make us minstrels? And thou make minstrels of us? Look to hear nothing but discords. Here's my fiddle stick. Here's that shall make you dance. Zounds consort. Benvolio. We talk here in the public haunt of men. Either withdraw unto some private place and reason coldly of your grievances, or else depart. Hear all eyes gaze on us. Mercutio. Men's eyes were made to look, and let them gaze. I will not budge for no man's pleasure. Enter Romeo. Tybalt. Well, peace be with you, sir. Here comes my man. Mercutio. But I'll be hanged, sir, if he wear your livery. Mary, go before to field. He'll be your follower. Your worship in that sense may call him man. Tybalt. Romeo, the love I bear thee can afford no better term than this. Thou art a villain. Romeo. Tybalt. The reason that I have to love thee doth much excuse the appertaining rage to such a greeting. Villain am I none. Therefore, farewell, I see thou knowest me not. Tybalt. Boy, this shall not excuse the injuries that thou hast done me. Therefore turn and draw, Romeo. I do protest. I never injured thee, but love thee better than thou canst devise, till thou shalt know the reason of my love, and so good capulet, which name I tender as dearly as mine own, be satisfied. Mercutio. Oh, calm, dishonorable, vile submission. Alla, staccata carries it away. Draws. Tybalt, you ratcatcher, will you walk? Tybalt. What, whatst thou have with me? Mercutio. Good king of cats, nothing but one of your nine lives that I mean to make bold with all. And as you shall use me hereafter, dry, beat the rest of the eight. Will you pluck your sword out of his pitcher by the ears? Make haste, lest mine be about your ears, ere it be out. Tybalt. I am for you. Draws. Romeo. Gentle Mercutio, put thy rapier up. Mercutio. Come, sir, you passato. They fight. Romeo. Draw up Envolio. Beat down their weapons. Gentleman, for shame, for bear this outrage. Tybalt. Mercutio. The prince expressly hath forbid this bandying in Verona streets. Hold, Tybalt. Good Mercutio. Tybalt under Romeo's arm thrusts Mercutio in and flies with his followers. Mercutio. I am hurt. A plague on both your houses. I am sped. Is he gone and hath nothing? Benvolio. What, aren't thou hurt? Mercutio. I, I, a scratch, a scratch. Mary tisn't enough. Where is my page? Go, villain, fetch a surgeon. Exit page. Romeo. Courage, man. The hurt cannot be much. Mercutio. No. Tis not so deep as a well, nor so wide as a church door, but tis enough to ill-serve. Ask for me to-morrow, and you shall find me a grave man. I am peppered. I warrant for this world. A plague on both your houses. Zounds. A dog. A rat. A mouse. A cat. To scratch a man to death. A braggart. A rogue. A villain that fights by the book of arithmetic. Why the devil came you between us? I was hurt under your arm. Romeo. I thought all for the best. Mercutio. Help me into some house, Benvolio, or I shall faint. A plague on both your houses. They have made worms meat of me. I have it, and soundly too. Your houses. Exit. Supported by Benvolio. Romeo. This gentleman, the prince's near ally, my very friend, hath got this mortal hurt in my behalf. My reputation stained with tiblet slander. Tiblet. That an hour hath been my kinsman. Oh, sweet Juliet, thy beauty hath made me effeminate, and in my temper soften valors steel. Enter Benvolio. Benvolio. Oh, Romeo, Romeo, brave, Mercutio's dead. That gallant spirit hath aspired the clouds, which too untimely here did scorn the earth. Romeo. This day's black fate, on Moe day's doth depend. This but begins the woe others must end. Enter tiblet. Benvolio. Here comes the furious tiblet back again. Romeo. Alive in triumph, and Mercutio slain? A way to heaven respective lenity, and fire-eyed fury be my conduct now. Now, tiblet, take the villain back again, that late thou gavest me. For Mercutio's soul is but a little way above our heads, staying for thine to keep him company. Either thou or I or both must go with him. Tiblet. Thou wretched boy, that ditst consort him here, shalt with him hence. Romeo. This shall determine that. They fight. Tiblet falls. Benvolio. Romeo, away be gone. The citizens are up, and tiblet slain, stand not amazed. The prince will doom thee death if thou art taken. Hence be gone away. Romeo. Oh, I am Fortune's fool. Benvolio. Why dost thou stay? Exit Romeo. Enter citizens. Citizen. Which way ran he that killed Mercutio? Tiblet, that murderer. Which way ran he? Benvolio. There lies that tiblet. Citizen. Up, sir, go with me. I charge thee, and the prince's name obey. Enter Prince. Attended. Old Montahue. Capulet. Their wives. And others. Prince. Where are the vile beginners of this fray? Benvolio. Oh, noble Prince, I can discover all the unlucky manage of this fatal brawl. There lies the man, slain by young Romeo, that slew thy kinsmen, brave Mercutio. Capulet's wife. Tiblet. My cousin. Oh, my brother's child. Oh, Prince, oh husband. Oh, the blood is spilled of my dear kinsmen. Prince, as thou art true, for blood of ours shed blood of Montahue. Oh, cousin. Cousin. Prince. Benvolio. Who began this bloody fray? Benvolio. Tiblet. Here slain. Whom Romeo's hand did stay. Romeo, that spoke him fair, bid him bethink. How nice the quarrel was, and urged with all your high displeasure. All this, uttered with gentle breath, calm look, knees humbly bowed, could not take truce with the unruly spleen of Tiblet deaf to peace. But that he tilts with piercing steel at Bold Mercutio's breast, who, all as hot, turns deadly point to point, and with a marshal scorn, with one hand beats cold death aside, and with the other sends it back to Tiblet, whose dexterity retorts it. Romeo, he cries aloud, hold friends, friends part, and swifter than his tongue, his agile arm beats down their fatal points, and twix to them rushes, underneath whose arm, an envious thrust from Tiblet, hit the life of Stout Mercutio, and then Tiblet fled. But by and by comes back to Romeo, who had but newly entertained revenge, and to it they go like lightning, for ere I could drawt apart them was Stout Tiblet slain, and, as he fell, did Romeo turn and fly. This is the truth, or let Benvolio die. Capulet's wife. He is a kinsman to the Montague. Affection makes him false. He speaks not true. Some twenty of them fought in this black strife, and all those twenty could but kill one life. I beg for justice, which thou Prince must give. Romeo slew Tiblet. Romeo must not live. Prince. Romeo slew him. He slew Mercutio. Who now, the Prince of his dear blood doth owe? Montague. Not Romeo, Prince. He was Mercutio's friend. His fault concludes but what the law should end, the life of Tiblet. Prince. And for that offense immediately we do exile him hence. I have an interest in your hate's proceeding. My blood for your rude brawl's death lie of bleeding, but all immerse you with so strong a fine, that you shall all repent the loss of mine. I will be deaf to pleading and excuses, nor tears nor prayers shall purchase out abuses. Therefore use none. Let Romeo hence in haste, else when he is found, that hour is his last. Bear hence this body, and attend our will. Mercy but murderers, pardoning those that kill. Exunt. Scene two. Capulet's orchard. Enter Juliet alone. Juliet. Gallop apace, you fiery-footed steeds, towards Phoebus lodging. Such a wagoner as Phaethon would whip you to the west, and bring in cloudy night immediately. Spread thy close curtain, love-performing night, that runaway eyes may wink, and Romeo leap to these arms untalked of and unseen. Lovers can see to do their amorous rites by their own beauties, or if love be blind, it best agrees with night. Come, simple night, thou sober-suited matron, all in black, and learn me how to lose a winning match. Played for a pair of stainless maidenhoods, hood my unmanned blood, baiting in my cheeks. With thy black mantle till strange love, grown bold, think true love acted simple modesty. Come, night, come, Romeo, come, thou day and night, for thou wilt lie upon the wings of night, whiter than new snow upon a raven's back. Come, gentle night, come, loving, black-browed night, give me my Romeo, and when he shall die, take him and cut him out in little stars, and he will make the face of heaven so fine, that all the world will be in love with night, and pay no worship to the garish sun. Oh, I have bought the mansion of a love, but not possessed it, and though I am sold, not yet enjoyed. So tedious is this day, as is the night before some festival, to an impatient child that hath new robes, and may not wear