In these Confufions: Heaven and yourself
Had part in this fair Maid; now Heav'n hath all;
And all the better is it for the Maid.

Your part in her you could not keep from Death
But Heav'n keeps his part in eternal Life.
The moft, you fought, was her Promotion;
For 'twas your Heaven, the fhould be advanc'd ::
And weep you now, feeing she is advanc'd,
Above the Clouds, as high as Heav'n himself ?-
Oh, in this Love you love your Child fo ill,.
That you run mad, feeing, that fhe 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 Rofemary
On this fair Coarfe; and, as the Custom is,
And in her beft Array, bear her to Church.
(3) For tho' fond Nature bids us all lament,,
Yet Nature's Tears are Reafon's Merriment.
Cap. All Things, that we ordained festival,.
Turn from their Office to black Funeral";
Our Inftruments to melancholy Bells,
Our wedding Cheer to a fad Funeral Feast;
Our folemn Hymns to fullen Dirges change,
Our bridal Flow'rs ferve for a buried Coarfe;
And all things change them to the contrary.

Fri. Sir, go you in, and, Madam, go with him
And go, Sir Paris; ev'ry one prepare
To follow this fair Coarfe unto her Grave.
The Heav'ns do low'r upon you, for fome Ill;
Move them no more, by croffing their high Will.

[Exeunt Capulet, Lady Capulet, Paris, and Friar. ftian doctrine, though it is perfectly in character for the Friar, Mr. Pope has curtailed to little or nothing, because it has not the fanction of the first old copy. But there was another reafon: Certain corruptions started, which fhould have required the indulging his private fenfe to make them intelligible, and this was an unreafonable labour. As I have reformed the paffage above quoted, I dare warrant, I have reftored our poet's text; and a fine fenfible reproof it contains against immoderate grief.

THEOBALD..

(3) For the fome Nature bids us all lament,] Some Nature? Sure, it is the general rule of Nature, or the could not bid us all lament; I have ventured to fubftitute an epithet, which, I fufpect, was loft in the idle, corrupted word, fome: and which admirably quadrates with the verfe fucceeding this.

THEOBALD.

SCENE

SCENE VI.

Manent Muficians and Nurfe.

Muf. 'Faith, we may put up our pipes and be gone. Nurfe. Honeft good fellows, ah, put up, put up; For, well you know, this is a pitiful cafe. [Exit Nurfe. Muf. Ay, by my troth, the cafe may be amended. Enter Peter.

Pet. Muficians, oh musicians, heart's eale, heart's ease: 'Oh, an' you will have me live, why, play heart's ease. Muf. Why, heart's ease?

Pet. O musicians, because my heart itself plays, my beart itself is full of woe. (4) O, play me fome merry dump, to comfort me!

Muf. Not a dump we, 'tis no time to play now.
Pet. You will not then?

Muf. No.

Pet. I will then give it you foundly.

Muf. What will you give us?

Pet. No mony, on my faith, but the gleek. I will give you the Minstrel.

Muf. Then will I give you the Serving Creature. Pet. Then will I lay the Serving Creature's Dagger on your Pate. I will carry no Crotchets. I'll re you,

I'll fa you, do you note me?

Muf. An you re us, and fa us, you note us.

2 Muf. Pray you, put up your dagger, and put out your wit.

Pet. Then have at you with my wit: I will dry-beat you with an iron Wit, and put up my iron dagger: anfwer me like men:

When griping grief the heart doth wound,

Then mufick with her filver found

Why, filver found! why mufick with her filver found? What fay you, Simon Catling?

1 Muf. Marry, Sir, because filver hath a fweet found. Pet. Prateft! What fay you, Hugh Rebeck?

(4) 0, play me fome merry dump, to comfort me !] This is not in the folio, but the anfwer plainly requires it.

2 Muf. I fay filver found, because musicians found for filver.

Pet. Prateft too! What fay you, Samuel Sound-Board? 3 Muf. 'Faith, I know not what to say.

Pet. O, I cry you mercy, you are the finger, I will Jay for you. It is mufick with her filver found, because muficians have no gold for founding.

Then mufick with her filver found
With Speedy help doth lend redress.

[Exit finging.

Mul. What a peftilent knave is this fame?

2 Muf. Hang him. Jack, come, we'll in here, tarry for the mourners, and stay dinner.

[Exeunt.

(5) A C T V.

ས.

SCENE I.

MAN TUA.

Enter ROME O.

(6) I My dreams prefage fome joyful news at hand:

F I may truft the flattering Truth of fleep,

My

(5) The acts are here properly enough divided, nor did any better diftribution than the editors have already made, occur to me in the perufal of this play; yet it may not be improper to remark, that in the first folio, and I fuppofe the foregoing editions are in the fame ftate, there is no divifion of the acts, and therefore fome future editor may try, whether any improvement can be made, by reducing them to a length more equal, or interrupting the action at more proper intervals.

