to be impatient I find tediow waiting
Paris. Have I thought long to see this morning's face,
And doth it give me such a sight as this?

40

old, mecoming

Lady Capulet. Accurst, unhappy, wretched, hateful day!
Most miserable hour that e'er time saw
In lasting labour of his pilgrimage! long toil
But one, poor one, one poor and loving child,
But one thing to rejoice and solace in, be ha
And cruel death hath catch'd it from my sight!
Nurse. O woe! O woful, woful, woful day!
Most lamentable day, most woful day,
That ever, ever, I did yet behold!

O day! O day! O day! O hateful day!
Never was seen so black a day as this:

O woful day, O woful day!

Paris. Beguil'd, divorced, wronged, spited, slain !
Most detestable death, by thee beguil❜d,

By cruel cruel thee quite overthrown!

no idea

O love! O life! not life, but love in death!
Capulet. Despis'd, distressed, hated, martyr'd, kill'd!

discom Uncomfortable time, why cam'st thou now
To murther, murther our solemnity?-

O child! O child! my soul, and not my child!
Dead art thou! Alack! my child is dead;
And with my child my joys are buried.
Friar Laurence. Peace, ho, for shame!

lives not

In these confusions.

Heaven and yourself

happines

50

60

death confusion's cure

confindere cre- de no completeness. destro.

Had part in this fair maid; now heaven hath all,
And all the better is it for the maid:

Your part in her you could not keep from death,
But heaven keeps his part in eternal life.
The most you sought was her promotion,
For 't was your heaven she should be advanc'd;
And weep ye now, seeing she is advanc'd
Above the clouds, as high as heaven itself?

O, in this love, you love your child so ill,
That you run mad, seeing that she is well;
She's not well married that lives married long,
But she's best married that dies married young.

$10 wedding

Dry up your tears, and stick your rosemary bug it fir
On this fair corse, and, as the custom is,

In all her best array bear her to church;
For though fond nature bids us all lament,
Yet nature's tears are reason's merriment. philo
Capulet. All things that we ordained festival,
Turn from their office to black funerals feelive
Our instruments to melancholy bells,
Our wedding cheer to a sad burial feast,
Our solemn hymns to sullen dirges change,
Our bridal flowers serve for a buried corse,

And all things change them to the contrary.

at

used

hers are te ars of so mature for the, se die put knoww the stild has gone to a better would.

Friar Laurence. Sir, go you in, — and, madam, go with

him ;

And go, Sir Paris ;-every one prepare

To follow this fair corse unto her grave.

The heavens do lower upon you for some ill;

Move them no more by crossing their high will.

90

[Exeunt Capulet, Lady Capulet, Paris, and Friar.

I Musician. Faith, we may put up our pipes, and be gone.
Nurse. Honest good fellows, ah, put up, put up;

For, well you know, this is a pitiful case.

[Exit.

1 Musician. Ay, by my troth, the case may be amended.

Enter PETER.

Peter. Musicians, O, musicians, 'Heart's ease, Heart's ease:' .O, an you will have me live, play 'Heart's ease.'

I Musician. Why Heart's ease?'

Peter. O, musicians, because my heart itself plays 'My heart is full of woe:' O, play me some merry dump, to comfort me.

I Musician. Not a dump we; 't is no time to play now.
Peter. You will not, then?

I Musician. No.

Peter. I will then give it you soundly.

I Musician. What will you give us?

cax

Peter. No money, on my faith, but the gleek; I will give
you the minstrel.
give glick=2ch

I Musician. Then will I give you the serving-creature. 109
Peter. 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?

I Musician. An you re us and fa us, you note us.

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

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

'When griping grief the heart doth wound,
And doleful dumps the mind oppress,
Then music with her silver sound'-

120

why 'silver sound?' why 'music with her silver sound?'—
What say you, Simon Catling? ward

the

たい

I Musician. Marry, sir, because silver hath a sweet sound.
Peter. Pretty!-What say you, Hugh Rebeck?

2 Musician. I say silver sound,' because musicians sound
for silver.

Peter. Pretty too!-What say you, James Soundpost?
3 Musician. Faith, I know not what to say.

129

Peter. O, I cry you mercy; you are the singer: I will say
for you.
It is music with her silver sound,' because musi-

6

cians have no gold for sounding:

'Then music with her silver sound

With speedy help doth lend redress.'

1 Musician. What a pestilent knave is this same !

[Exit.

2 Musician. Hang him, Jack!-Come, we 'll in here; tarry

for the mourners, and stay dinner.

a

[Exeunt.

Mattim I sleep

a

as trie

Romeo. If I may trust the flattering truth of sleep,

My dreams presage some joyful news at hand.
My bosom's lord sits lightly in his throne;

And all this day an unaccustom'd spirit

Lifts me above the ground with cheerful thoughts.

I dreamt my lady came and found me dead

Strange dream, that gives a dead man leave to think!-
And breath'd such life with kisses in my lips,
That I reviv'd, and was an emperor.
Ah me! how sweet is love itself possess'd,
When but love's shadows are so rich in joy!

Enter BALTHASAR. nonounced

News from Verona!-How now, Balthasar!

Dost thou not bring me letters from the friar?

How doth my lady? Is my father well?

How fares my Juliet? that I ask again;
For nothing can be ill, if she be well.

Balthasar. Then she is well, and nothing can be ill;
Her body sleeps in Capel's monument,
And her immortal part with angels lives.
I saw her laid low in her kindred's vault,
And presently took post to tell it you.
O, pardon me for bringing these ill news,
Since you did leave it for my office, sir.

Romeo. Is it even so? then I defy you, stars!-
Thou know'st my lodging: get me ink and paper,
And hire post-horses; I will hence to-night.

Balthasar. I do beseech you, sir, have patience;
Your looks are pale and wild, and do import
Some misadventure.

Romeo.

20

Tush, thou art deceiv'd;

30

Leave me, and do the thing I bid thee do.
Hast thou no letters to me from the friar?
Balthasar. No, my good lord.

Romeo.

No matter get thee gone,

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

[Exit Balthasar.

Well, Juliet, I will lie with thee to-night.
Let's see for means.- -O mischief, thou art swift
To enter in the thoughts of desperate men!
I do remember an apothecary,

And hereabouts he dwells,-which late I noted
In tatter'd weeds, with overwhelming brows,

Culling of simples; meagre were his looks, 40s
Sharp misery had worn him to the bones:

E a