What, not a word! you take your pennyworths now;
Sleep for a week; for the next night, I warrant,
That you shall reft but little-God forgive me-
Marry and amen How found is she asleep?
I must needs wake her: Madam, madam, madam,
Ay, let the County take you in your bed-
He'll fright you up, i'faith. Will it not be?
What dreft, and in your clothes - and down again!
I muft 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!
Enter Lady Capulet.
La. Cap. What noife is here?
Nurfe. O lamentable day!
La. Cap. What is the matter?
Nurje. Look,-oh, heavy day!
La. Cap. Oh me, my child, my only life!
Revive, look up, or I will die with thee!
Help, help! call help.
Cap. For fhame bring Juliet forth, her lord is come. Nurfe. She's dead; fhe's dead: alack the day! Cap. Ha! let me fee her-Out alas, she's cold, Her blood is fettled, and her joints are stiff, Life and thefe lips have long been feparated: Death lies on her, like an untimely froit Upon the fweetelt flower of the field.
Accurfed time! unfortunate old-man!
Enter Friar Lawrence, and Paris with Muficians.
Fri. Come, is the bride ready to go to church?
Cap. Ready to go, but never to return.
O fon, the night before the wedding-day
Death has embrac'd thy wife: fee, there fhe lies,
Flower as fhe was, nipp'd in the bud by him!
Oh Juliet, oh my child, my child!
Par. Have I thought long to fee this morning's face, And doth it give me fuch a fight as this;
La. Cap. Accurft, anhappy, wretched, hateful day.
Cap. Moft miferable hour, that Time ere faw
In lailing labour of his pilgrimage.
But one, poor one, one poor and loving child,
But one thing to enjoy and folace in,
And cruel death hath catcht it from my fight.
Fri. Your daughter lives in peace and happinefs;
Heav'n and yourself had part in this fair maid,
Now, heav'n hath all-dry up your fruitless tears:
Come, ftick your rofemary on this fair
And, as the cuftom 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 inftruments, to melancholy bells;
Our wedding chear, to a fad burial feaft:
Our folemn hymns to fullen durges change;
And bridal flowers ferve for a burial coarse,
And all things change them to the contrary.
Fri. Sir, go you in, and, Madam, go with him;
And go, Sir Paris, every 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.
Enter the funeral proceffion of Juliet, in which the following Dirge is fung.
the fweeteft flow'r of May,
That blooming bleft our fight;
Thofe eyes which fhone like breaking day,
Are fet in endless night!
She's gone, he's gone, nor leaves behind
So fair a form, so pure a mind;
How could ft thou, Death, at once deftroy,
The Lover's hope, the Parent's joy?
TFI may truft the flattery of fleep,
I'My dreams prefage tome joyful news at hand:
My bofom's lord fits lightly on his throne,
And all this day, an unaccustom'd fpirit
Lifts me above the ground with chearful thoughts.
I dreamt, my lady came and found me dead,
And breath'd fuch life with kiffes on my lips,
That I reviv'd and was an Emperor.
Ah me! how fweet is love itself poffest,
When but love's fhadows are fo rich in joy?
Enter Balthafar.
News from Verona- How now, Balthafar?
Doit 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?
Bal. 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 carried to her kindred's vault,
And prefently took poft to tell it you:
O, pardon me for bringing thefe ili news.
Rom. Is it even fo? then I defy you, ftars-
Bal. My lord!
Rom. Thou know't my lodging, get me ink and paper,
And hire poft-horses. I will hence to-night.
Bal. Pardon me, Sir, I dare not leave you thus.
Your looks are pale and wild, and do import
Some mifadventure.
Rom. Go, thou art deceiv'd;
Leave me, and do the thing I bid thee do:
Hait thou no letters to me from the Friar?
Bal. No, good my lord.
Rom. No matter: Get thee gone,
And hire thofe horfes, I'll be with thee ftraight.
[Exit Balthafar.
Well, Juliet, I will lie with thee to-night;-
Let's fee for means-O mifchief! thou art swift
To enter in the thought of defperate men!
I do remember an Apothecary,
And hereabouts he dwells, who late I noted
In tatter'd weeds with overwhelming brows,.
Culling of fimples, meagre were his looks,
Sharp mifery had worn him to the bones:
And in his needy fhop a tortoise hung,
An alligator ftuft, and other skins
Of ill-fhap'd fishes; and about his shelves.
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 fhew.
Noting his penury, to myself I faid,
An' if a man did need a poison now,
Here lives a caitiff wretch would fell it him.
Oh this fame thought did but forerum, my need;
As I remember this fhould be the house.
Being holy-day the beggar's fhop is fhut.
What, ho! Apothecary!
Rom. Come hither, man; I see that thou art poor;
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