[Sc. XV.]
Enter Romeo and Iuliet at the window.
Iul: Wilt thou be gone? It is not yet nere day,
It was the Nightingale and not the Larke
That pierst the fearfull hollow of thine eare:
Nightly she sings on yon Pomegranate tree,
Beleeue me loue, it was the Nightingale. 5
Rom: It was the Larke, the Herald of the Morne,
And not the Nightingale. See Loue what enuious strakes
Doo lace the seuering clowdes in yonder East.
Nights candles are burnt out, and iocond Day
Stands tiptoes on the mystie mountaine tops. 10
I must be gone and liue, or stay and dye.
Jul: Yon light is not day light, I know it I:
It is some Meteor that the Sunne exhales,
To be this night to thee a Torch-bearer,
And light thee on thy way to Mantua. 15
Then stay awhile, thou shalt not goe soone.
Rom: Let me stay here, let me be tane, and dye:
If thou wilt haue it so, I am content.
Ile say yon gray is not the Mornings Eye,
It is the pale reflex of Cynthias brow. 20
Ile say it is the Nightingale that beates
The vaultic heauen so high aboue our heads,
And not the Larke the Messenger of Morne.
Come death and welcome, Iuliet wils it so.
What sayes my Loue? lets talke, tis not yet day. 25
Jul: It is, it is, begone, flye hence away.
It is the Larke that sings so out of tune,
Straining harsh Discords and vnpleasing Sharpes.
Some say, the Larke makes sweete Diuision:
This doth not so: for this diuideth vs. 30
Some say the Larke and loathed Toad change eyes,
I would that now they had changd voyces too:
Since arme from arme her voyce doth vs affray,
Hunting thee hence with Huntsvp to the day.
So now be gone, more light and light it growes. 35
Rom: More light and light, more darke and darke our woes.
Farewell my Loue, one kisse and Ile descend.
He goeth downe.
Jul: Art thou gone so, my Lord, my Loue, my Frend?
I must heare from thee euerie day in the hower:
For in an hower there are manie minutes, 40
Minutes are dayes, so will I number them:
Oh, by this count I shall be much in yeares,
Ere I see thee againe.
Rom: Farewell, I will omit no opportunitie
That may conueigh my greetings loue to thee.
Iul: Oh, thinkst thou we shall euer meete againe.
Rom: No doubt, no doubt, and all this woe shall serue
For sweete discourses in the time to come.
Jul: Oh God, I have an ill diuining soule.
Me thinkes I see thee now thou art below 50
Like one dead in the bottome of a Tombe:
Either mine ey-sight failes, or thou lookst pale.
Rom: And trust me Loue, in my eye so doo you,
Drie sorrow drinkes our blood: adieu, adieu. Exit.
Enter Nurse hastely.
Nur: Madame beware, take heed the day is broke, 55
Your Mother's comming to your Chamber, make all sure.
She goeth downe from the window.
Enter Iuliets Mother, Nurse.
Moth: Where are you Daughter?
Nur: What Ladie, Lambe, what Iuliet?
Iul: How now, who calls?
Nur: It is your Mother. 60
Moth: Why how now Juliet?
Iul: Madam, I am not well.
Moth: What euermore weeping for your Cosens death:
I thinke thoult wash him from his graue with teares.
Iul: I cannot chuse, hauing so great a losse. 65
Moth: I cannot blame thee.
But it greeues thee more that Villaine liues.
Iul: What Villaine Madame?
Moth: That Villaine Romeo.
Iul: Villaine and he are manie miles a sunder. 70
Moth: Content thee Girle, if I could finde a man
I soone would send to Mantua where he is,
That should bestow on him so sure a draught,
As he should soone beare Tybalt companie.
Iul: Finde you the meanes, and Ile finde such a man: 75
For whilest he liues, my heart shall nere be light
Till I behold him, dead is my poore heart.
Thus for a Kinsman vext?
Moth: Well let that passe. I come to bring thee ioyfull newes?
Iul: And ioy comes well in such a needfull time. 80
Moth: Well then, thou hast a carefull Father Girle,
And one who pittying thy needfull state,
Hath found thee out a happie day of ioy.
Iul: What day is that I pray you?
Moth: Marry my Childe, 85
The gallant, yong and youthfull Gentleman,
The Countie Paris at Saint Peters Church,
Early next Thursday morning must prouide,
To make you there a glad and ioyfull Bride.
Iul: Now by Saint Peters Church and Peter too, 90
He shall not there make mee a ioyfull Bride.
Are these the newes you had to tell me of?
Marrie here are newes indeed. Madame I will not marrie yet.
