To murder, murder our solemnity?

O child! O child!—my soul, and not my child!Dead art thou, dead! — alack! my child is dead; And, with my child, my joys are buried!

Fri. 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 't was 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 child so ill,

your

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.
Cap. 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.
Fri. Sir, go you in, and, madam, go with
him;

And sir Paris; go,

every one prepare To follow this fair corse unto her grave: The heavens do low'r upon you, for some ill; Move them no more, by crossing their high will. [Exeunt CAPULET, Lady CAPULET, Paris, and Friar.

1 Mus. 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 Nurse. 1 Mus. Ay, by my troth, the case may be amended,

Enter PETER.

Pet. Musicians, O, musicians, Heart's ease, heart's ease; O, an you will have me live, play-heart's ease. 1 Mus. Why heart's ease?

Pet. O, musicians, because my heart itself plays My heart is full of woe: O, play me some merry dump, to comfort me.

2 Mus. Not a dump we; 'tis no time to play now. Pet. You will not then?

Mus. No.

Pet. I will then give it you soundly. 1 Mus. What will you give us?

Pet. No money, on my faith; but the gleek3: I will give you the minstrel.

1 Mus. Then will I give you the serving-creature. Pet. 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 Mus. An you re us, and fa us, you note us. 2 Mus. Pray you, put up your dagger, and put out your wit.

Pet. 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 musick, with her silver sound;

2 Dumps were heavy mournful tunes.

3 To gleek is to scoff, and a gleekman signified a minstrel.

Why, silver sound? why, musick with her silver sound?

What say you, Simon Catling?

1 Mus. Marry, sir, because silver hath a sweet sound.

Pet. Pretty! What say you, Hugh Rebeck?

2 Mus. I say-silver sound, because musicians sound for silver.

Pet. Pretty too!-What say you, James Soundpost?

3 Mus. 'Faith, I know not what to say.

Pet. O, I cry you mercy! you are the singer: I will say for you. It is musick with her silver sound, because such fellows as you have seldom gold for sounding :

Then musick with her silver sound,

With speedy help doth lend redress.

[Exit, singing.

1 Mus. What a pestilent knave is this same? 2 Mus. Hang him, Jack! Come, we'll in here; tarry for the mourners, and stay dinner. [Exeunt.

ACT THE FIFTH.

SCENE I.

Mantua. A Street.

Enter ROMEO.

Rom. If I may trust the flattering eye of sleep, My dreams presage some joyful news at hand : My bosom's lord sits lightly in his throne;

And, all this day, an unaccustom'd spirit

Lifts me above the ground with cheerful thoughts.
I dreamt, my lady came and found me dead;
(Strange dream! that gives a dead man leave to
think,)

And breath'd such life with kisses in my lips,
That I reviv'd, and was an emperor.

Ah me! how sweet is love itself possess'd,
When but love's shadows are so rich in joy?

Enter BALTHASAR.

News from Verona!-How now, Balthasar?
Dost thou not bring me letters from the friar?
How doth my lady? Is my father well?
How fares my Juliet? That I ask again;
For nothing can be ill, if she be well.

Bal. Then she is well, and nothing can be ill;
Her body sleeps in Capels' monument,
And her immortal part with angels lives;
I saw her laid low in her kindred's vault,
And presently took post to tell it you:
O pardon me for bringing these ill news,
Since you did leave it for my office, sir.

Rom. Is it even so? then I defy you, stars! Thou know'st my lodging: get me ink and paper, And hire post-horses; I will hence to-night.. Bal. Pardon me, sir, I will not leave you Your looks are pale and wild, and do import Some misadventure.

Rom.

thus:

Tush, thou art deceiv'd; Leave me, and do the thing I bid thee do: Hast thou no letters to me from the friar? Bal. No, my good lord.

gone,

Rom. No matter: get thee And hire those horses; I'll be with thee straight.

[Exit BALTHASAR.

Well, Juliet, I will lie with thee to night.

Let's see for means:-O, mischief: thou art swift

To enter in the thoughts of desperate men!
I do remember an apothecary,-

And hereabouts he dwells,—whom late I noted
In tatter'd weeds, with overwhelming brows,
Culling of simples; meager were his looks,
Sharp misery had worn him to the bones :
And in his needy shop a tortoise hung,
An alligator stuff'd, and other skins
Of ill-shap'd fishes; and about his shelves
A beggarly account of empty boxes,

Green earthen pots, bladders, and musty seeds,
Remnants of packthread, and old cakes of roses,
Were thinly scatter'd, to make up a show.
Noting this penury, to myself I said-
And if a man did need a poison now,
Whose sale is present death in Mantua,
Here lives a caitiff wretch would sell it him.
O, this same thought did but fore-run my need;
And this same needy man must sell it me.
As I remember, this should be the house:
Being holiday, the beggar's shop is shut.
What, ho! apothecary!

Ap."

Enter Apothecary.

Who calls so loud?

Rom. Come hither, man.-I see, that thou art

poor;

Hold, there is forty ducats: let me have

A dram of poison; such soon-speeding geer +
As will disperse itself through all the veins,
That the life-weary taker may fall dead;
And that the trunk may be discharg'd of breath
As violently, as hasty powder fir'd

Doth hurry from the fatal cannon's womb.

Ap. Such mortal drugs I have; but Mantua's law Is death, to any he that utters them.

4 Stuff.