them. Oh, here comes my nurse, and her nurse with cords. And she brings news, and every tongue that speaks, but Romeo's name speaks heavenly eloquence. Now, nurse, what news? What hast thou there? The cords that Romeo bid thee fetch? Nurse, I, I, the cords, throws them down. Juliet, I mean, what news? Why does thou ring thy hands? Nurse, ah, we're a day. He's dead, he's dead, he's dead. We are undone, lady, we are undone. Alack the day, he's gone. He's killed, he's dead. Juliet, can heaven be so envious? Nurse, Romeo can, though heaven cannot. Oh, Romeo, Romeo, whoever would have thought it, Romeo. Juliet, what devil art thou that dost torment me thus? This torture should be roared in dismal hell. Hath Romeo slain himself? Say thou but I, and that bare vowel I shall poison more than the death-darning eye of cockatrice. I am not I, if there be such an I, or those eyes shut that make the answer I. If he be slain, say I, or if not, no. Brief sounds determine of my wheel or woe. Nurse, I saw the wound, I saw it with mine eyes. God save the mark. Here on his manly breast, a piteous course, a bloody piteous course. Pale, pale as ashes, all bedobbed in blood, all in gore blood, I swooned it at the sight. Juliet, oh break, my heart! Poor bank wrote, break at once. To prison, eyes, nare look on liberty. Vile earth to earth resign, and motion here, and thou and Romeo press when heavy buyer. Nurse, oh, tibbled, tibbled, the best friend I had. Oh, courteous, tibbled, honest gentleman, that ever I should live to see thee dead. Juliet, what storm is this that blows so contrary? Is Romeo slaughtered, and is tibbled dead? My dear loved cousin, and my dearer lord? Then dreadful trumpet sound the general doom, for who is living if those two are gone? Nurse, tibbled is gone, and Romeo banished. Romeo that killed him, he has banished. Juliet, oh God, did Romeo's hand shed tibbled's blood? Nurse, it did, it did, alas the day it did. Juliet, oh serpent heart, hid with a flowering face, did ever dragon keep so fair a cave? Beautiful tyrant, fiend, angelical, dove feathered raven, wolfish ravening lamb, despised substance of divinous show, just opposite to what thou justly seemed, a damned saint, an honorable villain? Oh, nature, what hats thou to do in hell when thou disdbour the spirit of a fiend in mortal paradise of such sweet flesh? Was everbook containing such vile matter so fairly bound? Oh, that deceit should dwell in such a gorgeous palace. Nurse, there's no trust, no faith, no honesty in men, all perjured, all foresworn, all not, all the simblers. Ah, where's my man? Give me some aqua vita. These griefs, these woes, these sorrows make me old. Shame come to Romeo. Juliet, blister'd be thy tongue for such a wish. He was not born to shame. Upon his brow shame is a shame to sit, for it is a throne where honor may be crowned, soul monarch of the universal earth. Oh, what a beast was I to chided him. Nurse, will you speak well of him that killed your cousin? Juliet, shall I speak ill of him that is my husband? Ah, poor my lord, what tongue shall smooth thy name when I, thy three-hours wife, have mangled it? But wherefore villain didst thou kill my cousin? That villain cousin would have killed my husband. Back foolish tears, back to your native spring, your tributary drops belong to woe, which you, mistaken, offer up to joy. My husband lives, that Tybalt would have slain, and Tybalt's dead, that would have slain my husband. All this is comfort. Wherefore we buy then? Some word there was, worser than Tybalt's death, that murdered me. I would forget it feign. But oh, it presses to my memory, like damned guilty deeds to sinner's minds. Tybalt is dead, and Romeo banished? That banished, that one word banished, had slain ten thousand Tybalts. Tybalt's death was woe enough, if it had ended there. Or if sour woe delights in fellowship, and neatly will be ranked with other griefs? Why followed not, when she said, Tybalt's dead, thy father or thy mother, nay or both, which modern lamentation might have moved? But with a rear word following, Tybalt's death. Romeo is banished? To speak that word is father, mother, Tybalt, Romeo, Juliet, all slain, all dead. Romeo is banished. There is no end, no limit, measure, bound, and that word's death. No words can that woe sound. Where is my father and my mother, nurse? Nurse, weeping and wailing over Tybalt's course. Will you go to them? I will bring you thither. Juliet, wash they his wounds with tears? Mine shall be spent, when theirs are dry, for Romeo's banishment. Take up those cords, poor ropes, you are beguiled, both you and I, for Romeo is exiled. He made you for a highway to my bed. But I, a maid, die maiden widowed. Come, cords, come, nurse, I'll to my wedding bed. And death, not Romeo, take my maiden head. Nurse, hide to your chamber. I'll find Romeo to comfort you. I wot well where he is. Hark ye, your Romeo will be here at night. I'll to him he is hid at Lawrence's cell. Juliet, oh, find him. Give this ring to my true night, and bid him come to take his last farewell. Exunt. Scene three. Friar Lawrence's cell. Enter Friar Lawrence. Friar. Romeo, come forth, come forth, thou fearful man. Affliction is enamored of thy parts, and thou art wedded to calamity. Enter Romeo. Romeo. Father, what news? What is the Prince's doom? What sorrow craves acquaintance at my hand, that I yet know not? Friar, too familiar is my dear son with such sour company. I bring thee tidings of the Prince's doom. Romeo, what less than doom stays the Prince's doom? Friar, a gentler judgment vanished from his lips. Not body's death, but body's banishment. Romeo, ha, banishment? Be merciful, say death. For exile hath more terror in his look, much more than death. Do not say banishment. Friar, hence from Verona art thou banished. Be patient, for the world is broad and wide. Romeo, there is no world without Verona walls, but purgatory, torture, hell itself. Hence banished is banished from the world, and world's exile is death. Then banishment is death, mistermed. Calling death banishment, thou cuttast my head off with a golden axe, and smileest upon the stroke that murders me. Friar, O deadly sin, O rude unthinkfulness, thy fault our law calls death, but the kind Prince, taking thy part, hath rushed aside the law, and turned that black word death to banishment. This is dear mercy, and thou seest it not. Romeo, tis torture and not mercy. Heaven is here where Juliet lives, and every cat and dog and little mouse, every unworthy thing, live here in heaven and may look on her. But Romeo may not? More validity, more honorable state, more courtship lives in carrion flies than Romeo. They may seize on the white wonder of dear Juliet's hand, and steal immoral blessing from her lips, who even in pure and vestal modesty still blush, as thinking their own kisses sin. But Romeo may not. He is banished. This may flies do, when I from this must fly. They are free men, but I am banished, and sayest thou yet that exile is not death? Hadest thou no poison mixed, no sharp-ground knife, no sudden mean of death, though ne'er so mean, but banished to kill me, banished? O Friar, the damned use that word in hell, howling attends it. How hast thou the heart being a divine, a ghostly confessor, a sin-absolver, in my friend professed to mangle me with that word banished? Friar, thou fond madman, hear me a little speak. Romeo, oh, thou wilt speak again of banishment. Friar, I'll give the armor to keep off that word. Adversity's sweet milk, philosophy, to comfort thee, though thou art banished. Romeo, yet banished? Hang up philosophy, unless philosophy can make a Juliet, displant a town, reverse a prince's doom. It helps not, it prevails not. Talk no more. Friar, oh, then I see that madmen have no ears. Romeo, how should they, when that wise men have no eyes? Friar, let me dispute with thee of thy estate. Romeo, thou canst not speak of that thou dost not feel. Worth thou as young as I, Juliet, thy love, an hour but married, tibbled murdered, doting like me and like me banished. Then mightst thou speak, then mightst thou tear thy hair, and fall upon the ground as I do now, taking the measure of an unmade grave. Knock within. Friar, arise, one knocks. Good Romeo, hide thyself. Romeo, not I, unless the breath of heartsick groans mist like enfold me from the search of eyes. Knock. Friar, hark, how they knock. Who's there? Romeo, arise, thou wilt be taken. Stay awhile, stand up. Knock. Run to my study, by and by, God's