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Page. I am almost afraid to stand alone
Here in the church-yard; yet I will adventure.
Par. Sweet flower, with flowers thy bridal bed I strew.
Fair Juliet, that with angels dost remain,
Accept this latest favor at my hands;
That living honor'd thee; and, being dead,
With funeral praises do adorn thy tomb!
The boy gives warning, something doth approach.
What cursed foot wanders this way to-night,
To cross my obsequies, and true love's rites?
What, with a torch !-muffle me, night, a while.
Enter ROMEO, and Balthasar, with a torch, mattock, &c.
Rom. Give me that mattock, and the wrenching iron
Hold, take this letter; early in the morning
See thou deliver it to my lord and father.
Give me the light: Upon thy life I charge thee,
Whate'er thou hear'st or seest, stand all aloof,
And do not interrupt me in my course.
Why I descend into this bed of death,
Is, partly, to behold my lady's face:
But, chiefly, to take thence from her dead finger
A precious ring; a ring, that I must use
In dear employment: therefore hence, be gone :-
But if thou, jealous, dost return to pry
In what I further shall intend to do,
By heaven, I will tear thee joint by joint,
And strew this hungry church-yard with thy limbs:
The time and my intents are savage-wild;
More fierce, and more inexorable far,
Than empty tigers, or the roaring sea.
Bal. I will be gone, sir, and not trouble you.
Rom. Thou detestable maw,
Gorg'd with the dearest morsel of the earth,
Thus I enforce thy rotten jaws to open,
Rom. So shalt thou show me friendship. Take thou that Live, and be prosperous; and farewell, good fellow.
Bal. For all this same, I'll hide me hereabout; His looks I fear, and his intents I doubt.
And, in despite, I'll cram thee with more food!
[Breaking open the door of the monument
Par. Stop thy unhallow'd toil, vile Montague;
Can vengeance be pursu'd further than death?
Condemned villain, I do apprehend thee;
Obey, and go with me, for thou must die.
Rom. I must, indeed; and therefore came I hither.-
Good gentle youth, tempt not a desperate man,
Fly hence and leave me;-think upon these gone;
Let them affright thee :—I beseech thee, youth,
Heap not another sin upon my head,
By urging me to fury:-O, be gone!
By heaven, I love thee better than myself;
For I come hither arm'd against myself:
Stay not, be gone ;--live, and hereafter say—
A madman's mercy bade thee run away.
Par. I do defy thy conjurations,
And do attach thee as a felon here.
Rom. Wilt thou provoke me? then have at thee, boy.
Par. O, I am slain!-[Falls.]—If thou be merciful,
Open the tomb, lay me with Juliet.
Rom. In faith, I will:-Let me peruse this face ;-
Mercutio's kinsman, noble County Paris.-
One writ with me in sour misfortune's book!
I'll bury thee in a triumphant grave,—
For here lies Juliet.-O, my love! my wife!
Death, that hath suck'd the honey of thy breath,
Hath had no power yet upon thy beauty:
Thou art not conquer'd; beauty's ensign yet
Is crimson in thy lips, and in thy cheeks,
And death's pale flag is not advanced there-
Ah, dear Juliet, why art thou yet so fair?
Here, here will I remain: O, here
Will I set up my everlasting rest;
And shake the yoke of inauspicious stars
From this world-wearied flesh.
Come, bitter conduct, come, unsavory guide!
Thou desperate pilot, now at once run on
The dashing rocks thy sea-sick weary bark!
Here's to my love !-[Drinks.]-O, true apothecary!
Thy drugs are quick. Thus with a kiss I die.
Fri. Saint Francis be my speed! how oft to-night Have my old feet stumbled at graves ?-Who's there? Who is it that consorts, so late, the dead?
Enter, at the other end of the church-yard, Friar Laurence, with a lantern, crow, and spade.
Bal. Here's one, a friend, and one that knows
Fri. Bliss be upon you! Tell me, good my friend,
What torch is yond, that vainly lends his light
To grubs and eyeless skulls; as I discern,
It burneth in the Capel's monument.
Bal. It doth so, holy sir; and there's my master,
One that you love.
Who is it?
Fri. How long hath he been there?
Fri. Go with me to the vault.
I dare not, sir:
My master knows not, but I am gone hence;
And fearfully did menace me with death,
If I did stay to look on his intents.
Fri. Stay then, I'll go alone :-Fear comes upon me;
O, much I fear some ill unlucky thing.
Bal. As I did sleep under this yew-tree here,
I dreamt my master and another fought,
And that my master slew him.