And when I doo, it shalbe rather Romeo whom I hate,
Than Countie Paris that I cannot loue. 95
Enter olde Capolet.
Moth: Here comes your Father, you may tell him so.
Capo: Why how now, euermore showring?
In one little bodie thou resemblest a sea, a barke, a storme:
For this thy bodie which I tearme a barke,
Still floating in thy euerfalling teares, 100
And tost with sighes arising from thy hart:
Will without succour shipwracke presently.
But heare you Wife, what haue you sounded her, what saies she to it?
Moth: I haue, but she will none she thankes ye:
Would God that she were married to her graue. 105
Capo: What will she not, doth she not thanke vs, doth
she not wexe proud?
Iul: Not proud ye haue, but thankfull that ye haue:
Proud can I neuer be of that I hate,
But thankfull euen for hate that is ment loue. 110
Capo: Proud and I thanke you, and I thanke you not,
And yet not proud. Whats here, chop logicke.
Proud me no prouds, nor thanke me no thankes,
But fettle your fine ioynts on Thursday next
To goe with Paris to Saint Peters Church, 115
Or I will drag you on a hurdle thether.
Out you greene sicknes baggage, out you tallow face.
Iu: Good father heare me speake?
She kneeles downe.
Cap: I tell thee what, eyther resolue on thursday next
To goe with Paris to Saint Peters Church: 120
Or henceforth neuer looke me in the face.
Speake not, reply not, for my fingers ytch.
Why wife, we thought that we were scarcely blest
That God had sent vs but this onely chyld:
But now I see this one is one too much, 125
And that we haue a crosse in hauing her.
Nur: Mary God in heauen blesse her my Lord,
You are too blame to rate her so.
Cap. And why my Lady wisedome? hold your tung,
Good prudence smatter with your gossips, goe. 130
Nur: Why my Lord I speake no treason.
Cap: Oh goddegodden.
Vtter your grauity ouer a gossips boule,
For heere wee need it not.
Mo: My lord ye are too hotte. 135
Cap: Gods blessed mother wife it mads me,
Day, night, early, late, at home, abroad,
Alone, in company, waking or sleeping,
Still my care hath beene to see her matcht.
And hauing now found out a Gentleman, 140
Of Princely parentage, youthfull, and nobly trainde.
Stuft as they say with honorable parts,
Proportioned as ones heart coulde wish a man:
And then to haue a wretched whyning foole,
A puling mammet in her fortunes tender, 145
To say I cannot loue, I am too young, I pray you pardon mee?
But if you cannot wedde Ile pardon you.
Graze where you will, you shall not house with me.
Looke to it, thinke out, I doe not vse to iest.
I tell yee what, Thursday is neere, 150
Lay hand on heart, aduise, bethinke your selfe,
If you be mine, Ile giue you to my frend:
If not, hang, drowne, starue, beg,
Dye in the streetes: for by my Soule
Ile neuer more acknowledge thee, 155
Nor what I haue shall euer doe thee good,
Thinke ont, looke toot, I doe not vse to iest. Exit.
Iul: Is there no pitty hanging in the cloudes,
That lookes into the bottom of my woes?
I doe beseech you Madame, cast me not away, 160
Defer this mariage for a day or two,
Or if you cannot, make my mariage bed
In that dimme monument where Tybalt lyes.
Moth: Nay be assured I will not speake a word.
Do what thou wilt for I haue done with thee. Exit. 165
Iul: Ah Nurse what comfort? what counsell canst thou giue me.
Nur: Now trust me Madame, I know not what to say:
Your Romeo he is banisht, and all the world to nothing
He neuer dares returne to challendge you.
Now I thinke good you marry with this County,
Oh he is a gallant Gentleman, Romeo is but a dishclout
In respect of him. I promise you
I thinke you happy in this second match.
As for your husband he is dead:
Or twere as good he were, for you haue no vse of him. 175
Iul: Speakst thou this from thy heart?
Nur: I and from my soule, or els beshrew them both.
Iul: Amen.
Nur: What say you Madame?
Iul: Well, thou hast comforted me wondrous much, 180
I pray thee goe thy waies vnto my mother
Tell her I am gone hauing displeasde my Father.
To Fryer Laurence Cell to confesse me,
And to be absolu'd.
Nur: I will, and this is wisely done. 185
She lookes after Nurse.
Iul: Auncient damnation, O most cursed fiend.
Is it more sinne to wish me thus forsworne,
Or to dispraise him with the selfe same tongue
That thou hast praisde him with aboue compare
So many thousand times? Goe Counsellor, 190
Thou and my bosom henceforth shalbe twaine.
Ile to the Fryer to know his remedy,
If all faile els, I haue the power to dye.
Exit.