Unless philofophy can make a Juliet, Rom. Thou canst not speak of what thou doft not feel: Then might'ft thou fpeak, then might'ft thou tear thy hair, [Throwing himself on the ground. Fri. Arife, one knocks; good Romeo, hide thyself. [Knocking within. Rom. Not I, unless the breath of heart-fick groans, Mift-like, infold me from the fearch of eyes. [Knock. Fri. Hark, how they knock!-(who's there?)-Romeo, arife. Thou wilt be taken—(stay a while)—ftand up; [Knocks. Run to my ftudy-(By and by)-God's will! What wilfulness is this?. -I come, I come. [Knock. Who knocks fo hard? whence come you; what's your will? Nurfe. [Within.] Let me come in, and you shall know my errand : I come from lady Juliet. Fri. Welcome then. Enter Nurse. Nurfe. O holy Friar, oh, tell me, holy Friar, Where is my lady's Lord? where's Romeo? Fri. There, on the ground, with his own tears made drunk. Nurfe. O he is even in my miftrefs' cafe, Juft in her cafe, O woful fympathy! Piteous predicament! ev'n fo lies the, Blubb'ring and weeping, weeping and blubbering. Stand up, and up;Stand, an' you be a man: For For Juliet's fake, for her fake, rife and ftand. Nurfe. Ah Sir! ah Sir!-Death is the end of all. Nurfe. O, fhe fays nothing, Sir; but weeps and weeps; And now falls on her bed, and then starts up; And Tybalt cries, and then on Romeo calls, Rom. As if that name, Shot from the deadly level of a gun, Did murder her, as that name's curfed hand Doth my name lodge? tell me, that I may fack Fri. Hold thy desperate hand: [Drawing his Sword. Thy tears are womanifh, thy wild acts denote By doing damned hate upon thyfelf? Why rail'ft thou on thy birth, the heav'n, and earth, And useft none in that true use indeed, Which should bedeck thy fhape, thy love, thy wit. Thy noble shape is but a form of wax, Digreffing from the valour of a man ; Thy dear love fworn, but hollow perjury, Killing that love, which thou haft vow'd to cherish. And thou difmember'd with thine own defence. Nurfe. O Lord, I could have ftaid here all night long, To hear good counfel: oh, what learning is! My Lord, I'll tell my Lady you will come. Rom. Do fo, and bid my fweet prepare to chide Nurfe. Here, Sir, a ring the bid me give you, Sir: Hie you, make hafte, for it grows very late. Rom. How well my comfort is reviv'd by this! Fri. Sojourn in Mantua; I'll find out your man, And he fhall fignify from time to time Every good hap to you, that chances here: Give me thy hand, 'tis late, farewel, good-night. Rom. But that a joy, past joy, calls out on me, It were a grief, fo brief to part with thee. [Exeunt. Cap. SCENE changes to Capulet's House. Enter Capulet, Lady Capulet, and Paris. Hings have fallen out, Sir, fo unluckily, Look you, fhe lov'd her kinfman Tybalt dearly, I would have been a-bed an hour ago. Par. These times of woe afford no time to wooe: Madam, good night; commend me to your daughter. La. Cap. I will, and know her mind early to-morrow: To-night fhe's mew'd up to her heaviness. Cap. Sir Paris, I will make a defperate tender Par. Monday, my Lord. Cap. Monday? Ha! ha! well, Wednesday is too foon, On Thursday let it be: o' Thursday, tell her, Therefore Therefore we'll have fome half a dozen friends, 'Fore me, it is fo very late, that we May call it early by and by. Good-night. [Exeunt. SCENE, Juliet's Chamber looking to the Enter Romeo and Juliet, above at a window; a ladder of ropes fet. ILT thou be gone? it is not yet near day: It was the nightingale, and not the lark, That pierc'd the fearful hollow of thine ear; Nightly the fings on yon pomgranate tree: Believe me, love, it was the nightingale. Rom. It was the lark, the herald of the morn, No nightingale. Look, love, what envious ftreaks Do lace the fevering clouds in yonder eaft: Night's candles are burnt out, and jocund day Stands tiptoe on the mifty mountains' tops. I must be gone and live, or flay and die. Jul. Yon light is not day-light, I know it well: It is fome meteor that the fun exhales, To be to thee this night a torch-bearer, And light thee on thy way to Mantua; Then stay a while, thou shalt not go fo foon. Rom. Let me be ta'en, let me be put to death, I am content, if thou wilt have it fo. I'll fay, yon gray is not the morning's eye, 'Tis but the pale reflex of Cynthia's brows Nor that is not the lark, whose notes do beat The vaulty heav'ns fo high above our heads. I have more care to stay, than will to go. Come |