Masters of the Theatre
Page 32
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? 20
Par. Monday, my lord.
Cap. Monday! ha, ha! 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? 25
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, 30
And there an end. But what say you to Thursday?
Par. My lord, I would that Thursday were to-morrow.
Cap. Well, get you gone: o’ Thursday be it then.
Go you to Juliet ere you go to bed,
Prepare her, wife, against this wedding-day. 35
Farewell, my lord. Light to my chamber, ho!
Afore me! it is so very very late,
That we may call it early by and by.
Good-night. [Exeunt.
Act III. Scene V.
The Same. JULIET’S Chamber.
Enter ROMEO and JULIET.
Jul. Wilt thou be gone? it is not yet near day:
It was the nightingale, and not the lark,
That pierc’d the fearful hollow of thine ear; 5
Nightly she sings on yon pomegranate tree:
Believe me, love, it was the nightingale.
Rom. It was the lark, the herald of the morn,
No nightingale: look, love, what envious streaks
Do lace the severing clouds in yonder east: 10
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.
Jul. Yon light is not daylight, I know it, I:
It is some meteor that the sun exhales, 15
To be to thee this night a torch-bearer,
And light thee on thy way to Mantua:
Therefore stay yet; thou need’st not to be gone.
Rom. Let me be ta’en, let me be put to death;
I am content, so thou wilt have it so. 20
I’ll say you 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: 25
Come, death, and welcome! Juliet wills it so.
How is ‘t, my soul? let’s talk; it is not day.
Jul. 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. 30
Some say the lark makes sweet division;
This doth not so, for she divideth us:
Some say the lark and loathed toad change eyes;
O! now I would they had chang’d voices too,
Since arm from arm that voice doth us affray, 35
Hunting thee hence with hunts-up to the day.
O! now be gone; more light and light it grows.
Rom. More light and light; more dark and dark our woes.
Enter Nurse.
Nurse. Madam! 40
Jul. Nurse!
Nurse Your lady mother is coming to your chamber:
The day is broke; be wary, look about. [Exit.
Jul. Then, window, let day in, and let life out.
Rom. Farewell, farewell! one kiss, and I’ll descend. [Descends. 45
Jul. Art thou gone so? my lord, my love, my friend!
I must hear from thee every day in the hour,
For in a minute there are many days:
O! by this count I shall be much in years
Ere I again behold my Romeo. 50
Rom. Farewell!
I will omit no opportunity
That may convey my greetings, love, to thee.
Jul. O! think’st thou we shall ever meet again?
Rom. I doubt it not; and all these woes shall serve 55
For sweet discourses in our time to come.
Jul. O God! I have an ill-divining soul:
Methinks I see thee, now thou art so low,
As one dead in the bottom of a tomb:
Either my eyesight fails, or thou look’st pale. 60
Rom. And trust me, love, in my eye so do you:
Dry sorrow drinks our blood. Adieu! adieu! [Exit.
Jul. O fortune, fortune! all men call thee fickle:
If thou art fickle, what dost thou with him
That is renown’d for faith? Be fickle, fortune; 65
For then, I hope, thou wilt not keep him long,
But send him back.
Lady Cap. [Within.] Ho, daughter! are you up?
Jul. Who is ‘t that calls? is it my lady mother?
Is she not down so late, or up so early? 70
What unaccustom’d cause procures her hither?
Enter LADY CAPULET.
Lady Cap. Why, how now, Juliet!
Jul. Madam, I am not well.
Lady Cap. Evermore weeping for your cousin’s death? 75
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.
Jul. Yet let me weep for such a feeling loss. 80
Lady Cap. So shall you feel the loss, but not the friend
Which you weep for.
Jul. Feeling so the loss,
I cannot choose but ever weep the friend.
Lady Cap. Well, girl, thou weep’st not so much for his death, 85
As that the villain lives which slaughter’d him.
Jul. What villain, madam?
Lady Cap. That same villain, Romeo.
Jul. [Aside.] Villain and he be many miles asunder.
God pardon him! I do, with all my heart; 90
And yet no man like he doth grieve my heart.
Lady Cap. That is because the traitor murderer lives.
Jul. Ay, madam, from the reach of these my hands.
Would none but I might venge my cousin’s death!