will. What simpleness is this? I come, I come. Knock. Who knocks so hard? Whence come you? What's your will? Nurse, within, let me come in, and you shall know my errand. I come from Lady Juliet. Friar, welcome, then. Enter Nurse. Nurse. Oh, Holy Friar, oh, 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. Oh, he is even in my mistress' case, just in her case. Friar. Oh, woeful sympathy, piteous predicament. Nurse. Even so lies she, blubbering and weeping, weeping and blubbering. Stand up, stand up. Stand, and you be a man, for Juliet's sake, for her sake, rise and stand. Why should you fall into so deep an o? Romeo rises. Nurse. Nurse. Ah, sir, ah, sir. Well, death's the end of all. Romeo, spake as thou of Juliet. How is it with her? Doth not she think me an old murderer? Now I have stained the childhood of our joy, with blood removed but little from her own? Where is she? And how doth she? And what says my concealed Lady to our canceled love? Nurse. Oh, she says nothing, sir, but weeps and weeps, and now falls on her bed, and then starts up, and tibbled calls, and then on Romeo cries, and then down falls again. Romeo. As if that name, shot from the deadly level of a gun, did murder her, as that name's cursed hand murdered her kinsman. Oh, 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 amazed me. By my holy order I thought thy disposition better tempered. Has thou slain tibbled? Will thou slay thyself, and slay thy lady that in thy life lives, by doing damned 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? Fee, fee, thou shamest thy shape, thy love, thy wit, which like a usurer aboundest in all, and usest none in that true use indeed, which should be deck thy shape, thy love, thy wit. Thy noble shape is but a form of wax degressing from the valor of a man. Thy dear love sworn but hollow perjury, killing that love, which thou hast vowed to cherish. Thy wit, that ornament to shape and love, misshapen in the conduct of them both, like powder in a skillless soldier's flask, is get afire by thine own ignorance, and thou dismembered with thine own defense. What? Rouse thee, man, thy Juliet is alive, for whose dear sake thou wasst but lately dead. There art thou happy, Tybalt would kill thee, but thou slewest Tybalt. There art thou happy, too, the law that threatened 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 misbehaved and sullen wench, thou poutest 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 pass 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 wentst 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, oh Lord, I could have stayed here all the night to hear good counsel. Oh, what learning is! My Lord, I'll tell my lady you will come. Romeo, do so, and bid my sweet prepare to chide. Nurse, here is a ring she bid me give you, sir. High you make haste, for it grows very late. Exit. Romeo, how well my comfort is revived 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 disguised 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. Romeo, but that a joy past joy calls out on me. It were a grief so brief to part with thee. Farewell. Exit. Scene four. Capulet's house. Enter old Capulet, his wife, and Paris. Capulet. Things have fallen out, sir, so unluckily, that we have had no time to move our daughter. Look, you, she loved her kinsmen, tibbled 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 at bed an hour ago. Paris. 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 tomorrow. Tonight she's mewed up to her heaviness. Capulet. Sir Paris, I will make a desperate tender of my child's love. I think she will be ruled. 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's love, and bid her, mark you me, on Wednesday next. But soft, what day is this? Paris. Monday, my lord. Capulet. Monday. Ha-ha. Well, Wednesday is too soon. Thursday, let it be. A 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 adieu. A friend or two. For hark you, Tybalt, being slain so late, it may be thought we held him carelessly, being our kinsmen, if we revel much. Therefore we'll have some half a dozen friends, and there an end. But what say you to Thursday? Paris. My lord, I would that Thursday were tomorrow. Capulet. 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. A for me. It is so very, very late, that we may call it early by and by. Good night. Exant. Scene five. Capulet's orchard. Enter Romeo and Juliet aloft at the window. Juliet. Will thou be gone? It is not yet near day. It was the nightingale, and not the lark, that pierced the fearful hollow of thine ear. Nightly she sings on yond pomegranate tree. Believe me, love, it was the nightingale. Romeo. 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. Juliet. Yond 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 the way to Mantua. Therefore, stay yet. Thou needs'd not to be gone. Romeo. Let me be taken. Let me be put to death. I am content. So thou wilt have it so. I'll say Yond Gray is not the morning's eye. Tis but the pale reflex of Cynthia's brow. Nor that is not the lark whose notes do beat, the vultry 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 my soul? Let's talk. It is not day. Juliet. It is, it is. High 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 division. This doth not so, for she divided us. Some say the lark and loathed toad-changed eyes. Oh, now I would they had changed voices, too, since arm from arm that voice doth us affray, hunting thee hence with hunts up to the day. Oh, now be gone. More light and light it grows. Romeo. More light and light. More dark and dark our woes. Enter nurse. Nurse. Madam. Juliet. Nurse? Nurse. Your lady mother is coming to your chamber. The day is broke. Be wary. Look about. Juliet. Then window, let day in and let life out. Exit. Romeo. Farewell, farewell. One kiss and I'll descend. He goeth down. Juliet. Aren't thou gone so, my lord? My love? My friend? I must hear from thee every day in the hour. For in a minute there are many days. Oh, by this count I shall be much in years ere I again behold my Romeo. Romeo. Farewell. I will omit no opportunity that may convey my greetings. Love to thee. Juliet. I'll think as thou we shall ever meet again. Romeo. I doubt it not, and all these woes shall serve for sweet discourses and our time to come. Juliet. Oh, God, I have an ill-divining soul. Me thinks I see thee. Now thou art below, as one dead in the bottom of a tomb. Either my eyesight fails, or thou lookest pale. Romeo. And trust me, love, in my eye so do you. Dry sorrow drinks our blood. Adieu. Adieu. Exit. Juliet. Oh, fortune, fortune, all men call thee fickle. If thou art fickle, what dost thou with him that is renowned for faith? Be fickle, fortune, for then I hope thou wilt not keep him long but send him back. Lady, within. Oh, daughter, are you up? Juliet. Who is that calls? It is my lady mother. Is she not down so late, or up so early? What unaccustomed cause procures her hither? At her mother. Lady. Why, how now, Juliet? Juliet. Madam, I am not well. Lady. Ever more weeping for your cousin's death? What, wilt thou wash him from his grave with tears? And if thou couldst, thou couldst not make him live? Therefore have done. Some grief shows much of love, but much of grief shows still some want of wit. Juliet. Yet let me weep for such a feeling loss. Lady. So shall you feel the loss, but not the friend which you weep for. Juliet. Feeling so the loss, I cannot choose but ever weep the friend. Lady. Well, girl, thou weepest not so much for his death, as that the villain lives which slaughtered him. Juliet. What villain, madam? Lady. That same villain Romeo. Juliet. Aside. Villain, and he be many miles asunder, God pardon him. I do with all my heart, and yet no man like he doth grieve my heart. Lady. That is because the traitor murderer lives. Juliet. I, madam, from the reach of these my hands would none but I might venge my cousin's death. Lady. We will have vengeance for it, fear thou not. Then weep no more, I'll send to one in Mantua, where that same banished renegade doth live shall give him such an unaccustomed dram that he shall soon keep tibbled company, and then I hope thou wilt be satisfied. Juliet. Indeed, I never shall be satisfied with Romeo till I behold him, dead. Is my poor heart so, for of kinsmen vexed? Madam, if you could find out but a man to bear a poison, I would temper it, that Romeo should, upon receipt thereof, soon sleep in quiet. O how my heart appors to hear him named and cannot come to him, to