Romeo and Juliet Page #6

Now, nurse, what news? What news?

Why dost thou wring thy hands?

He's dead, he's dead, he's dead.

We are undone, lady, we are undone.

Tybalt is dead and Romeo banished.

Romeo that killed him, he is banished.

O God, did Romeo's hand

shed Tybalt's blood?

It did, it did. Alas the day. It did.

O serpent heart, hid with a flowering face.

Beautiful tyrant.

Fiend angelical.

Just opposite to what thou justly seem'st.

A damned saint, an honorable villain!

There's no trust, no faith,

no honesty in men.

Shame come to Romeo.

Blistered be thy tongue for such a wish.

He was not born to shame.

Oh, and what a beast was I

to chide at him.

Will you speak well of him

that killed your cousin?

Shall I speak ill of him

that is my husband?

Ah, poor my lord,

what tongue shall smooth thy name

when I, thy three hours wife,

have mangled it?

My husband lives,

that Tybalt would have slain.

And Tybalt's dead,

that would have slain my husband.

All this is comfort. Wherefore weep I then?

Tybalt is dead and Romeo banished.

That "banished,"

that one word "banished"

hath slain ten thousand Tybalts!

"Romeo is banished!"

Oh, to speak that word is father, mother,

Tybalt, Romeo, Juliet,

all slain, all dead.

I'll find Romeo to comfort you.

I wot well where he is. Hark ye,

your Romeo will be here at night.

He's hid in Laurence's cell.

Oh, find him.

Give this ring to my true knight

and bid him come to take his last farewell.

Whence come you? What's your will?

I come from Lady Juliet.

Welcome, then.

Nurse.

Spakest thou of Juliet? How is it with her?

Oh, she says nothing, sir,

but weeps and weeps.

And now falls on her bed.

And then starts up and Tybalt calls,

and then on Romeo cries.

As if that name, shot from the deadly level

of a gun, did murder her.

As that name's cursed hand

murdered her kinsman.

Oh, tell me, Friar.

Tell me, in what vile part of this anatomy

doth my name lodge?

Tell me, that I may sack

the hateful mansion.

Hold thy desperate hand. Art thou a man?

Thy wild acts denote

the unreasonable fury of a beast.

Hast thou slain Tybalt?

Wilt thou slay thyself?

And slay thy lady that in thy life lives,

by doing damned hate upon thyself?

Rouse thee, man.

Thy Juliet is alive.

Go, get thee to thy love, as was decreed,

ascend her chamber,

hence and comfort her.

But look thou stay not

till the watch be set,

for then thou canst not pass to Mantua.

There thou shalt live till we can find

a time to blaze your marriage,

reconcile your friends, beg pardon

of the Prince, and call thee back

with twenty hundred thousand times more

joy than thou went'st forth in lamentation.

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.

Nightly she sings

on yon pomegranate tree.

And believe me, love,

it was the nightingale.

It was the lark, the herald of the morn,

no nightingale.

Look.

Look.

What envious streaks do lace

the severing clouds in yonder east.

Night's candles are burned out,

and jocund day stands tiptoe

on the misty mountain tops.

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

Yon light is not daylight, I know it, I.

It is some meteor that the sun exhales

to be to thee this night a torchbearer,

and light thee on thy way to Mantua.

Therefore stay yet,

thou need'st not to be gone.

I am content, so thou wilt have it so.

I'll say yon gray is not the morning's eye.

Nor that is not the lark,

whose notes do beat the vaulty heaven

so high above our heads.

I have more care to stay than will to go.

Come, death, and welcome.

How is it, my soul?

Let's talk, it is not day.

It is, it is.

Hie hence, be gone, away.

It is the lark that sings so out of tune.

Oh, now be gone.

More light and light it grows.

Nurse.

Your lady mother is coming

to your chamber.

Day is broke. Be wary, look about.

Then, window, let day in,

and let life out.

Farewell.

Farewell.

Art thou gone so?

My lord, my love, my friend.

Oh, 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 God.

I have an ill-divining soul.

Methinks I see thee, now thou art below,

as one dead in the bottom of a tomb.

Dry sorrow drinks our blood.

Adieu.

Adieu.

Why, how now, Juliet?

Evermore weeping

for your cousin'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.

But now

I'll tell thee joyful tidings, girl.

And joy comes well in such a needy time.

What are they, I beseech your ladyship?

My child, early tomorrow morn

the gallant, young and noble gentleman,

the County Paris, at St. Peter's church,

shall happily make thee there

a joyful bride.

No!

By St. Peter's Church and Peter, too,

he shall not make me there a joyful bride!

I wonder at this haste. That I must wed

ere he that should be husband

comes to woo.

I pray you, tell my lord and father,

madam, I will not marry yet.

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,

she gives you thanks.

Is she not proud?

Doth she not count her blessed,

unworthy as she is,

that we have wrought so worthy

a gentleman to be her bridegroom?

Proud can I never be of what I hate.

Proud me no prouds,

but go with Paris to St. 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!

I tell thee what, get thee to church,

or never after look me in the face.

Speak not, reply not, do not answer me.

God in heaven, bless her.

You are to blame, my lord, to rate her so.

Peace, you mumbling fool.

Utter your gravity o'er a gossip's bowl.

- For here we need it not.

- You are too hot!

God's bread! It makes me mad

to have a wretched puling fool

to answer, "I'll not wed. I cannot love.

I am too young. I pray you, pardon me."

Look to it, think on it.

I do not use to jest.

If you be mine, I'll give you to my friend.

If you be not, hang, beg,

starve, die in the street.

For, by my soul,

I'll ne'er acknowledge thee.

Is there no pity sitting in the clouds

that sees into the bottom of my grief?

Sweet my mother, cast me not away.

Delay this marriage for a month, a week.

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

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

O God!

O nurse.

How shall this be prevented?

What say'st thou?

Hast thou not a word of joy?

Some comfort, nurse.

Faith.

Faith, here it is.

Romeo is banished.

And all the world to nothing that he dares

ne'er come back to challenge you.

I think it best

you married with the county.

Oh, he's a lovely gentleman.

Romeo is a dish-clout to him.

Beshrew my very heart,

I think you are happy

in this second match,

for it excels your first.

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