Scene V.
Juliet's Chamber
Enter Nurse
Nurse. Mistress! what, mistress! Juliet! Fast, I warrant her, she.—
Why, lamb! why, lady! fie, you slug-a-bed!
Why, love, I say! madam! [sweet-heart]! why, bride!
What, not a word?—How sound is she asleep!
I needs must wake her.—Madam, madam, madam!
Ay, let the county take you in your bed;
He'll fright you up, i' faith.—Will it not be? [Undraws the curtains.
What, dress'd! and in your clothes! and down again!
I must needs wake you. Lady! lady! lady!—
Alas, alas!—Help, help! my lady's dead!—
O, well-a-day, that ever I was born!—
Some aqua vitæ, ho!—My lord! my lady!
Enter Lady Capulet
Lady Capulet. What noise is here?
Nurse. O lamentable day!
Lady Capulet. What is the matter?
Nurse. Look, look! O heavy day!
Lady Capulet. O me, O me! My child, my only life,
Revive, look up, or I will die with thee!—
Help, help! Call help.
Enter Capulet
Capulet. For shame, bring Juliet forth; her lord is come.
Nurse. She's dead, deceas'd, she's dead; alack the day!
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Lady Capulet. Alack the day, she's dead, she's dead, she's dead!
Capulet. Ha! let me see her. Out, alas! she's cold;
Her blood is settled, and her joints are stiff;
Life and these lips have long been separated.
Death lies on her like an untimely frost
Upon the sweetest flower of all the field.
Nurse. O lamentable day!
Lady Capulet.O woful time!
Capulet. Death, that hath ta'en her hence to make me wail,
Ties up my tongue and [will not let me speak].
Enter Friar Laurence and Paris with Musicians
Friar Laurence. Come, is the bride ready to go to church?
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Capulet. Ready to go, but never to return.—
O son! the night before thy wedding-day
Hath Death lain with thy wife. See, there she lies,
Flower as she was, deflowered by him.
Death is my son-in-law, Death is my heir;
My daughter he hath wedded. I will die,
And leave him all; [life, living], all is Death's.
Paris. Have I [thought] long to see this morning's face,
And doth it give me such a sight as this?
Lady Capulet. Accurst, unhappy, wretched, hateful day!
Most miserable hour that e'er time saw
In lasting [labour] of his pilgrimage!
But one, poor one, one poor and loving child,
But one thing to rejoice and solace in,
And cruel death hath [catch'd] it from my sight!
Nurse. [O woe!] O woful, woful, woful day!
Most lamentable day, most woful day,
That ever, ever, I did yet behold!
O day! O day! O day! O hateful day!
Never was seen so black a day as this!
O woful day, O woful day!
Paris. Beguil'd, divorced, wronged, spited, slain!
Most [detestable] Death, by thee beguil'd,
By cruel cruel thee quite overthrown!
O love! O life! not life, but love in death!
Capulet. [Despis'd, distressed], hated, martyr'd, kill'd!
[Uncomfortable] time, why cam'st thou now
To murther, murther our solemnity?—
O child! O child! my soul, and not my child!
Dead art thou! Alack! my child is dead;
And with my child my joys are [buried].
Friar Laurence. Peace, ho, for shame! [confusion's] cure lives not
In these confusions. Heaven and yourself
Had part in this fair maid; now heaven hath all,
And all the better is it for the maid.
Your part in her you could not keep from death,
But heaven keeps [his] part in eternal life.
The most you sought was her [promotion],
For 'twas your heaven she should be advanc'd;
And weep ye now, seeing she is advanc'd
Above the clouds, as high as heaven itself?
O, in this love you love your child so ill
That you run mad seeing that she is [well];
She's not well married that lives married long,
But she's best married that dies married young.
Dry up your tears, and stick your [rosemary]
On this fair corse, and, [as the custom is],
In all her best array bear her to church;
For though [fond] nature bids us all lament,
Yet nature's tears are reason's merriment.
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Capulet. [All things] that we ordained festival
Turn from their office to black funeral:
Our instruments to melancholy bells,
Our wedding cheer to a sad burial feast,
Our solemn hymns to sullen dirges change,
Our bridal flowers serve for a buried corse,
And all things change them to the contrary.
Friar Laurence. Sir, go you in,—and, madam, go with him;—
And go, Sir Paris;—every one prepare
To follow this fair corse unto her grave.
The heavens do lower upon you for some ill;
Move them no more by crossing their high will.
[Exeunt Capulet, Lady Capulet, Paris, and Friar.
1 Musician. Faith, we may put up our pipes, and be gone.
Nurse. Honest good fellows, ah, put up, put up;
For, well you know, this is a pitiful case. [Exit.
1 Musician. Ay, by my troth, the [case] may be amended.
Peter. Musicians, O musicians, 'Heart's ease,
Heart's ease'; O, an you will have me live, play
'Heart's ease.'
1 Musician. Why ['Heart's ease']?
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Peter. O, musicians, because my heart itself plays
['My heart is full of woe.'] O, play me some merry
[dump], to comfort me.
1 Musician. Not a dump we; 'tis no time to
play now.
Peter. You will not, then?
1 Musician. No.
Peter. I will then give it you soundly.
1 Musician. What will you give us?
Peter. No money, on my faith, but the [gleek]; I will give you the
minstrel.
1 Musician. Then will I give you the
serving-creature.
Peter. Then will I lay the serving-creature's
dagger on your pate. [I will carry no crotchets]; I'll
re you, I'll fa you; do you note me?
1 Musician. An you re us and fa us, you note
us.
2 Musician. Pray you, put up your dagger, and
put out your wit.
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Peter. Then have at you with my wit! I will
[drybeat] you with an iron wit, and put up my iron
dagger. Answer me like men:
'[When griping grief] the heart doth wound,
And doleful dumps the mind oppress,
Then music with her silver sound'—
why 'silver sound'? why 'music with her silver
sound'?—What say you, Simon [Catling]?
1 Musician. Marry, sir, because silver hath a
sweet sound.
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Peter. Pretty!—What say you, Hugh Rebeck?
2 Musician. I say 'silver sound,' because musicians
sound for silver.
Peter. [Pretty] too!—What say you, James Soundpost?
3 Musician. Faith, I know not what to say.
Peter. O, I cry you mercy, you are the singer; I
will say for you. It is 'music with her silver sound,'
because musicians have no gold for sounding.
'Then music with her silver sound
With speedy help doth lend redress.' [Exit.
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1 Musician. What a [pestilent] knave is this same!
2 Musician. Hang him, [Jack]!—Come, we'll in
here, tarry for the mourners, and stay dinner. [Exeunt.
Tomb of the Scaligers, Verona