wreck the love I bore my cousin tibbled upon his body that hath slaughtered him. Lady. Find thou the means, and I'll find such a man. But now I'll tell thee joyful tidings, girl. Juliet. And joy comes well in such a needy time. What are they, I beseech your ladyship? Lady. Well, well, thou hast a careful father-child, one who, to put thee from thy heaviness, hath sorted out a sudden day of joy, that thou expects not, nor I looked not for. Juliet. Madam, in happy time, what day is that? Lady. Marry my child? Early next Thursday morn, the gallant young and noble gentleman, the county Paris, at St. Peter's Church, shall happily make thee there a joyful bride. Juliet. Now by St. Peter's Church and Peter too, he shall not make me there a joyful bride. I wondered this haste, that I must wed ere he that should be husband comes to woo. I pray you tell my lord and father, madam, I will not marry yet, and when I do, I swear it shall be Romeo, whom you know I hate, rather than Paris. These are news indeed. Lady. Here comes your father, tell him so yourself, and see how he will take it at your hands. Enter Capulet and Nurse. Capulet. When the sun sets, the air-doth drizzle do, but for the sunset of my brother's sun it rains down right. How now? A conduit, girl? What, still in tears? Ever more showering? In one little body thou counter-fits'd a bark, a sea, a wind. For still thy eyes, which I may call the sea, do ebb and flow with tears. The bark thy body is sailing in this salt flood. The winds thy sighs, who raging with thy tears, and they with them, without a sudden calm, will over-set thy tempest-tossed body. How now, wife? Have you delivered to her our decree? Lady. I, sir, but she will none. She gives you thanks. I would the fool were married to her grave. Capulet. Soft. Take me with you. Take me with you, wife. How? Will she none? Doth she not give us thanks? Is she not proud? Doth she not count her blessed, unworthy as she is, that we have wrought so worthy a gentleman to be her bridegroom? Juliet. Not proud you have, but thankful that you have. Proud can I never be of what I hate. But thankful even for hate that is meant love. Capulet. How? How? How? How? Chop logic. What is this? Proud and I thank you, and I thank you not, and yet not proud. Mistress Minion, you thank me no thankings, nor proud me no prouds, but fettle your fine joints against Thursday next, to go with Paris to St. Peter's Church, or I will drag thee on a hurdle thither. Out, you green sickness carrion, I out, you baggage, you tallow face. Lady. Fee-fee, what are you mad? Juliet. Good Father, I beseech you on my knees, hear me with patience, but to speak a word. Capulet. Hang thee, young baggage, disobedient wretch. I tell thee what, yet thee to church a Thursday, or never after look me in the face. Speak not, reply not, do not answer me. My fingers itch. Wife, we scarce thought us blessed that God had lent us but this only child, but now I see this one is one too much, and that we have a curse in having her. Out on her, hilding. Nurse, God in heaven bless her. You are to blame my Lord to rate her so? Capulet. And why, my Lady Wisdom, hold your tongue, good prudence. Smatter with your gossips, go. Nurse, I speak no treason. Capulet. Oh God, it Goden. Nurse, may not one speak? Capulet, peace you mumbling fool, utter your gravity or a gossips bowl, for here we need it not. Lady, you are too hot. Capulet. God's bread, I, it makes me mad. Day, night, late, early at home, abroad alone in company, waking or sleeping, still my care hath been to have her matched, and having now provided a gentleman of princely parentage, a fair demeans, youthful and nobly trained, stuffed as they say with honorable parts, proportioned as one's thought would wish a man, and then to have a wretched, pooling fool, a whining mammoth, in her fortune's tender, to answer, I'll not wed, I cannot love, I am too young, I pray you pardon me. But, and you will not wed, I'll pardon you, graze where you will, you shall not house with me. Look to it, think on it, I do not use to jest. Thursday is near, lay hand on heart, advise, and you be mine, I'll give you to my friend, and you be not, hang, beg, starve, die in the streets, for by my soul I'll nere acknowledge thee. Nor what is mine shall never do thee good, trust to it, but thank you, I'll not be foresworn. Exit. Juliet. Is there no pity sitting in the clouds that sees into the bottom of my grief? Oh, sweet, my mother, cast me not away. Delay this marriage for a month a week, or if you do not make the bridal bed in that dim monument, where tibbled lies. Lady, talk not to me, for I'll not speak a word. Do as thou wilt, for I have done with thee. Exit. Juliet. Oh, God, oh nurse, how shall this be prevented? My husband is on earth, my faith in heaven. How shall that faith return again to earth, unless that husband sendeth me from heaven by leaving earth? Comfort me, counsel me, a lack, a lack, that heaven should practice stratagems upon so soft a subject as myself. What sayest thou? Hast thou not a word of joy? Some comfort, nurse? Nurse. Faith, here it is. Romeo is banished, and all the world to nothing that he dares never come back to challenge you. Or if he do, it needs must be by stealth. Then, since the case so stands as now it doth, I think it best you married with the county. Oh, he's a lovely gentleman. Romeo's a dish-clout to him, an eagle, madam. Hath not so green, so quick, so fair an eye as Paris hath. Be shrew my very heart, I think you are happy in this second match, for it excels your first. Or if it did not, your first is dead, or, poor as good he were, is living here, and you know use of him. Juliet, speakest thou this from thy heart? Nurse, and from my soul too, else be shrew them both. Juliet, amen. Nurse, what? Juliet, well thou hast comforted me marvelous much. Go in and tell my lady I am gone, having displeased my father to Lawrence's cell, to make confession and to be absolved. Nurse, marry I will, and this is wisely done. Exit, Juliet, ancient damnation, oh most wicked fiend, is it more sin to wish me thus foresworn, or to dispraise my lord with that same tongue which she hath praised him with, above compare so many thousand times? Go, counselor, thou and my bosom henceforth shall be twain, all to the friar to know his remedy. If all else fail, myself have power to die. Exit. End of Act 3. Enter Friar Lawrence and County Paris. Friar. On Thursday, sir, the time is very short. Paris. My father Capulet will have it so, and I am nothing slow to slack his haste. Friar, you say you do not know the lady's mind. Uneven is the course, I like it not. Paris. Immoderately she weeps for Tybalt's death, and therefore have I little talked of love, for Venus smiles not in a house of tears. Now, sir, her father counts it dangerous that she do give her sorrow so much sway, and in his wisdom haste our marriage to stop the inundation of her tears, which too much minded by herself alone may be put from her by society. Now do you know the reason of this haste? Friar. Aside. I would I knew not why it should be slowed. Look, sir, here comes the lady toward my cell. Enter Juliet. Paris. Happily met my lady and my wife? Juliet. That may be, sir, when I may be a wife. Paris. That may be must be love on Thursday next. Juliet. What must be shall be? Friar. That's a certain text. Paris. Come you to make confession to this father? Juliet. To answer that I should confess to you. Paris. Do not deny to him that you love me. Juliet. I will confess to you that I love him. Paris. So will ye, I am sure, that you love me. Juliet. If I do so, it will be of more price, being spoke behind your back than to your face. Paris. Poor soul, thy face is much abused with tears. Juliet. The tears have got small victory by that, for it was bad enough before their spite. Paris. Thou wrongest it more than tears with that report. Juliet. That is no slander, sir, which is a truth, and what I spake I spake it to my face. Paris. Thy face is mine, and thou hast slandered it. Juliet. It may be so, for it is not mine own. Are you at leisure, holy father? Now, or shall I come to you at evening mass? Friar. My leisure serves me, pensive daughter. Now, my lord, we must entreat the time alone. Paris. God's shield I should disturb devotion. Juliet. On Thursday early will I rouse ye. Till then, adieu, and keep this holy kiss. Exit. Juliet. Oh, shut the door, and when thou hast done so, come weep with me, past hope, past cure, past