Shame come to Romeo! Jul. Blister'd be thy tongue, For fuch a wifh! he was not born to fhame; For 'tis a throne where honour may be crown'd O, what a beast was I to chide him so ? Nurfe. Will you speak well of him, that kill'd your coufin? Jul. Shall I fpeak ill of him, that is my husband? Ah, poor my lord, what tongue fhall smooth thy name, When I, thy three-hours-wife, have mangled it! But wherefore, villain, didst thou kill my coufin? That villain coufin would have kill'd my husband. Back, foolish tears, back to your native spring; Your tributary drops belong to woe, Which you, miftaking, offer up to joy. My husband lives, that Tybalt would have flain; Some word there was, worfer than Tybalt's death, Like damned guilty deeds to finners' minds; Will you go to them? I will bring you thither. Jul. Wash they his wounds with tears? mine fhall be spent, When theirs are dry, for Romeo's banishment. Take up thofe Cords; poor Ropes, you are beguil'd; Both You and I; for Romeo is exil'd. He made You for a high-way to my Bed: But I, a maid, dye Maiden widowed. Come, Core; come, Nurfe; I'll to my wedding. Bed: Jul. Oh find him, give this ring to my true knight, And bid him come, to take his last farewel. [Exeunt. SCENE changes to the Monastery. Enter Friar Lawrence and Romeo. Fri. ROMEO, come forth; come forth, thou fearful man; Affliction is enamour'd of thy parts, Rom. Father, what news? what is the Prince's doom? What forrow craves acquaintance at my hand, That I yet know not ? Fri. Too familiar Is my dear fon with fuch fow'r company. I bring thee tidings of the Prince's doom. Rom. What lefs than dooms-day is the Prince's doom? Fri. A gentler judgment vanifh'd from his lips, Not body's death, but body's banishment. Rom. Ha, banishment! be merciful, fay, death For exile hath more terror in his look, But But purgatory, torture, hell it felf.. Hence banished, is banish'd from the world; And turn'd that black word death to banishment.. Rom. 'Tis torture, and not mercy: heav'n is here, Hadit thou no Poifon mixt, no fharp-ground knife, O Friar, the Damned ufe that word in hell; A fin-abfolver, and my friend profest, Rom. O, thou wilt fpeak again of banishment. Fri. I'll give thee armour to keep off that word, Adverfity's fweet milk, philofophy, To comfort thee, tho' thou art banished. Rom. Yet, banished? hang up philosophy :: Unless philofophy can make a Juliet, Difplant a town, reverse a Prince's doom, It helps not, it prevails not, talk no more Fri. O, then I fee that mad-men have no ears. Rom. How fhould they, when that wife men have no eyes? Fri. Let me difpute with thee of thy estate. Rom. Thou canst not speak of what thou doft not feel : Wert thou as young as 1, Juliet thy love, An hour but married, Tybalt murthered, Doating like me, and like me banished ; Then might'ft thou speak, then might'st thou tear thy hair, And fall upon the ground as I do now, Taking the measure of an unmade grave. [Throwing himself on the ground. Fri. Arife, one knocks; good Romeo, hide thy felf. [Knock within. Rom. Not I, unless the breath of heart-fick Groans, Mift-like, infold me from the Search of Eyes. [Knock. Fri. Hark, how they knock !-(who's there?)- Romeo, arife. 'Thou wilt be taken Run to my Study (stay a while). -ftand up; [Knocks. (By and by) God's will! What willfulness is this? I come, I come. [Knock. Who knocks fo hard? whence come you; what's your will? Nurfe. [Within.] Let me come in, and you fhall know my errand : I come from lady Juliet. Fri. Welcome then. Enter Nurfe. Nurfe. O holy Friar, oh, tell me, holy Friar, Where is my lady's lord ? where's Romeo ? Fri. There, on the ground, with his own tears made drunk. Nurfe. O he is even in my miftrefs' cafe, Juft in her cafe, O woful fympathy! Blubb'ring Blubb'ring and weeping, weeping and blubbering. Stand up, ftand up; -Stand, an' you be a Man : For Juliet's Sake, for her Sake, rise and stand. Rom. Nurfe! Nurfe. Ah Sir! ah Sir! Death is the end of all. Rom. Speak'ft thou of Juliet? how is it with her? Doth not the think me an old murtherer, Now I have ftain'd the child-hood of our joy Nurfe. O, fhe fays nothing, Sir; but weeps and Rom. As if that name, Shot from the deadly level of a gun, Did murther her, as that name's curfed hand weeps; Murther'd her kinfman. - Tell me, Friar, tell me, Doth my name lodge? tell me, that I may fack The hateful manfion. Fri. Hold thy desperate hand: [Drawing his Sword. Thy tears are womanish, thy wild acts denote Why rail't thou on thy Birth, the Heav'n, and Earth, Which should bedeck thy Shape, thy Love, thy Wit. Thy |