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FRIAR. Thou fond madman, hear me but speak a word.

ROMEO. O thou wilt speak again of banishment.

FRIAR. I'll give thee armour 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. O 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 what thou dost not

Wert thou as young as I, Juliet thy love,
An hour but married, Tybalt 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.

Reluctance of Lovers to part.

JULIET. Wilt 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 yon 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. Yon 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 to be gone.
ROMEO. Let me be ta'en, let me be put to death;
I am content, so thou will have it so.

I'll say, yon grey 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 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.

JULIET. 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 division;
This doth not so, for she divideth us :

Some say, the lark and loathed toad change eyes;
O, now I would they had chang'd voices too!
Since arm from arm that voice doth us affray,
Hunting thee hence with hunts-up to the day.
O, now be gone; more light and light it grows.

Capulet's Anger at Juliet's Refusal to Marry Paris.

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 match'd: and having now provided
A gentleman of princely parentage,

Of fair demesnes, youthful, and nobly train'd,

Stuff'd (as they say) with honourable parts,
Proportion'd as one's heart could wish a man,-
And then to have a wretched puling fool,
A whining mammet, in her fortune's tender,
To answer—I'll not wed,—I cannot love,
I am too young,—I pray you pardon me ;—
But, an you will not wed, I'll pardon you:
Graze where you will, shall not house with me;
Look to't, think on't, I do not use to jest.
Thursday is near; lay hand on heart, advise;
An you be mine, I'll give you to my friend;
An you be not, hang, beg, starve, die i̇' the streets,
For, by my soul, I'll ne'er acknowledge thee,
Nor what is mine shall never do thee good:
Trust to't, bethink you, I'll not be forsworn.


Juliet's Anguish at the Thought of her Marriage
with Paris.

Is there no pity sitting in the clouds,
That sees into the bottom of my grief?
O, 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 were Tybalt lies.

The Nurse's Description of Paris.

Romeo's a dishclout to him ; an eagle, madam, Hath not so green, so quick, so fair an eye, As Paris hath. Beshrew my very heart, I think you are happy in this second match, For it excels your first.


Juliet's Appeal to Friar Laurence, to prevent her Marriage with Paris.

JULIET. Tell me not, friar, that thou hear'st 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 join'd my heart and Romeo's, thou our hands :
And ere this hand, by thee to Romeo seal'd,
Shall be the label to another deed,

Or my true heart with treacherous revolt
Turn to another, this shall slay them both :
Therefore, out of thy long-experienc'd time,
Give me some present counsel; or, behold,
'Twixt my extremes and me this bloody knife
Shall play the umpire; arbitrating that
Which the commission of thy years and art
Could to no issue of true honour bring.
Be not so long to speak; I long to die,
If what thou speak'st 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 is it likely, thou wilt undertake

A thing like death to chide away this shame,
That cop'st with death himself to scape from it;
And, if thou dar'st, I'll give thee 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,

O'er-cover'd quite with dead men's rattling bones,
With reeky shanks, and yellow chapless sculls;
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 unstain'd wife to my sweet love.

FRIAR. Hold, then; go home, be merry, give con


To marry Paris; Wednesday is to-morrow;
To-morrow night look that thou lie alone,
Let not thy nurse lie with thee in thy chamber:
Take thou this phial, being then in bed,
And this distilled liquor drink thou off:
When presently, through all thy veins shall run.
A cold and drowsy humour, which shall seize
Each vital spirit; for no pulse shall keep
His natural progress, but surcease to beat:
No warmth, no breath, shall testify thou liv'st;
The roses in thy lips and cheeks shall fade
To paly ashes; thy eyes' windows fall,
Like death when he shuts up the day of life;
Each part, depriv'd of supple government,
Shall stiff, and stark, and cold appear like death:
And in this borrow'd likeness of shrunk death
Thou shalt remain full 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 art thou dead:
Then (as the manner of our country is),

In thy best robes uncover'd on the bier,
Thou shalt be borne to that same ancient vault,

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