Lady Cap. We will have vengeance for it, fear thou not: 95
Then weep no more. I’ll send to one in Mantua,
Where that same banish’d runagate doth live,
Shall give him such an unaccustom’d dram
That he shall soon keep Tybalt company:
And then, I hope, thou wilt be satisfied. 100
Jul. Indeed, I never shall be satisfied
With Romeo, till I behold him — dead —
Is my poor heart so for a kinsman vex’d:
Madam, if you could find out but a man
To bear a poison, I would temper it, 105
That Romeo should, upon receipt thereof,
Soon sleep in quiet. O! how my heart abhors
To hear him nam’d, and cannot come to him,
To wreak the love I bore my cousin Tybalt
Upon his body that hath slaughter’d him. 110
Lady Cap. Find thou the means, and I’ll find such a man.
But now I’ll tell thee joyful tidings, girl.
Jul. And joy comes well in such a needy time:
What are they, I beseech your ladyship?
Lady Cap. Well, well, thou hast a careful father, child; 115
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.
Jul. Madam, in happy time, what day is that?
Lady Cap. Marry, my child, early next Thursday morn 120
; The gallant, young, and noble gentleman,
The County Paris, at Saint Peter’s church,
Shall happily make thee there a joyful bride.
Jul. Now, by Saint Peter’s church, and Peter too,
He shall not make me there a joyful bride. 125
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, 130
Rather than Paris. These are news indeed!
Lady Cap. Here comes your father; tell him so yourself,
And see how he will take it at your hands.
Enter CAPULET and Nurse.
Cap. When the sun sets, the air doth drizzle dew; 135
But for the sunset of my brother’s son
It rains downright.
How now! a conduit, girl? what! still in tears?
Evermore showering? In one little body
Thou counterfeit’st a bark, a sea, a wind; 140
For still thy eyes, which I may call the sea,
Do ebb and flow with tears; the bark thy body is,
Sailing in this salt flood; the winds, thy sighs;
Who, raging with thy tears, and they with them,
Without a sudden calm, will overset 145
Thy tempest-tossed body. How now, wife!
Have you deliver’d to her our decree?
Lady Cap. Ay, sir; but she will none, she gives you thanks.
I would the fool were married to her grave!
Cap. Soft! take me with you, take me with you, wife. 150
How! will she none? doth she not give us thanks?
Is she not proud? doth she not count her bless’d,
Unworthy as she is, that we have wrought
So worthy a gentleman to be her bridegroom?
Jul. Not proud, you have; but thankful, that you have: 155
Proud can I never be of what I hate;
But thankful even for hate, that is meant love.
Cap. 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, 160
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.
Out, you green-sickness carrion! out, you baggage! 165
You tallow face!
Lady Cap. Fie, fie! what, are you mad?
Jul. Good father, I beseech you on my knees,
Hear me with patience but to speak a word.
Cap. Hang thee, young baggage! disobedient wretch! 170
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 bless’d
That God had lent us but this only child; 175
But now I see this one is one too much,
And that we have a curse in having her.
Out on her, hilding!
Nurse. God in heaven bless her!
You are to blame, my lord, to rate her so. 180
Cap. And why, my lady wisdom? hold your tongue,
Good prudence; smatter with your gossips, go.
Nurse. I speak no treason.
Cap. O! God ye good den.
Nurse. May not one speak? 185
Cap. Peace, you mumbling fool;
Utter your gravity o’er a gossip’s bowl;
For here we need it not.
Lady Cap. You are too hot.
Cap. God’s bread! it makes me mad. 190
Day, night, hour, tide, time, work, play,
Alone, in company, still my care hath been
To have her match’d; and having now provided
A gentleman of noble parentage,
Of fair demesnes, youthful, and nobly train’d, 195
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,’ 200
‘I am too young,’ ‘I pray you, pardon me;’
But, an you will not wed, I’ll pardon you:
Graze where you will, you shall not house with me:
Look to ‘t, think on ‘t, I do not use to jest.
Thursday is near; lay hand on heart, advise. 205
An you be mine, I’ll give you to my friend;
An you be not, hang, beg, starve, die in the streets,
For, by my soul, I’ll ne’er acknowledge thee,
Nor what is mine shall never do thee good.
Trust to ‘t, bethink you; I’ll not be forsworn. [Exit. 210
Jul. Is there no pity sitting in the clouds,
That sees into the bottom of my grief?
O! sweet my mother, cast me not away:
Delay this marriage for a month, a week;
Or, if you do not, make the bridal bed 215
In that dim monument where Tybalt lies.
Lady Cap. Talk not to me, for I’ll not speak a word.