(6) If I may trust the flattering TRUTH of fleep,] This man was of an odd compofition to be able to make it a queftion, whether he fhould believe what he confeffed to be true. Tho' if he thought Truth capable of Flattery, he might indeed fuppofe her to be turn'd apoftate. But none of this nonfenfe came from Shakespeare. He wrote,

If I may truft the flattering RUTH of fleep,

i. e. Pity. The compaffionate advertisement of fleep. This was a reafonable queftion; and the epithet given to Ruth fuits its nature. But, above all, the character which the poet always gives

us

19) My bofom's Lord fits lightly on his throne,
And, all this day, an unaccuftom'd fpirit
Lifts me above the ground with chearful thoughts.
I dreamt, my lady came, and found me dead,
Strange dream! that gives a dead man leave to think,
And breath'd fuch life with kiffes in my lips,
That I reviv'd, and was an Emperor.
Ah me! how sweet is-love itself poffeft,
When but love's fhadows are so rich in joy?

Enter Balthafar.

News from Verona- -How now, Balthafar?
Doft thou not bring me letters from the Friar?
How doth my lady? Is my father well?
How doth my Juliet? That I ask again;
For nothing can be ill, if the be well.

Balth. Then fhe is well, and nothing can be ill;
Her body fleeps in Capulet's monument,
And her immortal part with angels lives.
I faw her laid low in her kindred's vault,
And presently took poft to tell it you.
O, pardon me for bringing thefe ill news,
Since you did leave it for my Office, Sir.

Rom. Is it even fo? then I defy you, Stars!

95

us of Sleep is here well defcribed in this reading; that it is pitiful, compaffionate, the

Balm of burt minds, great Nature's fecond course,

Chief nourisher of life's feaft.

But because I had corrected it,

-the flattering Ruth of fleep,

the Oxford Editor would be even with me, and reads it, -the flattery of fleep;

And he has done it. For though a reasonable man might make it a question, whether he fhould believe a compaffionate advertisement, yet who would hesitate whether he should believe a flatterer ? WARBURTON.

This feems to be a favourite correction, but it is not neceffary. The fenfe is, If I may only truft the honefty of fleep, which I know however not to be fo nice as not often to practice flattery.

(9) My bofom's Lord-] Thefe three lines are very gay and pleafing. But why does Shakespeare give Romeo this involuntary cheerfulness just before the extremity of unhappiness? Perhaps to fhew the vanity of trusting to thofe uncertain and cafual exaltations or depreffions, which many confider as certain foretokens of good and evil.

Thou

Thou know'ft my lodging,-get me ink and paper,
And hire poft-horfes. I will hence to-night.

Balth. Pardon me, Sir, I dare not leave you thus.
Your looks are pale and wild, and do import
Some mifadventure.

Rom. Tufh, thou art deceiv'd $

Leave me, and do the thing I bid thee do.
Haft thou no letters to me from the Friar?
Balth. No, my good Lord.

Rom. No matter.

Get thee

gone,

And hire those horses; I'll be with thee straight.

[Exit Balthafar.
Well, Juliet, I will lie with thee to-night;
Let's fee for means-
O mischief! thou art swift
To enter in the thought of defperate men!
I do remember an Apothecary,

And hereabouts he dwells, whom late I noted
In tatter'd weeds, with overwhelming brows,
Culling of fimples; meager were his looks;
Sharp mifery had worn him to the bones;
And in his needy fhop a tortoife hung,
An alligator ftuft, and other skins
Of ill-fhap'd fishes; and about his shelves
(1) A beggarly account of empty boxes;
Green earthen pots, bladders, and mufty feeds,
Remnants of packthread, and old cakes of rofes
Were thinly scatter'd to make up a show.
Noting this penury, to myself, I faid,
And if a man did need a poifon now,
Whofe fale is prefent death in Mantua,

Here lives a caitiff wretch would fell it him.

(1) A BEGGARLY account of empty boxes ;] Though the boxes were empty, yet their titles, or the accounts of their contents, if like thofe in the shops of other apothecaries, we may be fure, were magnificent enough. I fufpect therefore that Shakespeare wrote, ABRAGGARTLY account of empty boxes;

Which is fomewhat confirmed by the reading of the old Quarto of 1597:

whofe needy fhop is stuft

With beggarly accounts of empty boxes ;

Not but account may fignify number as well as contents; if the first, the common reading is right.

WARBURTON.

Beggarly is probably right; if the boxes were empty, the account was more beggarly; as it was more pompous.

Oh,