help. Friar. Ah, Juliet, I already know thy grief. It strains me past the compass of my wits. I hear thou must, and nothing may pro-rogate. On Thursday next be married to this county. Juliet. Tell me not, Friar, that thou hearst of this, unless thou tell me how I may prevent it. If in thy wisdom thou canst give no help. Do thou but call my resolution wise, and with this knife I'll help it presently. God joined my heart in Romeo's. Thou are hands, and ere this hand by thee to Romeo's sealed. Shall be the label to another deed. Or my true heart with treacherous revolt turned to another. This shall slay them both. Therefore, out of thy long experience time, give me some present counsel, or behold, twist my extremes and me. This bloody knife shall play the empire, arbitrating that which the commission of thy years and art could to no issue of true honor bring. Be not so long to speak. I long to die if what thou speakest speak not of remedy. Friar, hold, daughter, I do spy a kind of hope, which craves as desperate an execution as that is desperate which we would prevent. If rather than to marry County Paris thou hast the strength of will to slay thyself, then it is likely thou wilt undertake a thing like death to chide away the shame that copst with death himself to escape from it. And if thou daresst, I'll give the remedy. Juliet, O bid me leap rather than marry Paris, from off the battlements of Yonder Tower, or walk in thievish ways, or bid me lurk where serpents are, chain me with roaring bears, or shut me nightly in a charnel house, or covered quite with dead man's rattling bones, with reaky shanks and yellow chapless skulls, or bid me go into a new-made grave and hide me with a dead man in his shroud. Things that, to hear them told, have made me tremble, and I will do it without fear or doubt, to live an unstained wife to my sweet love. Friar, hold then. Go home. Be merry. Give consent to marry Paris. Wednesday is tomorrow. Tomorrow night, look that thou lie alone. Let not the nurse lie with thee in thy chamber. Take thou this vile, being then in bed. And this distilled liquor drink thou off, when presently through all thy veins shall run a cold and drowsy humor, for no pulse shall keep his native progress. But, sir Cease, no warmth, no breath shall testify thou livest. The roses in thy lips and cheeks shall fade to pale ashes. Thy eyes windows fall, like death when he shuts up the day of life. Each part, deprived of supple government, shall stiff and stark and cold appear like death. And in this borrowed likeness of shrunk death thou shalt continue two and forty hours, and then awake as from a pleasant sleep. Now, when the bridegroom in the morning comes to rouse thee from thy bed, there aren't thou dead. Then, as the manner of our country is, in thy best robes uncovered on the bire, thou shalt be born to that same ancient vault, where all the kindred of the capulets lie. In the meantime, against thou shalt awake, shall Romeo by my letters know our drift, and hither shall he come, and he and I will watch thy waking, and that very night shall Romeo bear thee hence to Mantua, and this shall free thee from this present shame, if no inconstant toy nor womanish fear abate thy valor in the acting it. Juliet, give me, give me! Oh, tell not me of fear. Friar, hold! Get you gone! Be strong and prosperous in this resolve. I'll send a friar with speed to Mantua, with my letters to thy lord. Juliet, love give me strength, and strength shall help afford. Farewell, dear father. Exant. Seen two, Capulet's house. Enter father Capulet, mother, nurse, and serving men, two or three. Capulet, so many guests invite as here are ripped. Exit a serving man. Sirah, go hire me twenty cunning cooks. Serving man, you shall have none ill, sir, for I'll try if they can lick their fingers. Capulet, how can't thou try them so? Serving man. Mary, sir, tis an ill cook that cannot lick his own fingers. Therefore he that cannot lick his fingers goes not with me. Capulet, go, be gone. Exit serving man. We shall be much unfurnished for this time. What, is my daughter gone to Friar Lawrence? Nurse, I forsooth. Capulet, well, be made chance to do some good on her, a peevish self-willed harlotry it is. Enter Juliet. Nurse, see where she comes from shrift with merry look. Capulet, how now my head strong? Where have you been gadding? Juliet, where I have learnt me to repent the sin of disobedient opposition to you and your behests, and am enjoined by Holy Lawrence to fall prostrate here to beg your pardon. Pardon, I beseech you. Henceforward I am ever ruled by you. Capulet, send for the county. Go tell him of this. I'll have this not knit up tomorrow morning. Juliet, I met the youthful Lord at Lawrence's cell, and gave him what become'd love I might, not stepping o'er the bounds of modesty. Capulet, why, I am glad on it. This is well. Stand up. This is as'd should be. Let me see the county. I, merry, go, I say, and fetch him hither. Now, afore God, this reverend Holy Friar, all our whole city is much bound to him. Juliet. Nurse, will you go with me into my closet to help me sort such needful ornaments, as you think fit to furnish me tomorrow? Mother, no, not till Thursday. There is time enough. Capulet, go, nurse, go with her. We'll to church tomorrow. Exant, Juliet, and nurse. Mother, we shall be short in our provision, tis now near night. Capulet, touch, I will stir about, and all things shall be well. I warrant thee, wife. Go thou to Juliet. Help to deck up her. Oh, not to bed to night. Let me alone. I'll play the housewife for this once. What? Ho! They are all forth. Well, I will walk myself to county Paris, to prepare him up against tomorrow. My heart is wondrous white, since this same wayward girl is so reclaimed. Exant. Seen three. Juliet's chamber. Enter Juliet and nurse. Juliet. I, those attires are best, but gentle nurse, I pray thee, leave me to myself to-night, for I have need of many orisons to move the heavens to smile upon my state, which, well, thou knowest, is cross in full of sin. Enter mother. Mother. What? Are you busy, Ho? Need you my help? Juliet. No, madam. We have called such necessaries, as are behoofful for our state tomorrow. So please you, let me now be left alone, and let the nurse this night sit up with you, for I am sure you have your hands full all in this so sudden business. Mother. Good night. Get thee to bed, and rest, for thou hast need. Exant mother and nurse. Juliet. Farewell. God knows when we shall meet again. I have a faint cold fear thrills through my veins, that almost freezes up the heat of life. I'll call them back again to comfort me. Nurse, what should she do here? My dismal scene. I needs must act alone. Come, vile. What if this mixture do not work at all? Shall I be married then tomorrow morning? No. No. This shall forbid it. Lie thou there. Lay's down a dagger. What if it be a poison which the friar subtly hath ministered to have me dead, lest in this marriage he should be dishonored because he married me before to Romeo? I fear it is. And yet, me thinks it should not, for he hath still been tried a holy man. I will not entertain so bad a thought. How if, when I am laid into the tomb, I wake before the time that Romeo come to redeem me? There's a fearful point. Shall I not then be stifled in the vault, to whose foul mouth no healthsome air breathes in? And there, die strangled ere my Romeo comes? Or, if I live, is it not very like the horrible conceit of death and night, together with the terror of the place, as in a vault, an ancient receptacle, where for this many hundred years the bones of all my buried ancestors are packed? Where bloody tibbled, yet, but green an earth, lies festering in his shroud? Where, as they say, at some hours in the night spirits resort, a lack, a lack, is it not like that eye, so early waking, what with loathsome smells and shrieks like mandrakes torn out of the earth, that living mortals, hearing them, run mad? Oh, if I wake, shall I not be distraught, environed with all these hideous fears, and madly play with my forefather's joints, and pluck the mangled tibble from his shroud, and in this rage, with some great kinsman's bone as with a club, dash out my desperate brains? Oh, look, me thinks I see my cousin's ghost, seeking out Romeo. Romeo. That did spit his body upon a rapier's point. Stay, tibbled, stay. Romeo, I come. This do I drink, to thee. She drinks, and falls upon her bed, within the curtains. Scene four. Capulet's house. Enter Lady of the