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.
Ro. How should 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 dost not feel:
Wert thou as young as I, Juliet thy love,
An hour but married, Tybalt murdered,
Doating like me, and like me banished;

Then might'ft thou fpeak, then might'ft 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 thyself. [Knocking within. Rom. Not I, unless the breath of heart-fick groans, Mift-like, infold me from the fearch of eyes. [Knock. Fri. Hark, how they knock!-(who's there?)-Romeo,

arife.

Thou wilt be taken-(stay a while)-ftand up; [Knocks.
Run to my ftudy. (By and by)-God's will!
What wilfulness is this?—I come, I come. [Knock.
Who knocks fo hard? whence come you; what's your will?
Nurje. [Within.] Let me come in, and you fhall know
my errand :

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!
Piteous predicament! ev'n fo lies the,

Blubb'ring and weeping, weeping and blubbering.
Stand up, and up-Stand, an' you be a man :

For

For Juliet's fake, for her fake, rife and stand.
Why should you fall into fo deep an oh!

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 murderer,
Now I have ftain'd the childhood of our joy
With blood, remov'd but little from her own?
Where is the? and how does fhe? and what fays
My conceal'd lady to our cancell❜d love?

Nurfe. O, fhe fays nothing, Sir; but weeps and weeps;
And now falls on her bed, and then ftarts up;

And Tybalt cries, and then on Romeo calls,
And then down falls again.

Rom. As if that name,

Shot from the deadly level of a gun,

Did murder her, as that name's curfed hand
Murder'd her kinfman.- -Tell me, friar, tell me,
In what vile part of this anatomy

Doth my name lodge? tell me, that I may fack
The hateful manfion.

Fri. Hold thy defperate hand:

[Drawing his Sword.

Thy tears are womanifh, thy wild acts denote
Th' unreasonable fury of a beast.
Unfeemly woman in a seeming man!
And ill-befeeming beast in feeming both!
Thou haft amaz'd me. By my holy order,
I thought thy difpofition better temper'd.
Haft thou flain Tybalt? wilt thou lay thyself?
And flay thy lady, that in thy life lives,
By doing damned hate upon thyfelf?

Why rail'ft thou on thy birth, the heav'n, and earth,
Since birth, and heav'n, and earth, all three do meet
In thee at once, which thou at once wouldft lofe?
Fy, fy! thou fham'ft thy fhape, thy love, thy wit,
Which, like an usurer, abound'st in all,
And useft none in that true ufe indeed,

Which should bedeck thy fhape, thy love, thy wit.
Thy noble shape is but a form of wax,

Digreffing from the valour of a man ;
Thy dear love fworn, but hollow perjury,

Killing that love, which thou haft vow'd to cherifh.
Thy wit, that ornament to fhape and love,
Mif-fhapen in the conduct of them both,
Like powder in a fkill-lefs foldier's flafk,
Is fet on fire by thine own ignorance,

And thou difmember'd with thine own defence.
What, roufe thee, man, thy Juliet is alive,
For whofe dear fake thou waft but lately dead :
There art thou happy. Tybalt would kill thee,
But thou fiew'ft Tybalt; there thou'rt happy too.
"The law, that threatned death, became thy friend,
And turn'd it to exile; there art thou happy?
A pack of bleffings light upon thy back,
Happiness courts thee in her beft array,
But, like a misbehav'd and fullen wench,
Thou pout'ft upon thy fortune and thy love.
Take heed, take heed, for such die miferable.
Go, get thee to thy love, as was decreed,
Afcend her chamber, hence and comfort her:
But, look, thou ftay not 'till the watch be fet;
For then thou canst not pass to Mantua:
Where thou fhalt 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'ft forth in lamentation.
Go before, nurse; commend me to thy lady,
And bid her haften all the house to bed,
Which heavy forrow makes them apt unto.
Romeo is coming.

Nurfe. O Lord, I could have staid here all night long, To hear good counfel: oh, what learning is!

My Lord, I'll tell my Lady you will come.

prepare to chide

Rom. Do fo, and bid my fweet Nurfe. Here, Sir, a ring the bid me give you, Sir: Hie you, make hafte, for it grows very late. Rom. How well my comfort is reviv'd by this!

Fri. Sojourn in Mantua; I'll find out your man, And he fhall fignify from time to time

Every good hap to you, that chances here:
Give me thy hand, 'tis late, farewel, good-night.
Rom. But that a joy, paft joy, calls out on me,
It were a grief, fo brief to part with thee. [Exeunt.

Cap.

SCENE changes to Capulet's Houfe.

Enter Capulet, Lady Capulet, and Paris.

Hings have fallen out, Sir, fo unluckily,
That we have had no time to move our
daughter:

Look you, fhe lov'd her kinfman Tybalt dearly,
And fo did I.-Well, we were born to die.-
'Tis very late, fhe'll not come down to-night.
I promise you, but for your company,

I would have been a-bed an hour ago.

Par. Thefe times of woe afford no time to wooe : Madam, good night; commend me to your daughter. La. Cap. I will, and know her mind early to-morrow: To-night fhe's mew'd up to her heaviness.

Cap. Sir Paris, I will make a defperate tender
Of my child's love: I think, fhe 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 with my fon Paris' love,
And bid her, mark you me, on Wednesday next,
But, foft; what day is this?

Par. Monday, my Lord.

Cap. Monday? Ha! ha! well, Wednesday is too foon, On Thursday let it be: o' Thursday, tell her,

She fhall be married to this noble Earl. 1:
Will you be ready? do you like this hafte?
We'll keep no great a-do-a friend or two-
For, hark you, Tybalt being flain fo late,
It may be thought we held him carelefly,
Being our kinfman, if weirevel much:"

Therefore

Therefore we'll have fome half a dozen friends,
And there's an end. But what say you to Thursday?
Par. My Lord, I would that Thursday were to-morrow.
Cap. Well, get you gone-on Thursday be it then:
Go you to Juliet ere you go to bed, [To Lady Cap.
Prepare her, wife, against this wedding-day.
Farewel, my Lord- light to my chamber, hoa!

'Fore me, it is fo very late, that we

May call it early by and by. Good-night.

[Exeunt.

SCENE, Juliet's Chamber looking to the
Garden.

Enter Romeo and Juliet, above at a window; a ladder

of ropes fet.

ILT 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 the fings on yon pomgranate tree: Believe me, love, it was the nightingale.

Rom. It was the lark, the herald of the morn, No nightingale. Look, love, what envious ftreaks Do lace the fevering clouds in yonder east: Night's candles are burnt out, and jocund day Stands tiptoe on the mifty mountains' tops. I must be gone and live, or flay and die.

Jul. Yon light is not day-light, I know it well: It is fome meteor that the fun exhales, To be to thee this night a torch-bearer, And light thee on thy way to Mantua; Then itay a while, thou halt not go fo foon. Rom. Let me be ta'en, let me be put to death, I am content, if thou wilt have it fo. I'll fay, yon gray is not the morning's eye, 'Tis but the pale reflex of Cynthia's brow; Nor that is not the lark, whofe notes do beat The vaulty heav'ns fo high above our heads. I have more care to ftay, than will to go.

Come