The Oxford Shakespeare: The Complete Works

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The Oxford Shakespeare: The Complete Works Page 132

by William Shakespeare


  O, what a beast was I to chide at him!

  NURSE

  Will you speak well of him that killed your cousin?

  JULIET

  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?

  But wherefore, villain, didst thou kill my cousin?

  That villain cousin would have killed my husband.

  Back, foolish tears, back to your native spring!

  Your tributary drops belong to woe,

  Which you, mistaking, offer up to joy.

  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?

  Some word there was, worser than Tybalt’s death,

  That murdered me. I would forget it fain,

  But O, it presses to my memory

  Like damned guilty deeds to sinners’ minds!

  ‘Tybalt is dead, and Romeo banished.’

  That ‘banishèd’, that one word ‘banishèd’

  Hath slain ten thousand Tybalts. Tybalt’s death

  Was woe enough, if it had ended there;

  Or, if sour woe delights in fellowship

  And needly will be ranked with other griefs,

  Why followed not, when she said ‘Tybalt’s dead’,

  ‘Thy father’, or ‘thy mother’, nay, or both,

  Which modern lamentation might have moved?

  But with a rearward following Tybalt’s death,

  ‘Romeo is banishèd‘-to speak that word

  Is father, mother, Tybalt, Romeo, Juliet,

  All slain, all dead. ‘Romeo is banishèd’—

  There is no end, no limit, measure, bound,

  In that word’s death. No words can that woe sound.

  Where is my father and my mother, Nurse?

  NURSE

  Weeping and wailing over Tybalt’s corpse.

  Will you go to them? I will bring you thither.

  JULIET

  Wash they his wounds with tears; mine shall be spent

  When theirs are dry, for Romeo’s banishment.

  Take up those cords. Poor ropes, you are beguiled,

  Both you and I, for Romeo is exiled.

  He made you for a highway to my bed,

  But I, a maid, die maiden-widowed.

  Come, cords; come, Nurse; I’ll to my wedding bed,

  And death, not Romeo, take my maidenhead!

  NURSE (taking up the cords)

  Hie to your chamber. I’ll find Romeo

  To comfort you. I wot well where he is.

  Hark ye, your Romeo will be here at night.

  I’ll to him. He is hid at Laurence’ cell.

  JULIET (giving her a ring)

  O, find him! Give this ring to my true knight,

  And bid him come to take his last farewell.

  Exeunt ⌈severally⌉

  3.3 Enter Friar Laurence

  FRIAR LAURENCE

  Romeo, come forth, come forth, thou fear-full man.

  Affliction is enamoured of thy parts,

  And thou art wedded to calamity.

  Enter Romeo

  ROMEO

  Father, what news? What is the Prince’s doom?

  What sorrow craves acquaintance at my hand

  That I yet know not?

  FRIAR LAURENCE Too familiar

  Is my dear son with such sour company.

  I bring thee tidings of the Prince’s doom.

  ROMEO

  What less than doomsday is the Prince’s doom?

  FRIAR LAURENCE

  A gentler judgement vanished from his lips:

  Not body’s death, but body’s banishment.

  ROMEO

  Ha, banishment? Be merciful, say ‘death’,

  For exile hath more terror in his look,

  Much more than death. Do not say ‘banishment’.

  FRIAR LAURENCE

  Hence from Verona art thou banished.

  Be patient, for the world is broad and wide.

  ROMEO

  There is no world without Verona walls

  But purgatory, torture, hell itself.

  Hence banished is banished from the world,

  And world’s exile is death. Then ‘banishèd’

  Is death mistermed. Calling death ‘banishèd’

  Thou cutt‘st my head off with a golden axe,

  And smil’st upon the stroke that murders me.

  FRIAR LAURENCE

  O deadly sin, O rude unthankfulness!

  Thy fault our law calls death, but the kind Prince,

  Taking thy part, hath rushed aside the law

  And turned that black word ’death’ to banishment.

  This is dear mercy, and thou seest it not.

  ROMEO

  ‘Tis torture, and not mercy. Heaven is here

  Where Juliet lives, and every cat and dog

  And little mouse, every unworthy thing,

  Live here in heaven and may look on her,

  But Romeo may not. More validity,

  More honourable state, more courtship lives

  In carrion flies than Romeo. They may seize

  On the white wonder of dear Juliet’s hand,

  And steal immortal blessing from her lips,

  Who, even in pure and vestal modesty,

  Still blush, as thinking their own kisses sin.

