Private Romeo Page #5

to our cancell'd love?

O, she says nothing.

And now falls on her

bed; and then starts up,

and then on Romeo cries, and

then down falls again.

As if that name did murder her!

What, rouse thee, man!

Man!

A pack of blessings

lights up upon thy back.

Happiness courts thee in her best array.

But, like a misbehaved and sullen wench,

thou pout'st upon thy fortune and thy love.

Take heed, take heed,

for such die miserable.

Go, get thee to thy love.

I'll tell my lady you will come.

Here, sir,

a ring she bid me give you.

Hie you, make haste, for

it grows very late.

How well my comfort is revived by this!

Go hence.

Farewell; good night.

But that a joy past joy calls out on me,

it were a grief, so brief

to part with thee.

Wilt thou be gone?

It is not yet near day.

It was the nightingale,

and not the lark,

that pierced the fearful

hollow of thine ear.

It was the lark, the herald of the morn,

no nightingale.

Look, love, what envious streaks

do lace the severing clouds in yonder east.

I must be gone and live, or stay and die.

Yon light is not day-light, I know it, I.

It is some meteor that the sun exhales,

to be to thee this night a torch-bearer.

Therefore stay yet.

Thou need'st not to be gone.

Let me be taken,

let me be put to death.

I am content, so thou wilt have it so.

I have more care to stay than will to go:

Come, death, and welcome!

Juliet wills it so.

Madam!

Then, window, let day in,

and let life out.

Farewell! One kiss, and I'll descend.

Art thou gone so? Love,

lord, ay, husband, friend!

O think'st thou we shall ever meet again?

I doubt it not.

And all these woes shall serve

for sweet discourses in our time to come.

O fortune, fortune!

All men call thee fickle.

Be fickle, fortune,

for then, I hope,

thou wilt not keep him long,

but send him back.

But now, my lord Capulet,

what say you to my suit?

But saying o'er what I have said before:

my child is yet a stranger in this world.

She hath not seen the change

of fourteen years.

Let two more summers wither in their pride,

ere we may think her ripe to be a bride.

Younger than she are happy mothers made.

And too soon marr'd

are those so early made.

The earth hath swallow'd

all my hopes but she,

She is the hopeful lady of my earth.

But woo her, get her heart.

My will to her consent is but a part;

and she agree.

Lady Capulet.

Nurse, where's my daughter?

Call her forth to me.

Are you up?

Who is't that calls?

Why, how now?

I am not well.

Evermore weeping for Tybalt's death?

What, wilt thou wash him

from his grave with tears?

And if thou couldst,

thou couldst not make him live.

Therefore, have done.

Some grief shows much

of love;

but much of grief shows

still some want of wit.

Yet let me weep for such a feeling loss.

So shall you feel the loss, but not

the friend which you weep for.

Feeling so the loss, cannot choose

but ever weep the friend/

But now

I'll tell thee joyful tidings.

And joy comes well in such a needy time.

What are they?

Well, well, thou hast

a careful father, child.

One who, to put thee from thy heaviness,

hath sorted out a sudden day of joy,

that thou expect'st not

nor I look'd not for.

In happy time, what day is that?

Early next Thursday morning,

the gallant, young and noble gentleman,

the County Paris, at Saint Peter's Church,

shall happily make thee

there a joyful bride.

Now, by Saint Peter's Church and Peter too,

he shall not make me there a joyful bride.

I pray you, tell my lord and father, madam,

I will not marry yet.

And, when I do, it shall be Romeo!

Here comes your father;

tell him so yourself,

and see how he will

take it at your hands.

How now, wife?

- Have you deliver'd to her our decree?

- Ay, sir; but she will none.

I would the fool were married to her grave!

Is she not proud?

Unworthy as she is, that we have wrought

so worthy a gentleman to be her bride?

Not proud, you have; but

thankful, that you have.

Proud can I never be of what I hate.

But thankful even for hate,

that is meant love.

How?

How now, how now, how?

Chop-logic! What is this?

'Proud,' and 'I thank you,'

and 'I thank you not;'

and yet 'not proud'.

Mistress minion, you,

thank me no thankings,

nor, proud me no prouds,

but fettle your fine joints 'gainst

Thursday next, to Saint Peter's Church,

or I will drag thee on a hurdle thither.

Good father, I beseech you on my knees,

hear me with patience but to speak a word.

Hang thee,

young baggage!

Disobedient wretch!

Speak not, reply not,

do not answer me.

My fingers itch.

O, sweet my mother, cast me not away!

Talk not to me, for I'll not speak a word.

Do as thou wilt, for I have done with thee!

What say'st thou?

Hast thou not a word of joy?

Some comfort, nurse.

Here it is.

Romeo is banish'd.

And all the world is nothing,

that he dares ne'er come back to you.

Or, if he do, it needs must be by stealth.

I think it best you married with Paris.

Speakest thou from thy heart?

And from my soul too!

- Amen!

- What?

Well,

thou hast comforted me marvellous much.

Go in:
and tell my lady I am gone,

having displeased my father

to make confession and to be absolved.

I will.

This is wisely done.

Ancient damnation! O most wicked fiend!

Sir, he is fine.

He was treated in the emergency room.

Yes. sir!

Yeah, but the doctor said...

Yes, I realized that, sir.

I take full responsibility, sir.

Of course.

Yes, sir!

Come weep with me.

Past hope, past cure, past help!

I already know thy grief.

I hear thou must,

and nothing may prorogue it,

on Thursday

next be married.

Tell me not, friar, that

thou hear'st of this,

unless thou tell me how I may prevent it.

If, in thy wisdom, thou canst give no help,

do thou but call my resolution wise,

and with this knife I'll help it presently.

Hold!

I do spy a kind of hope.

And, if thou darest, I'll give thee remedy.

O, bid me leap from off the

battlements of yonder tower,

and I will do it without fear or doubt.

Hold, then:

go home.

Take thou this vial,

and this distilled liquor drink thou off.

When presently through all thy veins

shall run a cold and drowsy humour.

The roses in thy lips and cheeks

shall fade to play ashes,

thy eyes' windows fall, like death,

when he shuts up the day of life.

And in this borrow'd

likeness of shrunk death

thou shalt continue.

And then awake as from a pleasant sleep.

In the mean time, shall Romeo come:

and he and I

will watch thy waking.

And this shall free thee

from this present shame.

Give me!

Go, hence.

Be strong and prosperous In this resolve.

Love give me strength!

Farewell.

What if this drink do not work at all?

What if it be a poison, which the friar

Subtly hath minister'd to have me dead?

I fear it is:

and yet, methinks, it should not,

for he hath still been tried a holy man

How if,

when I am laid into the tomb,

I wake before the time that Romeo comes?

There's a fearful point!

Shall I not, then, be stifled in the vault

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