house, and nurse. Lady. Hold, take these keys and fetch more spices, nurse. Nurse. They call for dates and quinces in the pastry. Enter old Capulet. Capulet. Come, stir, stir, stir. The second cock hath crowed. The curfew bell hath rung. Tis three o'clock. Look to the baked meats. Good Angelica. Spare not for cost. Nurse. Go, you caught queen. Go. Get you to bed. Faith, you'll be sick to-morrow, for this night's watching. Capulet. No, not a wit. What? I have watched ere now all night, for lesser cause, and ne'er been sick. Lady. I. You have been a mouse-hunt in your time. But I will watch you from such watching now. Exant, Lady and nurse. Capulet. A jealous hood. A jealous hood. Enter three or four fellows with spits and logs and baskets. What is there? Now fellow. Fellow. Things for the cook, sir. But I know not what. Capulet. Make haste, make haste. Exit, fellow. Surah. Fetch drier logs. Call Peter. He will show thee where they are. Fellow. I have a head, sir, that will find out logs and never trouble Peter for the matter. Capulet. Mass. And well said. A merry horse, son. Ha! Thou shalt be loggerhead. Exit, fellow. Good faith. Tis day. The county will be here with music straight. For so he said he would. Play music. I hear him near. Nurse. Wife. What ho? What nurse I say? Enter nurse. Go wake in Juliet. Go and trim her up. I'll go and chat with Paris. He. Make haste. Make haste. The bridegroom. He is come already. Make haste, I say. Exit. Scene five. Juliet's chamber. Enter nurse. Nurse. Mistress. What? Mistress? Juliet. Fast. I warrant her. She. Why lamb? Why lady? Fee, you slugabed. Why? Love. I say, madam. Sweetheart. Why? Bride. What? Not a word? You take your penny-worths now. Sleep for a week. For the next night I warrant the county Paris hath set up his rest, that you shall rest but little. God forgive me. Mary and a men. How sound is she asleep? I needs must wake her. Madam. Madam. Madam. I. Let the county take you in your bed. He'll fright you up. In faith. Will it not be? Draws aside the curtains. What? Dressed? And in your clothes and down again? I must needs wake you. Lady. Lady. Lady. Alas. Alas. Help. Help. My lady's dead. Oh, we're a day that ever I was born. Some aqua vitay. Oh, my lord. My lady. Enter mother. Mother. What noise is here? Nurse. Oh, lamentable day. Mother. What is the matter? Nurse. Look. Look. Oh, heavy day. Mother. Oh, me. Oh, me. My child. My only life. Revive. Look up or I will die with thee. Help. Help. Call help. Enter father. Father. For shame. Bring Juliet forth. Her lord is come. Nurse. She's dead. Deceased. She's dead. Alack the day. Mother. Alack the day. She's dead. She's dead. She's dead. Capulet. Ha. Let me see her. Out. Alas. She's cold. Her blood is settled. Her joints are stiff. Life and these lips have long been separated. Death lies on her like an untimely frost upon the sweetest flower of all the field. Nurse. Oh, lamentable day. Mother. Oh, woeful time. Capulet. Death that hath taken her hence. To make me wail. Tice up my tongue. And will not let me speak. Enter Friar Lawrence and the county Paris with musicians. Friar. Come. Is the bride ready to go to church? Capulet. Ready to go. But never to return. Oh, son. The night before thy wedding day. Hath death lain with thy wife. See, there she lies. Flower as she was. Deflowered by him. Death is my son-in-law. Death is my heir. My daughter he hath wedded. I will die and leave him all. Life. Living. All is death's. Paris. Have I thought long to see this morning's face? And doth it give me such a sight as this? Mother. A cursed, unhappy, wretched, hateful day. Most miserable hour that airtime saw and lasting labor of his pilgrimage. But one poor one. One poor and loving child. But one thing to rejoice and solace it. And cruel death hath catch'd it from my sight. Nurse. Oh, woe. Oh, woeful. Woeful, woeful day. Most lamentable day. Most woeful day that ever, ever I did yet behold. Oh, day. Oh, day. Oh, day. Oh, hateful day. Never was seen so black a day as this. Oh, woeful day. Oh, woeful day. Paris. Beguiled. Divorced. Wronged. Spited. Slain. Most detestable death by thee beguiled. By cruel, cruel thee quite overthrown. Oh, love. Oh, life. Not life, but love in death. Capulet. Despised. Distressed. Hated. Martyr. Killed. Uncomfortable time. Why camest thou now to murder? Murder our solemnity. Oh, child. Oh, child. My soul and not my child. Dead art thou dead. Black my child is dead. And with my child my joys are buried. Friar. Peace. Ho, for shame. Confusions 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 advanced. And weep ye now, seeing she is advanced, above the clouds, as high as heaven itself. Oh, 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 course. 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. Capulet. 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 course. And all things change them to the contrary. Friar. Sir, go you in. And madam, go with him. And go, sir, Paris. Everyone prepare to follow this fair course unto her grave. The heavens do lower upon you for some ill. Move them no more by crossing their high will. Exant. Menent. Musicians. And nurse. First musician. Faith. We may put up our pipes and be gone. Nurse. Honest good fellows. Ah, put up, put up. For well you know this is a pitiful case. Exit. First musician. I, by my trough, the case may be amended. Enter Peter. Peter. Musicians. Oh, musicians. Hearts ease. Hearts ease. Oh, and you will have me live. Play. Hearts ease. First musician. Why hearts ease? Peter. Oh, musicians, because my heart itself plays, my heart is full of woe. Oh, play me some merry dump to comfort me. First musician. Not a dump, we. Tis no time to play now. Peter. You will not then? First musician. No. Peter. I will then give it you soundly. First musician. What will you give us? Peter. No money. On my faith, but the gleek. I will give you the minstrel. First musician. Then will I give you the serving creature. Peter. Then will I lay the serving creature's dagger on your paint. I will carry no crotchets. I'll ray you. I'll thaw you. Do you note me? First musician. And you ray us and faw us. You note us. Second musician. Pray you put up your dagger, and put out your wit. Peter. 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? First musician. Mary, sir, because silver hath a sweet sound. Peter. Pretty. What say you, Hugh Rebic? Second musician. I say silver sound because musicians sound for silver. Peter. Pretty too. What say you, James Sound Post? Third musician. Faith. I know not what to say. Peter. Oh, 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. Exit. First musician. What a pestilent nave is this same? Second musician. Hang him, Jack. Come. Will in here. Terry for the mourners, and stay dinner. Exit. End of Act Four. Act Five. The Tragedy of Romeo and Juliet by William Shakespeare. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information and to find out how you can volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Sam Stinson. Act Five. Scene One. Mantua. A Street. Enter Romeo. Romeo. If I may trust the flattering truth of sleep, my dreams presage some joyful news at hand. My bosom's lord sits lightly in his throne, and all this day an unaccustomed 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 breathed such life with kisses in my lips that I revived and was an emperor. Ah, me! How sweet is love itself possessed, but when love's shadows are so rich in joy. Enter Romeo's man, Balthazar, booted. News from Verona. How now, Balthazar, 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. Man. 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. Oh, pardon me for bringing these ill news, since you did leave it for my office, sir. Romeo. Is it in so? Then I defy you, stars! Thou knowest my lodging. Get me ink and paper and hire post-horses. I will hence tonight. Man, I do beseech you, sir, have patience. Your looks are pale and wild, and do import some misadventure. Romeo, touch. Thou art deceived. Leave me, and do the thing I bid thee do. Hast thou no letters to me from the friar? Man, know, my good lord. Romeo, no matter. Get thee gone and hire those horses. I'll be with thee straight. Exit, Balthazar. Well, Juliet, I will lie with thee tonight. Let's see for means. Oh mischief, thou art swift to enter in the thoughts of desperate men. I do remember an apothecary, and hear abouts, a dwells, which late I noted in tattered weeds, with overwhelming brows. Culling of simples, meager were his looks. Sharp misery had worn him to the bones, and in his needy shop a tortoise hung, an alligator stuffed, 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 pack-thread, and old cakes of roses, were thinly scattered, to make up a show. Noting this penury. To myself, I said, and if a man did need a poison now, whose sale is present death in Mantua, here lives a Catef, wretch, would sell it him. Oh, this same thought did but for run 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? Oh, apothecary. Enter apothecary. Apothecary. Who calls so loud? Romeo. 