Vile earth to earth, refign, end motion here,
And thou and Romeo prefs one heavy bier!
Nurfe. O Tybalt, Tybalt, the best friend I had :]
O courteous Tybalt, honeft gentleman,

That ever I should live to fee thee dead!

Jul. What form is this that blows so contrary?
Is Romeo flaughter'd? and is Tybalt dead?
My dear-lov'd coufin, and my dearer Lord?
Then let the trumpet found the general doom,
For who is living if thofe two are gone?

Nurfe. Tybalt is dead, and Romeo banished,
Romeo that kill'd him, he is banished.

Jul. O God! did Romeo's hand fhed Tybalt's blood?
Nurse. It did, it did, alas the day! it did.

Jul. O ferpent heart, hid with a flow'ring face,
Did ever dragon keep fo fair a cave?

Beautiful tyrant, fiend angelical!

Dove-feather'd raven, wolvifh-ravening lamb!
O nature! what hadft thou to do in hell,
When thou didst bower the spirit of a fiend
In mortal paradise of such sweet flesh?
Was ever book containing fuch vile matter
So fairly bound? O that deceit fhould dwell
In fuch a gorgeous palace!

Nurfe. There's no truft,

No faith, no honefty in men; all perjur'd;

All, all forfworn; all naught; and all diffemblers.

Ah, where's my man? give me fome Aqua vita.

These griefs, thefe woes, thefe forrows make me old :
Shame come to Romeo!

Jul. Blifter'd be thy tongue

For fuch a wish! he was not born to fhame,

Upon his brow fhame is afham'd to fit:

For 'tis a throne where honour may be crown'd
Sole monarch of the univerfal earth.

O what a beaft was I to chide him fo?

Nurfe. Will you fpeak 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 fmooth thy name, When I thy three-hours-wife have mangled it! VOL. IX.

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But

But wherefore, villain, didft thou kill my cousin piMA
That villain coufin would have kill'd my husband,"
Back, foolish tears, back to your native spring;'
Your tributary drops belong to woe, 26**
Which you mistaking offer up to joy.
My husband lives that Tybalt would have flain,

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And Tybalt's dead that would have kill'd my husband ef
All this is comfort; wherefore weep I then?
Some word there was worfer than Tybalt's death,
That murther'd me; would forget it fain,
But, oh! it preffes to my memory,
Like damned guilty deeds to finners minds;
Tybalt is dead, and Romeo banished!
That banished, that one word banished,
Hath flain ten thousand Tybalts: Tybalt's death
Was woe enough, if it had ended there:
Or if fow'r woe delights in fellowship,
And needly will be rank'd with other griefs,
Why follow'd not, when the faid Tybalt's dead,
Thy Father or thy Mother, nay, or both?
But with a rear-ward following Tybalt's death,
Romeo is banished-to fpeak that word,
Is father, mother, Tybalt, Romeo, Juliet,
All flain, all dead: Romeo is banished!
There is no end, no limit, meafure, bound,
In that word's death; no words can that woe found.
Where is my father, and my mother, nurse
Nurfe. Weeping and wailing over Tybalt's coarfe.
Will you go to them? I will bring you thither.
Jul. Wash they his wounds with tears? mine shall be spent,
When theirs are dry, for Romeo's banishment.
Nurf. Hie 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;

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I'll to him, he is hid at Lawrence' cell. Jul. O find him, give this ring to my true knight, And bid him come to take his last farewel. [Exeunt SCENE V The Monaftery. Enter Friar Lawrence and Romeo.

Fri. Romeo, come forth; come forth, thou fearful man

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Affliction is enamour'd of thy parts,

And thou art wedded to calamity. hipow

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 less than dooms-day is the Prince's doom?
Fri. A gentler judgment vanish'd from his lips,

Not body's death, but body's banishment."

Rom. Ha, banishment! be merciful, fay death j
For exile hath more terror in his look,
Than death it self. Do not fay banishment.
Fri. Hence from Verona art thou banished:
Be patient, for the world is broad and wide.
Rom. There is no world without Verona's walls,
But purgatory, torturing hell it felf.

Hence banished, is banish'd from the world;
And world-exil'd, is death. Then banishment
Is death mis-term'd; calling death banishment
Thou cut'ft my head off with a golden ax,
And fmil'ft upon the ftroak that murthers me.
Fri. O deadly fin! O rude unthankfulness!
Thy fault our law calls death, but the kind Prince
Taking thy part hath rush'd aside the law,
And turn'd that black word death to banishment.
This is meer mercy, and thou feeft it not.

Rom. 'Tis torture, and not mercy: heav'n is here
Where Juliet lives; and every cat and dog!
And little moufe, every unworthy thing
Lives here in heaven, and may look on her,
But Romeo may not. More validity,
More honourable state, more courtship lives
In carrion flies, than Romeo: they may feize
On the white wonder of dear Juliet's hand,
And freal immortal bleffings from her lips
But Romeo may not, he is banished.

O father, hadft thou no ftrong poison mixt,
No fharp-ground knife, no prefent means of death,
E 2

But

But banishment to torture me withal to *

O Friar, the damned

Howlings attend le that word in hell

haft thou the heart, on O shuix

TORU 2157 195 v But

Being a Divine, a ghoftly Confeffor,
A fin-abfolver, and my friend profeft,
To mangle me with that word banishment?
Fri. Fond mad-man, hear me fpeak.
Rom. O thou wilt fpeak again of banishment.
Fri. I'll give thee armour to bear off that word,
Adverfity's fweet milk, philofophy:
To comfort thee, tho' thou art banished.

Rom. Yet, banished? hang up philofophy:
Unless philofophy can make a Juliet,
Difplant a town, reverfe 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 fpeak of what thou doft not feel:
Wert thou as young as I, Juliet thy love,

An hour but married, Tybalt murthered,
Doting 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 bimfelf on the ground. Fri. Arife, one knocks; good Romeo, hide thy felf.

[Knock within Thou wilt be taken-ftay a while-ftand up ;. [Knock 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? Nurfe. [Within,] Let me come in, and you shall 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?

Fi. 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! even fo lyes the

Blubbering and weeping, weeping and blubbering.
Stand up, ftand up; ftand an you be a man:
For Juliet's fake, for her fake rife and stand:
Why fhould you fall into fo deep an

Rom. Oh 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 childhood of our joy

With blood remov'd but little from her own?

Where is the? and how does the? and what fays
My concealed Lady to our cancell❜d love?

Nurfe. O fhe fays nothing, Sir, but weeps and weeps,
And now falls on her bed, and then starts 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 murther her, as that name's curfed hand
Murther'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 :

Art thou a man? thy form cries out, thou art
Thy tears are womanifh, thy wild acts do note
Th' unreasonable fury of a beaft.

Thou haft amaz'd me: By my holy order,
I thought thy difpofition better temper'd.
Haft thou flain Tybalt? wilt thou flay thy felf
And flay thy Lady too, that lives in thee?
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 flew' Tybalt; there thou'rt happy too.

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