  But Romeo may not, he is banished.

  Flies may do this, but I from this must fly.

  They are free men, but I am banished.

  And sayst thou yet that exile is not death?

  Hadst thou no poison mixed, no sharp-ground knife,

  No sudden mean of death, though ne’er so mean,

  But ‘banishèd’ to kill me—‘banishèd’?

  O friar, the damned use that word in hell.

  Howling attends it. How hast thou the heart,

  Being a divine, a ghostly confessor,

  A sin-absolver and my friend professed,

  To mangle me with that word ‘banishèd’?

  FRIAR LAURENCE

  Thou fond mad man, hear me a little speak.

  ROMEO

  O, thou wilt speak again of banishment.

  FRIAR LAURENCE

  I’ll give thee armour to keep off that word—

  Adversity’s sweet milk, philosophy,

  To comfort thee though thou art banished.

  ROMEO

  Yet ‘banishèd’? Hang up philosophy!

  Unless philosophy can make a Juliet,

  Displant a town, reverse a prince’s doom,

  It helps not, it prevails not. Talk no more.

  FRIAR LAURENCE

  O, then I see that madmen have no ears.

  ROMEO

  How should they, when that wise men have no eyes?

  FRIAR LAURENCE

  Let me dispute with thee of thy estate.

  ROMEO

  Thou canst not speak of that thou dost not feel.

  Wert thou as young as I, Juliet thy love,

  An hour but married, Tybalt murdered,

  Doting like me, and like me banished,

  Then mightst thou speak, then mightst thou tear thy

  hair,

  And fall upon the ground, as I do now,

  He falls upon the ground

  Taking the measure of an unmade grave.

  Knock within

  FRIAR LAURENCE

  Arise, one knocks. Good Romeo, hide thyself.

  ROMEO

  Not I, unless the breath of heartsick groans

  Mist-like enfold me from the search of eyes.

  Knocking within

  FRIAR LAURENCE

  Hark, how they knock!—Who’s there?—Romeo, arise.

  Thou wilt be taken.—Stay a white.—Stand up.

  Still knock within

  Run to my study.—By and by!—God�
��s will,

  What simpleness is this?

  Knock within

  I come, I come.

  Who knocks so hard? Whence come you? What’s your

  will?

  NURSE (within)

  Let me come in, and you shall know my errand.

  I come from Lady Juliet.

  FRIAR LAURENCE ⌈opening the door⌉ Welcome then.

  Enter the Nurse

  NURSE

  O holy friar, O tell me, holy friar,

  Where is my lady’s lord? Where’s Romeo?

  FRIAR LAURENCE

  There on the ground, with his own tears made drunk.

  NURSE

  O, he is even in my mistress’ case,

  Just in her case! O woeful sympathy,

  Piteous predicament! Even so lies she,

  Blubb’ring and weeping, weeping and blubb’ring.

  (To Romeo) Stand up, stand up, stand an you be a man,

  For Juliet’s sake, for her sake, rise and stand.

  Why should you fall into so deep an O?

  ROMEO (rising)

  Nurse.

  NURSE Ah sir, ah sir, death’s the end of all.

  ROMEO

  Spak’st thou of Juliet? How is it with her?

  Doth not she think me an old murderer,

  Now I have stained the childhood of our joy

  With blood removed but little from her own?

  Where is she, and how doth she, and what says

  My concealed lady to our cancelled love?

  NURSE

  O, 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,

  And then down falls again.

  ROMEO As if that name

  Shot from the deadly level of a gun

  Did murder her as that name’s cursed hand

  Murdered her kinsman. O 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.

  ⌈He offers to stab himself, and the Nurse snatches the dagger away⌉

  FRIAR LAURENCE Hold thy desperate hand.

  Art thou a man? Thy form cries out thou art.

  Thy tears are womanish, thy wild acts denote

  The unreasonable fury of a beast.

  Unseemly woman in a seeming man,

  And ill-beseeming beast in seeming both!

  Thou hast amazed me. By my holy order,

  I thought thy disposition better tempered.

  Hast thou slain Tybalt? Wilt thou slay thyself,

  And slay thy lady that in thy life lives

  By doing damned hate upon thyself?

  Why rail‘st thou on thy birth, the heaven, and earth,

  Since birth and heaven and earth, all three, do meet

  In thee at once, which thou at once wouldst lose?

  Fie, fie, thou sham’st thy shape, thy love, thy wit,

  Which like a usurer abound‘st in all,

  And usest none in that true use indeed

  Which should bedeck thy shape, thy love, thy wit.