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 maul fall dead, and that the trunk may be discharged of breath, as violently, as hasty powder fired, doth hurry from the fatal cannon's womb. Apothecary. Such mortal drugs I have, but Mantua's law is death to any he that utters them. Romeo. Art thou so barren full of wretchedness and fears to die? Famine is in thy cheeks. Need an 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. Apothecary. My poverty, but not my will, consents. Romeo, I pay thy poverty, and not thy will. Apothecary. Put this in any liquid thing you will, and drink it off, and if you had this strength of twenty men it would dispatch you straight. Romeo, there is thy gold, worse poison to men's souls, doing more mirthur in this loathsome world, than these poor compounds that thou mayest 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. Exant. Seen to. Verona. Friar Lawrence's sell. Enter Friar John to Friar Lawrence. John. Holy Franciscan Friar. Brother. Ho! Enter Friar Lawrence. 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. John. Going to find a barefoot brother out, one of our order, to associate me here in the 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, sealed up the doors, and would not let us forth, so that my speed to Mantua there was stayed. Lawrence. Who bear my letter then to Romeo? John. I could not send it. Here it is again, nor get a messenger to bring it thee, so fearful were they of infection. Lawrence. Unhappy fortune. By my brotherhood, the letter was not nice, but full of charge, of deer and port, and the neglecting it may do much danger. Friar John, go hence. Get me an iron crow, and bring it straight unto my cell. John. Brother, I'll go and bring it thee. Exit. Lawrence. Now must I, to the monument alone, within this three hours, will fare Juliet wake. She will be shrew me much that Romeo hath not no notice of these accidents. But I will write again to Mantua, and keep her at my cell till Romeo come. Poor living course, closed in a dead man's tomb. Exit. Scene three. Verona. A churchyard. In it the monument of the Capulets. Enter Paris in his page with flowers and a torch. Paris. Give me thy torch, boy. Hence, and stand aloof. Yet put it out, for I would not be seen. Under Yon Utri lay thee all along, holding thine ear close to the hollow ground. So shall no foot upon the churchyard tread, being loose, unfirm, with digging up of graves. But thou shalt hear it. Whistle then to me, as signal that thou hearst something approach. Give me those flowers. Do as I bid thee. Go. Page. Aside. I am almost afraid to stand alone here in the churchyard. Yet I will adventure. Retires. Paris. Sweet flower, with flowers thy bridal bed I strew. Oh, woe, thy canopy's dust and stones. Which with sweet water nightly I will do, or wanting that with tears distilled by moans. The obsequies that I for thee will keep nightly shall be to strew thy grave and weep. Whistle, boy. The boy gives warning, something doth approach. What cursed foot wanders this way tonight to cross my obsequies in true love's right. What, with a torch? Muffle me night a while. Retires. Enter Romeo and Balthazar with a torch, a matik, and a crow of iron. Romeo, give me that matik and the wrenching iron. Hold, take this letter. Early in the morning, see thou deliver it to my lord and father. Give me the light. Upon thy life I charge thee. What ere thou hearst or seeest, stand all aloof, and do not interrupt me in my chorus. Why I descend into this bed of death is partly to behold my lady's face, but chiefly to take thence from her dead finger a precious ring, a ring that I must use in dear employment. Therefore hence be gone, but if thou jealous dust return to pry, and what I farther shall intend to do, by heaven I will tear thee joint by joint and strew this hungry churchyard with thy limbs. The time and my intents are savage wild, more fierce and more inexorable far than empty tigers or the roaring sea. Balthazar, I will be gone, sir, and not trouble you. Romeo, so shalt thou show me friendship. Take thou that, live and be prosperous, and farewell, good fellow. Balthazar, aside. For all this same I'll hide me here about. His looks I fear, and his intents I doubt. Retires. Romeo, thou detestable maw, thou womb of death, gorged with the dearest morsel of the earth. Thus I enforce thy rotten jaws to open, and in despite I'll cram thee with more food. Romeo opens the tomb. Paris. This is that banished haughty Montague that murdered my love's cousin, with which grief it is supposed the fair creature died. And here is come to do some villainous shame to the dead bodies. I will apprehend him. Stop thy unhallowed toil, vile Montague. Can vengeance be pursued further than death? Condemned villain, I do apprehend thee. Obey and go with me, for thou must die. Romeo, I must indeed, and therefore came I hither. Good gentle youth, tempt not a desperate man. Fly, hence, and leave me. Think upon these gone. Let them affright thee. I beseech thee, youth, but not another sin upon my head, by urging me to fury. O be gone. By heaven I love thee better than myself, for I come hither armed against myself. Stay not. Be gone. Live. And hereafter say, a madman's mercy bid thee run away. Paris, I do defy thy conjuration, and apprehend thee for a felon here. Romeo, wilt thou provoke me? Then have at thee, boy. They fight. Page. Oh, Lord, they fight. I will go call the watch. Exit. Paris falls. Paris. Oh, I am slain. If thou be merciful, open the tomb. Lay me with Juliet. Dies. Romeo, in faith I will. Let me peruse this face. Mercutio's kinsmen. Noble county Paris. What said my man when my betost soul did not attend him as we rode? I think he told me Paris should have married Juliet. Said he not so. Or did I dream it so? Or am I mad, hearing him talk of Juliet, to think it was so? Oh, give me thy hand. One writ with me in sour misfortune's book. I'll bury thee in a triumphant grave. A grave? Oh, no. A land thorn, slaughtered youth, for here lies Juliet. And her beauty makes this vault a feasting presence full of light. Death lies out there by a dead man interred, lays him in the tomb. How oft, when men are at the point of death, have they been married, which their keepers call a lightning before death? Oh, how may I call this a lightning? Oh, my love, my wife, death that hath sucked the honey of thy breath, hath had no power yet upon thy beauty. Thou art not conquered. Beauty's ensign yet is crimson in thy lips and in thy cheeks. And death's pale flag is not advanced there. Tibbled, liest thou there in thy bloody sheet? Oh, what more favor can I do to thee, than with that hand that cut thy youth in twain, to thunder his that was thine enemy? Forgive me, cousin. Ah, dear Juliet, why art thou yet so fair? Shall I believe that unsubstantial death is amorous, and that the lean, abhorred monster keeps thee here in dark to be his paramour? For fear that I still will stay with thee, and never from this palace of dim night depart again. Here, here will I remain, with worms that are thy chambermaids. Oh, here will I set up my everlasting rest, and shake the yoke of inauspicious stars from this world-wearyed flesh. Eyes, look your last. Arms, take your last embrace. And lips, owe you the doors of breath. Seal with a righteous kiss, a dateless bargain to engrossing death. Come, bitter conduct, come, unsavory guide. Thou desperate pilot, now at once run on the dashing rocks thy seasick weary bark. Here's to my love drinks. Oh, true apothecary. Thy drugs are quick. Thus with a kiss I die. Falls. Enter Friar Lawrence with Lanthorn, Crow, and Spade. Friar. St. Francis be my speed. How often night have my old feet stumbled at graves. Who's there? Balthazar. Here's one, a friend, and one that knows you well. Friar. Bliss be upon you. Tell me, good my friend, what torch is yon'd that vainly lends his light to grubs and eyeless skulls? As