The Complete Works of William Shakespeare Part 465

It is some meteor that the sun exhales To be to thee this night a torchbearer And light thee on the 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.

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.

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.

Some say the lark makes sweet division; This doth not so, for she divideth us.

Some say the lark and loathed toad chang'd eyes; O, now I would they had chang'd 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.

Rom. More light and light- more dark and dark our woes!

Enter Nurse.

Nurse. Madam!

Jul. Nurse?

Nurse. Your lady mother is coming to your chamber.

The day is broke; be wary, look about.

Jul. Then, window, let day in, and let life out.

[Exit.]

Rom. Farewell, farewell! One kiss, and I'll descend.

He goeth down.

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!

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 For sweet discourses in our time to come.

Jul. O G.o.d, I have an ill-divining soul!

Methinks I see thee, now thou art below, As one dead in the bottom of a tomb.

Either my eyesight fails, or thou look'st pale.

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, For then I hope thou wilt not keep him long But send him back.

Lady. [within] Ho, daughter! are you up?

Jul. Who is't that calls? It is my lady mother.

Is she not down so late, or up so early?

What unaccustom'd cause procures her hither?

Enter Mother.

Lady. Why, how now, Juliet?

Jul. Madam, I am not well.

Lady. Evermore weeping for your cousin's death?

What, wilt thou wash him from his grave with tears?

An 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.

Lady. 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. Well, girl, thou weep'st not so much for his death As that the villain lives which slaughter'd him.

Jul. What villain, madam?

Lady. That same villain Romeo.

Jul. [aside] Villain and he be many miles asunder.- G.o.d pardon him! I do, with all my heart; And yet no man like he doth grieve my heart.

Lady. 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. We will have vengeance for it, fear thou not.

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.

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; 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!

Lady. 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. 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 expects not nor I look'd not for.

Jul. Madam, in happy time! What day is that?

Lady. Marry, my child, early next Thursday morn The gallant, young, and n.o.ble 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!

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. These are news indeed!

Lady. Here comes your father. Tell him so yourself, And see how be will take it at your hands.

Enter Capulet and Nurse.

Cap. When the sun sets the air doth drizzle dew, But for the sunset of my brother's son It rains downright.

How now? a conduit, girl? What, still in tears?

Evermore show'ring? In one little body Thou counterfeit'st a bark, a sea, a wind: 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 Thy tempest-tossed body. How now, wife?

Have you delivered to her our decree?

Lady. 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.

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?

Jul. 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.

Cap. How, how, how, how, choplogic? 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.

Out, you green-sickness carrion I out, you baggage!

You tallow-face!

Lady. 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!

I tell thee what- get thee to church a Thursday Or never after look me in the face.