La. Cep. What's the matter?
Nurse. Look,

moh heavy day!
La. Cap. Oh me, oh me, my child, my only life!
Revive, look up, or I will die with thee;
Help, help! call help. :

Enter Capulet.
Cap. For shame, bring Juliet forth; her Lord is come.
Nurse. She's dead, deceas’d, 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 flow'r of all the field.
Accurfed time! unfortunate old man!

Nurse. O lamentable day!
La. Cap. O woeful time!

Cap. Death, that hath ta’en her hence to make me wail, Ties up my tongue, and will not let me speak.

Enter Friar Lawrence, and Paris with Musicians.
Fri. Come, is the bride ready to go to church?
Cap. Ready to go, but never to return.

fon, the night before thy wedding-day
Hath death lain with thy wife: fee, there she lies,
Flow'r as she was, deflowred now by him:
Death is my son-in-law.-

Par. Have I thought long to see this morning's face, And doth it give me such a sight as this !

La. Cap. Accurs’d, unhappy, wretched, hateful day!
Moft miserable hour, that time e'er faw
In lasting labour of his pilgrimage!
But one, poor one, one poor and loving child,
But one thing to rejoice and folace in,
And cruel death hath catch'd it from my fight.

Nurfe. O woe! oh woful, wofu!, woful day!
Moft lamentable day! most woful day!
That ever, ever, I did

yet behold.
Oh day! oh day! oh day! oh bateful day!

Never was seen so black a day as this:
Oh woful day, oh woful day!

Par. Beguil'd, divorced, wronged, spighted, flain,
Most detestable death, by thee beguild,
By cruel, cruel thee quite over-thrown :
O love, O life,--not life, but love in death!

Cap. Defpiss'd, distressed, hated, martyr'd, kill'd,
Uncomfortable time! why cam'it thou now
To murder, murder our solemnity!
O child! O child ! my soul, and not my child !
Dead art thou ! dead; alack! my child is dead;
And, with my child, my joys are buried.
Fri. Peace, ho, for shame! Confufion's cure lives

not (13)
In these confusions : Heaven and yourself
Had part in this fair maid ; now heav'n hath all ;
And all the better is it for the maid.
Your part in her you could not keep from death ;
But heav'n keeps his part in eternal life.
The most, you fought, was her promotion;
For 'twas your heaven, she should be advanc’d:
And weep you now, seeing Me is advanc'd,
Above the clouds, as high as heav'n himself?-

(13) Peace, bo, for name, confusions: Care lives not in these Confufions,] This Speech, though it contains good Christian Doctrine, though it is perfectly in Character for the Friar, and not the moit despicable for its Poetry, Mr. Pope has curtailed to little or ncibing, because it has not the Sanction of the first old Cory. By ihe same Rule, had he pursued it throughout, we might have lost some of the finest additional Strokes in the two parts of K. Henry IV. But there was another Reason, I suspect for curtailing: Ceriain Corruptions started, which should have required the indulging his Erivate Sense to make them intelligible, and this was an unreasonable Labour. As I have reformed the Pafiage above quoted, I dare warrant, I have reitored our Poet's Text; and a finc fentible Reproof it contains against immoderate Grief: for the Friar begins with telling them, that the Cure of those Confufions, into which the melancholy Accident had thrown 'em, did not live in the confus'd and inordinate Exclamations which they exprefled on that Account,

Oh,

Oh, in this love you love your child fo 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.
Dry up your tears, and stick your rosemary
On this fair coarse'; and, as the custom is,
And in her best array, bear her to church.
For tho’ fond nature bids us all lament, (14)
Yet nature's tears are reason's merriment.

Cap. All things, that we ordained festival,
Turn from their office to black funeral;
Our instruments to melancholy bells,
Our wedding chear to a fad funeral feast;
Our folemn hymns to sullen dirges change,
Our bridal flow'rs serve for a buried 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 coarse unto her grave.
The heav'ns do low'r upon you, for some ill ;
Move them no more, by crossing their high will.

[Ełceunt Capulet, Lady Capulet, Paris and Friar.

Manent Maficians, and Nurse. 17:1f. Faith, we may put up our pipes and be gone.

Nurfe. Honeft good fellows: ah, put up, put up; For, well you know, this is a pitiful cafe.

[Exit Nurse. Muf. Ay, by my troth, the case may be amended.

(14) For tho’some Nature bid 11s a!l lamert.] Some Nature ? Sure, it is the general Rule of Nature, or she could not bid us all lament. I have ventured io fubftitute an Epithet, which, I suspect, was loft in the idle, corrupted Word, 'Some; and which admirably quadrates with the Verfe fucceeding this; that though the fondness of nature lay fuch an injunction upon us, yet that Realon does but mock our , vuavailing lostow. .

Enter

Enter Peter.

Pet. Musicians, oh musicians, heart's ease, heart's ease: Oh, an you will have me live, why, play heart's ease.

Muf. Why, beart's ease?

Pet. O musicians, because my heart itfelf plays, my heart itself is full of woe. O, play me some merry dump, to comfort me!

Muf. Not a dump we, 'tis no time to play now.
Pet. You will not then?
Muf. No.
Pet. I will then give it you foundly.
Muf. What will you give us ?

Pet. No money, on my faith, but the gleek: I will give you the minstrel.

Muf. Then will I give you the serving creature.

Pet. 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?

Mus. An you re us, and fa us, you note us. 2 Muf. Pray you, put up your dagger, and put out

your wit.

Pet. 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, Then music with her silver sound Why, Alver found? why, mufick with her flver found? What say you, Simon Catling?

1 Muf. Marry, Sir, because silver hath a sweet found. Pet. Pretty! what say you, Hugh Rebeck ?

2 Muf. I say, silver found, because musicians found for silver.

Pet. Pretty too! what say you, Samuel Sound-Board? 3 Muf. 'Faith, I know not what to fay. Pet. O, I cry you mercy, you are the finger, I will you.

It is mufick with her silver found, because such fellows, as you, have no gold for founding.

The musick with her filver found
Dotb lend redress.

[Exit finging;

Muj

Jay for

Muf. What a peftilent knave is this same?

2 Muf. Hang him, Jack; come, we'll in here, tarry for the mourners, and stay dinner.

[Exeant.

ACT. V.
SCENE, in MANTU A.

Enter ROM E O.
F I may trust the fiattering truth of sleep,
My bosom’s Lord sits lightly on his throne,
And, all this day, an unaccustom'd spirit
Lifts me above the ground with chearful 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 poffeft,
When but love's shadows are so rich in joy ?

Enter Balthasar.
News from Verona: -How. now, Balthasar ?
Doft thou not bring me letters from the Friar?
How doth my Lady ? is my father well?
How doth my Juliet? That I aik again;
For nothing can be ill, if she be well.

Baltha. Then she is well, and nothing can be ill ;
Her body sleeps in Capulets' 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 all news,
Since you did leave it for my office, Sir.

Rom. Is it even so ? than I defy you, stars ! Thou know'st my lodging,--get me ink and paper, And hire poft-horses. I will hence to-night.

Baltha.