I discern it burneth in the capel's monument. Balthazar. It doth so, holy sir, and there's my master, one that you love. Friar. Who is it? Balthazar. Romeo. Friar. How long hath he been there? Balthazar. Full, half an hour. Friar. Go with me to the vault. Balthazar, I dare not, sir. My master knows not, but I am gone hence, and fearfully did menace me with death if I did stay to look on his intents. Friar, stay then. I'll go alone. Fear comes upon me. Oh, much I fear some ill-unthrifty thing. Balthazar. As I did sleep under this yew-tree here, I dreamt my master in another font, and that my master slew him. Friar. Romeo. A lack. A lack. What blood is this which stains the stony entrance of this sepulcher? What mean these masterless and gory swords to lie discolored by this place of peace? Enter's the tomb. Romeo. Oh, pale. Who else? What? Paris, too? And steeped in blood? Ah, what an unkind hour is guilty of this lamentable chance. The lady stirs. Juliet rises. Juliet. Oh, comfortable Friar. Where's my lord? I do remember well where I should be. And there I am. Where is my Romeo? Friar. I hear some noise. Lady, come from that nest of death, contagion and unnatural sleep. A greater power than we can contradict hath thwarted our intents. Come, come away. Thy husband in thy bosom there lies dead, and Paris, too. Come, I'll dispose of thee among a sisterhood of holy nuns. Stay not to question, for the watch is coming. Come, go, good Juliet. I dare no longer stay. Juliet. Go, get thee hence, for I will not away. Exit, Friar. What's here? A cup? Closed in my true love's hand? Poison, I see, hath been his timeless end. Oh, churl! Drunk all, and left no friendly drop to help me after? I will kiss thy lips, happily some poison yet doth hang on them, To make me die with a restorative, kisses him. Thy lips are warm. Chief watch, within. Lead, boy, which way? Ye, noise? Then I'll be brief. Oh, happy dagger, snatches Romeo's dagger. This is thy sheath. There, rest, and let me die. She stamps herself and falls on Romeo's body. Enter Paris's boy and watch. Boy. This is the place, there, where the torch doth burn. Chief watch. The ground is bloody. Search about the churchyard. Go, some of you, where you find, attach. Exit some of the watch. Pitiful sight. Here lies the county slain. And Juliet, bleeding? Warm and newly dead? Who here hath lain this two days buried? Go, tell the prince, run to the capulets, raise up the montajous, some other search. Exit others of the watch. We see the ground whereon these woes do lie. But the true ground of all these piteous woes we cannot without circumstance describe. Enter some of the watch with Romeo's man Balthazar. Second watch. Here's Romeo's man. We found him in the churchyard. Chief watch. Hold him in safety till the prince come hither. Enter Friar Lawrence and another watchman. Third watch. Here is a Friar that trembles, sighs, and weeps. We took this matic and this spade from him, and he was coming from this churchyard side. Chief watch. A great suspicion. Stay the Friar, too. Enter the prince in attendance. Prince, what misadventure is so early up that calls our person from our morning rest? Enter Capulet and his wife with others. Capulet, what should it be that they so shriek abroad? Wife. The people in the street cry Romeo, some Juliet, and some Paris, and all run with open-out cry toward our monument. Prince, what fear is this which startles in our ears? Chief watch. Sovereign. Here lies the county Paris slain, and Romeo dead, and Juliet, dead before warm and newly killed. Prince, search, seek, and know how this foul murder comes. Chief watch. Here is a Friar and slaughtered Romeo's man, with instruments upon them fit to open these dead men's tombs. Capulet. Oh heavens. Oh wife, look how our daughter bleeds. This dagger hath mistaken for low. His house is empty on the back of Montague, and it miss sheathed in my daughter's bosom. Wife. Oh me, this sight of death is as a bell that warns my old age to a sepulcher. Enter Montague and others. Prince, come Montague, for thou art early up to see thy son in air more early down. Montague. Alas, my liege, my wife is dead tonight. Grief of my son's exile hath stopped her breath. What further woe conspires against my age? Prince, look, and thou shalt see. Montague. Oh, thou untaught. What manners is in this to press before thy father to aggrave? Prince, seal up the mouth of outrage for a while, till we can clear these ambiguities, and know their spring, their head, their true descent. And then will I be general of your woes, and lead you even to death. Meantime, forbear, and let mischance be slave to patience. Bring forth the parties of suspicion. Friar. I am the greatest, able to do least, yet most suspected, as the time and place doth make against me of this direful mirther. And here I stand, both to impeach and purge myself, condemned, and myself excused. Prince. Then say at once what thou dost know in this. Friar, I will be brief, for my short date of breath is not so long as is a tedious tale. Romeo, their dead, was husband to that Juliet. And she, their dead, that Romeo's faithful life. I married them, and their stolen marriage day was Tybalt's noomsday, whose untimely death banished the new-made bridegroom from this city. For whom, and not for Tybalt, Juliet pined. You, to remove that siege of grief from her, betrothed, and would have married her per force to County Paris. Then comes she to me, and with wild looks bid me devise some mean to rid her from this second marriage. Or in my cell there would she kill herself. Then gave I her, so tutored by my art, a sleeping potion, which so took effect, as I intended, for it wrought on her the form of death. Meantime I writ to Romeo, that he should hither come as this dire night to help to take her from her borrowed grave, being the time the potion's force should cease. But he which bore my letter, Friar John, was stayed by accident, and yesterday night returned my letter back. Then all alone, at the prefixed hour of her waking, came I to take her from her kindred's fault, meaning to keep her closely at my cell, till I conveniently could send to Romeo. But when I came, some minute ere the time of her awaking, here untimely lay the noble Paris and true Romeo dead. She wakes, and I entreated her come forth, and bear this work of heaven with patience. And then a noise did scare me from the tomb, and she, too desperate, would not go with me. But, as it seems, did violence on herself. All this I know, and to the marriage her nurse is privy. And if ought in this, miscarried by my fault, let my old life be sacrificed, some hour before his time, unto the rigor of severest law. Prince, we still have known thee for a holy man. Where's Romeo's man? What can he say in this? Balthazar. I brought my master news of Juliet's death, and then in post he came from Mantua to this same place, to this same monument. This letter he early bid me give his father, and threatened me with death, going in the vault, if I departed not and left him there. Prince, give me the letter. I will look on it. Where is the county's page that raised the watch? Surah, what made your master in this place? Boy, he came with flowers to strew his lady's grave, and bid me stand aloof, and so I did. Anon comes one with light to oak the tomb, and by and by my master drew on him. And then I ran away to call the watch. Prince, this letter doth make good the friar's words, their course of love, the tidings of her death, and here he writes that he did buy a poison of a poor Pothicary, and therewith all came to this vault to die, and lie with Juliet. Where be these enemies? Capulet, Montague, see what a scourge has laid upon your hate, that heaven finds means to kill your joys with love. And I, for winking at you, discord's too, have lost abrasive kinsmen. All are punished. Capulet, O brother Montague, give me thy hand. This is my daughter's jointure, for no more can I demand. Montague, but I can give thee more, for I will raise her statue in pure gold, that whilst Verona by that name is known, there shall no figure at such rate be set as that of true and faithful Juliet. Capulet, as rich shall Romeo's by his ladies lie poor sacrifices of our enmity. Prince, a glooming peace this morning with it brings. The sun for sorrow will not show his head. Go hence to have more talk of these sad things. Some shall be pardoned, and some punished, for never was a story of more woe than this of Juliet and her Romeo. Exant.