  Thy noble shape is but a form of wax,

  Digressing from the valour of a man;

  Thy dear love sworn but hollow perjury,

  Killing that love which thou hast vowed to cherish;

  Thy wit, that ornament to shape and love,

  Misshapen in the conduct of them both,

  Like powder in a skilless soldier’s flask

  Is set afire by thine own ignorance,

  And thou dismembered with thine own defence.

  What, rouse thee, man! Thy Juliet is alive,

  For whose dear sake thou wast but lately dead:

  There art thou happy. Tybalt would kill thee,

  But thou slewest Tybalt: there art thou happy.

  The law that threatened death becomes thy friend,

  And turns it to exile: there art thou happy.

  A pack of blessings light upon thy back,

  Happiness courts thee in her best array,

  But, like a mishavèd 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, 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,

  Where 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.

  Go before, Nurse. Commend me to thy lady,

  And bid her hasten all the house to bed,

  Which heavy sorrow makes them apt unto.

  Romeo is coming.

  NURSE

  O Lord, I could have stayed here all the night

  To hear good counsel! O, what learning is!

  My lord, I’ll tell my lady you will come.

  ROMEO

  Do so, and bid my sweet prepare to chide.

  ⌈Nurse offers to go in, and turns again⌉

  NURSE (giving the ring)

  Here, sir, a ring she bid me give you, sir.

  Hie you, make haste, for it grows very late.

  ROMEO

  How well my comfort is revived by this. Exit Nurse

  FRIAR LAURENCE

  Go hence, good night, and here stands all your state.

  Either be gone before the watch be set,

  Or by the break of day disguised from hence.

  Sojourn in Mantua. I’ll find out your man,

  And he shall signify from time to time

  Every good hap to you that chances here.

  Give me thy hand. ’Tis late. Farewell. Good night.

  ROMEO

  But that a joy past joy calls out on me,

  It were a grief so brief to part with thee.

  Farewell. Exeunt ⌈severally⌉

  3.4 Enter Capulet, his Wife, and Paris

  CAPULET

  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.

  ’Tis very late. She’ll not come down tonight.

  I promise you, but for your company

  I would have been abed an hour ago.

  PARIS

  These times of woe afford no times to woo.

  Madam, good night. Commend me to your daughter.

  CAPULET’S WIFE

  I will, and know her mind early tomorrow.

  Tonight she’s mewed up to her heaviness.

  ⌈Paris offers to go in, and Capulet calls him again⌉

  CAPULET

  Sir Paris, I will make a desperate tender

  Of my child’s love. I think she will be ruled

  In all respects by me. Nay, more, I doubt it not.

  Wife, go you to her ere you go to bed.

  Acquaint her here of my son Paris’ love,

  And bid her-mark you me?—on Wednesday next—

  But soft—what day is this?

  PARIS Monday, my lord.

  CAPULET

  Monday. Ha, ha! Well, Wednesday is too soon.

  O’ Thursday let it be. 0’ 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?
>
  PARIS

  My lord, I would that Thursday were tomorrow.

  CAPULET

  Well, get you gone. O’ Thursday be it, then.

  (To his Wife) Go you to Juliet ere you go to bed.

  Prepare her, wife, against this wedding day.—

  Farewell, my lord.—Light to my chamber, ho!—

  Afore me, it is so very late that we

  May call it early by and by. Good night.

  Exeunt ⌈Capulet and his wife at one door, Paris at another door⌉

  3.5 Enter Romeo and Juliet aloft ⌈with the ladder of cords⌉

  JULIET

  Wilt thou be gone? It is not yet near day.

  It was the nightingale, and not the lark,

  That pierced the fear-full hollow of thine ear.

  Nightly she sings on yon pom’granate tree.

  Believe me, love, it was the nightingale.

  ROMEO

  It was the lark, the herald of the morn,

  No nightingale. Look, love, what envious streaks

  Do lace the severing clouds in yonder east.

  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.

  JULIET

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

  It is some meteor that the sun exhaled

  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.

  ROMEO

  Let me be ta‘en, let me be put to death.

  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.

  JULIET

  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.

  Some say the lark makes sweet division;

  This doth not so, for she divideth us.

  Some say the lark and loathed toad changed eyes.

  O, now I would they had changed voices, too,

  Since arm from arm that voice doth us affray,

  Hunting thee hence with hunt’s-up to the day.

  O, now be gone! More light and light it grows.

  ROMEO

 

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