Romeo and Juliet Page #5

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nightingale, and

not the lark, That

pierced the fearful

hollow of thine ear;

Nightly she sings on

yon pomegranate-tree:

Believe me, love, it

was the nightingale.

It was the lark,

the herald of the morn,

Night's candles are

burnt 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

day-light, I know it,

I:
Therefore stay

yet; thou need'st not

to be gone.

Let me stay here, let

me be ta'en and die;

I am content, so thou

wilt have it so.

I'll say yon grey is

not the morning's

eye, 'Tis but the

pale reflex of

Cynthia's brow; 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!

Juliet wills it so.

How is't, 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,

Straining harsh

discords and

unpleasing sharps.

O, now be gone;

more light and

light it grows.

More light and

light, more dark

and dark it grows

Madam!

Nurse?

The day is broke;

be wary, look about.

Then, window,

let day in,

and let life out.

Farewell, farewell!

one kiss, and

I'll descend.

I must hear from

thee every day in the

hour, For in a minute

there are many days:

I will omit

no opportunity

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 God, I have an

ill-divining soul!

thou look'st pale.'

And trust me,

love, in my eye so

do you:
Dry sorrow

drinks our blood.

Adieu, adieu!

It is late, my lord.

Things have

fall'n out, sir, so

unluckily, That we

have had no time to

move our daughter:

Look you, she loved

her kinsman Tybalt

dearly, And so did

I:
--Well, we were

born to die.

These times of woe

afford no time to woo

But, soft!

what day is this?

Monday, my lord,

Monday!

Well, Wednesday is

too soon, O' Thursday

let it be:
o'

Thursday, tell her,

She shall be married

to this noble earl.

Will you be ready?

do you like this haste?

We'll keep no great

ado,--a friend or

two; For, hark you,

Tybalt being slain so

late, It may be

thought we held him

carelessly, Being our

kinsman, if we revel

much:
Therefore we'll

have some half a

dozen friends,

And there an end.

But what say

you to Thursday?

My lord, I would

that Thursday

were to-morrow.

Senior Paris.

I think she will be

ruled In all respects

by me; nay, more,

I doubt it not.

Why, how now, Juliet!

Madam, I am not well.

Evermore weeping for

your cousin's death?

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.

Well, girl, thou

weep'st not so much

for his death, As

that the villain

lives which

slaughter'd him.

What villain madam?

That same villain, Romeo.

God Pardon him!

I do, with all my

heart; And yet no

man like he doth

grieve my heart.

O, how my heart

abhors To hear him

named, and cannot

come to him.

To wreak the love

I bore my cousin,

Tybolt, Upon his body

that slaughter'd him!

We will have

vengeance for it,

fear thou not:

Then weep no more.

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?

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.

Madam, in happy time,

what day is that?

Marry, my child,

early next Thursday

morn, The gallant,

rich and noble

gentleman, The County

Paris, at Saint

Peter's Church, Shall

happily make thee

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; and, when

I do, I swear, It

shall be Romeo, whom

you know I hate,

Rather than Paris.

Tell him so yourself,

And see how he will

take it at your hands.

Do as you will.

For it have done well.

How now, wife!

Have you not told

her our decree?

Ay, sir; but she

will none, she gives

you thanks.

I would the fool were

married to her grave.

Soft! take me with you,

take me with you, wife.

How! will she none?

doth she not

give us thanks?

Is she not proud?

doth she not count

her blest, Unworthy

as she is, that we

have wrought So

worthy a gentleman to

be her bridegroom?

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 now, how

now, 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 go

with Paris to Saint

Peter's Church, Or I

will drag thee on

a hurdle thither.

You tallow-face

Fie, fie!

what, are you mad?

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 o'

Thursday, Or never

after look me in the

face:
Speak not,

reply not, do not

answer me; My

fingers itch.

Wife, we scarce

thought us blest That

God had lent us but

this only child; But

now I see this one

is one too much, And

that we have a curse

in having her:

Out on her, hilding!

God in heaven

bless her!

You are to blame, my

lord, to rate her so.

And why, my

lady wisdom?

hold your tongue,

Good prudence;

smatter with your

gossips, go.

I speak no treason.

O, God ye god-den.

May not one speak?

You are too hot

God's bread!

it makes me mad:
Day,

night, late, early,

at home, abroud.

Alone, in company,

waking and sleeping.

still my care hath

been To have her

match'd:
and having

now provided A

gentleman of princely

parentage, Of fair

demesnes, rich,

and nobly train'd,

Stuff'd, as they

say, with honourable

parts, Proportion'd

as one's thought

would wish a man;

And then to have a

wretched puling fool,

A whining mammet, in

her fortune's tender,

To answer 'I'll not

wed; I cannot love, I

am too young; I pray

you, pardon me.'

But, as you will not

wed, I'll pardon you:

Look to't, think

on't, I do not use

to jest.

Thursday is near;

lay hand on heart,

advise:

O, 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:

O God!

--O nurse, how shall

this be prevented?

My husband is on

earth, my faith

in heaven;

Alack, alack, that

heaven should

practise stratagems

Upon so soft a

subject as myself!

What say'st thou?

hast thou not

a word of joy?

Some comfort, nurse.

Faith, here it is.

Romeo is banish'd;

and all the world to

nothing, That he

dares ne'er come back

to challenge you; Or,

if he do, it needs

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