Do as thou wilt, for I have done with thee. [Exit.
Jul. O God! O nurse! how shall this be prevented?
My husband is on earth, my faith in heaven; 220
How shall that faith return again to earth,
Unless that husband send it me from heaven
By leaving earth? comfort me, counsel me.
Alack, alack! that heaven should practise strata gems
Upon so soft a subject as myself! 225
What sayst thou? hast thou not a word of joy?
Some comfort, nurse?
Nurse. Faith, here it is. Romeo
Is banished; and all the world to nothing
That he dares ne’er come back to challenge you; 230
Or, if he do, it needs must be by stealth.
Then, since the case so stands as now it doth,
I think it best you married with the county.
O! he’s a lovely gentleman;
Romeo’s a dishclout to him: an eagle, madam, 235
Hath not so green, so quick, so fair an eye
As Paris hath. Beshrew my very heart,
I think you are happy in this second match,
For it excels your first: or if it did not,
Your first is dead; or ‘twere as good he were, 240
As living here and you no use of him.
Jul. Speakest thou from thy heart?
Nurse. And from my soul too;
Or else beshrew them both.
Jul. Amen! 245
Nurse. What!
Jul. Well, thou hast comforted me marvellous much.
Go in; and tell my lady I am gone,
Having displeas’d my father, to Laurence’ cell,
To make confession and to be absolv’d. 250
Nurse. Marry, I will; and this is wisely done. [Exit.
Jul. Ancient damnation! O most wicked fiend!
Is it more sin to wish me thus forsworn,
Or to dispraise my lord with that same tongue
Which she hath prais’d him with above compare 255
So many thousand times? Go, counsellor;
Thou and my bosom henceforth shall be twain.
I’ll to the friar, to know his remedy:
If all else fail, myself have power to die. [Exit.
Act IV. Scene I.
Verona. FRIAR LAURENCE’S Cell.
Enter FRIAR LAURENCE and PARIS.
Fri. L. On Thursday, sir? the time is very short.
Par. My father Capulet will have it so;
And I am nothing slow to slack his h
aste. 5
Fri. L. You say you do not know the lady’s mind:
Uneven is the course, I like it not.
Par. Immoderately she weeps for Tybalt’s death,
And therefore have I little talk’d of love;
For Venus smiles not in a house of tears. 10
Now, sir, her father counts it dangerous
That she doth give her sorrow so much sway,
And in his wisdom hastes our marriage
To stop the inundation of her tears;
Which, too much minded by herself alone, 15
May be put from her by society.
Now do you know the reason of this haste.
Fri. L. [Aside.] I would I knew not why it should be slow’d.
Look, sir, here comes the lady towards my cell.
Enter JULIET. 20
Par. Happily met, my lady and my wife!
Jul. That may be, sir, when I may be a wife.
Par. That may be must be, love, on Thursday next.
Jul. What must be shall be.
Fri. L. That’s a certain text. 25
Par. Come you to make confession to this father?
Jul. To answer that, I should confess to you.
Par. Do not deny to him that you love me.
Jul. I will confess to you that I love him.
Par. So will ye, I am sure, that you love me. 30
Jul. If I do so, it will be of more price,
Being spoke behind your back, than to your face.
Par. Poor soul, thy face is much abus’d with tears.
Jul. The tears have got small victory by that;
For it was bad enough before their spite. 35
Par. Thou wrong’st it, more than tears, with that report.
Jul. That is no slander, sir, which is a truth;
And what I spake, I spake it to my face.
Par. Thy face is mine, and thou hast slander’d it.
Jul. It may be so, for it is not mine own. 40
Are you at leisure, holy father, now;
Or shall I come to you at evening mass?
Fri. L. My leisure serves me, pensive daughter, now:
My lord, we must entreat the time alone.
Par. God shield, I should disturb devotion! 45
Juliet, on Thursday early will I rouse you:
Till then, adieu; and keep this holy kiss. [Exit.
Jul. O! shut the door! and when thou hast done so,
Come weep with me; past hope, past cure, past help!
Fri. L. Ah! Juliet, I already know thy grief; 50
It strains me past the compass of my wits:
I hear thou must, and nothing may prorogue it,
On Thursday next be married to this county.
Jul. Tell me not, friar, that thou hear’st of this,
Unless thou tell me how I may prevent it: 55
If, in thy wisdom, thou canst give no help,
Do thou but call my resolution wise,