Alack, alack, what blood is this, which stains
The stony entrance of this sepulchre ?—
What mean these masterless and gory swords
To lie discolor❜d by this place of peace?
Romeo! O, pale!-Who else? what, Paris too?
And steep'd in blood ?--Ah, what an unkind hour
Is guilty of this lamentable chance!-
The lady stirs.
Jul. O, comfortable friar! where is my lord?
I do remember well where I should be,
And there I am: Where is my Romeo?
Fri. I hear some noise.-Lady, come from that nest
Of death, contagion, and unnatural sleep;
A greater Power than we can contradict
Hath thwarted our intents; come, come away:
Thy husband in thy bosom there lies dead;
And Paris too; come, I'll dispose of thee
Among a sisterhood of holy nuns ;
Stay not to question, for the watch is coming;
Come, go, good Juliet.—[Noise again.] I dare stay no longer.
Jul. Go, get thee hence, for I will not away.-
What's here? a cup, clos'd in my true love's hand?
Poison, I see, hath been his timeless end :-
O churl! drink all; and leave no friendly drop,
To help me after ?—I will kiss thy lips;
Haply, some poison yet doth hang on them,
To make me die with a restorative.
Thy lips are warm!
1st Watch. [Within.] Lead, boy:-
Jul. Yea, noise ?-then I'll be brief.-O happy dagger!
[Snatching ROMEO's dagger. This is thy sheath; [Stabs herself.] there rust, and let me die. [Falls on ROMEO's body, and dies.
This Play is justly placed among the most perfect of Shakspeare's compositions. The master-piece of character, as exhibited in Shylock the Jew, would alone entitle it to this classification.
The double plot of this Drama was borrowed by Shakspeare from traditionary stories current in his time. The Jews at that period were a despised and persecuted race; the Poet has lent himself to the prejudices entertained by Christians against Jews, and yet he has made Shylock appear as the champion and avenger of an oppressed people, rather than the sordid contemptible character, then thought to be the distinctive qualification of “God's ancient people." dddd
DUKE OF VENICE.
PRINCE OF MOROCCO,suitors to Portia.
ANTONIO, the Merchant of Venice.
BASSANIO, his friend.
SALANIO, SALARINO, GRATIANO, friends to Antonio and Bassanio.
LORENZO, in love with Jessica.
SHYLOCK, a Jew.
TUBAL, a Jew, his friend.
LAUNCELOT GOBBO, a clown, servant to Shylock
Old GOBBO, father to Launcelot.
SALERIO, a messenger from Venice.
LEONARDO, servant to Bassanio.
BALTHAZAR, STEPHANO, servants to Portia.
PORTIA, a rich heiress.
NERISSA, her waiting-maid.
JESSICA, daughter to Shylock.
Magnificoes of Venice, Officers of the Court of Justice, Gaoler, Servants, and other Attendants.
SCENE,-partly at VENICE, and partly at BELMONT, the Seat of PORtia, on the Continent.
Ant. In sooth, I know not why I am so sad;
It wearies me; you say, it wearies you;
But how I caught it, found it, or came by it,
What stuff 'tis made of, whereof it is born,
I am to learn;
And such a want-wit sadness makes of me,
That I have much ado to know myself.
Salar. Your mind is tossing on the ocean;
There, where your argosies with portly sail,-
Like signiors and rich burghers of the flood,
Or, as it were, the pageants of the sea,—
Do overpeer the petty traffickers,
That curt'sy to them, do them reverence,
As they fly by them with their woven wings.
Salan. Believe me, sir, had I such venture forth,
The better part of my affections would
Be with my hopes abroad. I should be still
Plucking the grass, to know where sits the wind;
Peering in maps, for ports, and piers, and roads;
And every object, that might make me fear
Misfortune to my ventures, out of doubt,
Would make me sad.
My wind, cooling my broth,
Would blow me to an ague, when I thought
What harm a wind too great might do at sea.
I should not see the sandy hour-glass run,
But I should think of shallows and of flats;
And see my wealthy Andrew dock'd in sand,
Vailing her high-top lower than her ribs,
To kiss her burial. Should I go to church,
And see the holy edifice of stone,
And not bethink me straight of dangerous rocks?
Which touching but my gentle vessel's side,
Would scatter all her spices on the stream;
Enrobe the roaring waters with my silks;
And, in a word, but even now worth this,
And now worth nothing? Shall I have the thought
To think on this; and shall I lack the thought,
That such a thing, bechanc'd, would make me sad?
But tell not me; I know Antonio
Is sad to think upon his merchandise.
Ant. Believe me, no: I thank my fortune for it,
My ventures are not in one bottom trusted,