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Where bloody Tibalt, yet but green in earth,
Lies festring in his shroud; where, as they say,
At some hours in the night spirits resort
Oh! if I wake, shall I not be distraught,
Environed with all these hideous fears?
And madly play with my forefathers' joints ?
And pluck the mangled Tibalt from his shroud ?
And in this rage, with some great kinsman's bone,
As with a club, dash out my desp’rate brains ?
Oh, look! methinks I see my cousin's ghost,
Seeking out Romeo-Stay, Tibalt, stay!
Romeo, I come! this do I drink to thee.

[Drinks, and throws herself on the Bed.


A Hall,


Lady C. Hold, take these keys, and fetch more

spices, Nurse. Nurse. They call for dates and quinces in the pastry.

Cap. Come, stir, stir, stir; the second cock bath

The curfew bell hath rung, 'tis three o'clock :
Look to the bak'd meats, good Angelica,
Spare not for cost.

Nurse. Go, go, you cot-quean, go :

you to bed; faith you'll be sick to-morrow, For this night's watching.

[Exit. Cap. No, not a whit? what, I have watch'd ere


All night for a less cause, and ne'er been sick.
The County will be here with music straight,

[Music plays. For so he said he would.

I hear him near, Nurse, wife, what ho? what, Nurse, I say?

Enter NURSE.
Go waken Juliet, go, and trim her up.
I'll go and chat with Paris. Hie, make haste:
Make haste, I say.



JULIET's Chamber.

Enter NURSE.
Nurse. Mistress, what mistress ! Juliet -Fast,

I warrant her:
Why, lamb--why, lady,--Fie, you slug-a-bed
Why, love, I say,Madam, sweetheart--why, bride-
What, not a word !
What, dress'd, and in your clothes--and down again!
I must needs wake you : Lady, lady, lady,
Alas, alas ! help! help! my lady's dead !
O well-a-day, that ever I was born !
Ho! my lord, my lady !

Lady C. What noise is here?
Nurse. O lamentable day!
Lady C. What is the matter?
Nurse. Look, oh, heavy day!

Lady C. Oh me, my child, my only life!
Revive, look up, or I will die with thee !
Help, help! call help.


Cap. For shame, bring Juliet forth, her lord is


Nurse. She's dead: she's dead! alack the day!

Cap. Ha ! let me see her-Out, alas ! she's cold, Her blood is settled, and her joints are stiff ; Life and these lips have long been separated : Death lies on her, like an untimely frost Upon the sweetest flower of all the field. Accursed time! unfortunate old man !

Enter FRIAR LAWRENCE and Paris.
Fri. Come, is the bride ready to go to church?

Cap. Ready to go, but never to return.
O son, the night before thy wedding-day
Death has embrac'd thy wife. See, there she lies,
Flower as she was, nipp'd in the bud by him!
Oh, Juliet, oh, my child, my child !
Par. Have I thought long to see this morning's

And doth it give me such a sight as this?

Cap. Most miserable hour, that time ere saw
In lasting labour of his pilgrimage.
But one, poor one, one poor and loving child;
But one thing to enjoy and solace in,
And cruel death hath catch'd it from my sight.

Fri. Your daughter lives in peace and happiness ;
Heav'n and yourself had part in this fair maid,
Now, Heav'n hath all-dry up your fruitless tears :
Come, stick your rosemary on this fair corse ;
And, as the custom of our country is,
Convey her where her ancestors lie tomb’d.

Cap. All things, that we ordain'd to festival,
Turn from their office to black funeral:
Our instruments, to melancholy bells;

Our wedding cheer, to a sad burial feast:
Our solemn hymns, to sullen dirges change;
And bridal Gowers serve for a burial corse.

Fri. The Heav'ns do low'r upon you, for some ill; Move them no more, by crossing their high will.




The Inside of a Church.

Enter the Funeral Procession of Juliet, in which the

following Dirge is sung.

Rise, rise!

Heartbreaking sighs,
The woe-fraught bosom swell;

For sighs alone,

And dismal moan,
Should echo Juliet's knell.


She's gonethe sweetest flow'r of May,

That blooming bless'd our sight;
Those cyes, which shone like breaking day,
Are set in endless night!


Rise, rise! &c.



gone, nor leaves behind,
So fair a form, so pure a mind;
How could'st thou, Death, at once destroy,
The lover's hope, the parent's joy?

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Rom. If I may trust the flattery of sleep, My dreams presage some joyful news at hand: My bosom's lord sits lightly on his throne, And, all this day, an unaccustom'd spirit

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