Romeu e Julieta

Romeu e Julieta é uma tragédia escrita em primórdios da carreira literária de William Shakespeare (entre 1591 e 1595) sobre dois adolescentes cuja morte acaba unindo suas famílias, outrora em pé de guerra. A peça ficou entre as mais populares na época de Shakespeare e, ao lado de Hamlet, é uma das suas obras mais levadas aos palcos do mundo inteiro. Hoje, o relacionamento dos dois jovens é considerado como o arquétipo do amor juvenil.

Romeu e Julieta pertence a uma tradição de romances trágicos que remontam a antiguidade. Seu enredo é baseado em um conto da Itália, traduzido em versos como A Trágica História de Romeu e Julieta por Arthur Brooke em 1562, e retomado em prosa como Palácio do Prazer por William Painter em 1582. Shakespeare baseou-se em ambos, mas reforçou a ação de personagens secundários, especialmente Mercúcio e Páris, a fim de expandir o enredo. O texto foi publicado pela primeira vez em 1597 mas essa versão foi considerada como de péssima qualidade, o que estimulou muitas outras edições posteriores que trouxeram consonância com o texto original de Shakespeare.


A estrutura dramática usada por Shakespeare — especialmente os efeitos de gêneros como a comutação entre comédia e tragédia para aumentar a tensão; sua atitude de expandir os personagens mais secundários e a utilização de sub-enredos para embelezar a história — tem sido elogiada como um sinal precoce de sua habilidade dramática e maturidade artística. Além disso, a peça atribui distintas formas poéticas a diferentes personagens para apresentar sua personalidade mais evoluída: Romeu, por exemplo, cresce mais versado nos sonetos ao longo da trama.



Em mais de cinco séculos de realização, Romeu e Julieta tem sido adaptada nos infinitos campos e áreas do teatro, cinema, música e literatura. Enquanto Davenant tentava revigorá-la durante a Restauração Inglesa, e Garrick modificava cenas e removia materiais considerados indecentes no século XVIII, Charlotte Cushman, no século XIX, apresentava ao público uma versão que preservava o texto de Shakespeare. A peça tornou-se memorável nos palcos brasileiros com a interpretação de Paulo Porto e Sônia Oiticica nos papéis principais, e serviu de influência para Taunay em seu Inocência, também baseado em Amor de Perdição, de Camilo Castelo Branco, considerado o "Romeu e Julieta lusitano". Além de se mostrar influente no ultra romantismo português e no naturalismo brasileiro, Romeu e Julieta se mantém famosa nas produções cinematográficas atuais, notavelmente na versão de 1968 de Zeffirelli, indicado como melhor filme, e no mais recente Romeu + Julieta, de Luhrmann, que traz seu enredo para a atualidade.




Fonte: Wikipedia http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Romeo_and_Juliet

Act V. Scene III.

Act V. Scene III.
Scene III.—The Same. A Churchyard; in
it a Monument belonging to the CAPULETS.

Enter PARIS, and his Page, 'bearing flowers
and a torch.

Par. Give me thy torch, boy: hence, and
stand aloof;
Yet put it out, for I would not be seen.
Under yond yew-trees lay thee all along,
Holding thine ear close to the hollow ground:
So shall no foot upon the churchyard tread,
Being loose, unfirm with digging up of graves,
But thou shalt hear it: whistle then to me,
As signal that thou hear'st something approach.
Give me those flowers. Do as I bid thee; go.
Page. [Aside.] I am almost afraid to stand
alone
Here in the churchyard; yet I will adventure.
[Retires.
Par. Sweet flower, with flowers thy bridal bed
I strew,
O woe! thy canopy is dust and stones;
Which with sweet water nightly I will dew,
Or, wanting that, with tears distill'd by moans:
The obsequies that I for thee will keep
Nightly shall be to strew thy grave and weep.
[The Page whistles.
The boy gives warning something doth approach.
What cursed foot wanders this way to-night,
To cross my obsequies and true love's rite?
What! with a torch?—muffle me, night, awhile.
[Retires.

Enter ROMEO and BALTHASAR, with a
torch, mattock, &c.
Rom. Give me that mattock, and the wrench-
ing iron.
Hold, take this letter; early in the morning
See thou deliver it to my lord and father.
Give me the light: upon thy life I charge thee,
Whate'er thou hear'st or seest, stand all aloof,
And do not interrupt me in my course.
Why I descend into this bed of death,
Is partly, to behold my lady's face;
But chiefly to take thence from her dead finger
A precious ring, a ring that I must use
In dear employment: therefore hence, be gone;
But, if thou, jealous, dost return to pry
In what I further shall intend to do,
By heaven, I will tear thee joint by joint,
And strew this hungry churchyard with thy
limbs.
The time and my intents are savage-wild,
More fierce and more inexorable far
Than empty tigers or the roaring sea.
Bal. I will be gone, sir, and not trouble you.
Rom. So shalt thou show me friendship. Take
thou that:
Live, and be prosperous; and farewell, good
fellow.
Bal. [Aside.] For all this same, I'll hide me
here about:
His looks I fear, and his intents I doubt.
[Retires.
Mon. Thou detestable maw, thou womb of
death,
Gorg'd with the dearest morsel of the earth,
Thus I enforce thy rotten jaws to open,
[Opens the tomb.
And, in despite, I'll cram thee with more food!
Par. This is that banish'd haughty Montague,
That murder'd my love's cousin, with which grief
It is supposed the fair creature died;
And here is come to do some villanous shame
To the dead bodies: I will apprehend him.—
[Comes forward.
Stop thy unhallow'd toil, vile Montague,
Can vengeance be pursu'd further than death?
Condemned villain, I do apprehend thee:
Obey, and go with me; for thou must die.
Rom. I must, indeed; and therefore came I
hither.
Good gentle youth, tempt not a desperate man;
Fly hence and leave me: think upon these gone;
Let them affright thee. I beseech thee, youth,
Put not another sin upon my head
By urging me to fury: O! be gone:
By heaven, I love thee better than myself.
For I come hither arm'd against myself:
Stay not, be gone; live, and hereafter say
A madman's mercy bade thee run away.
Par. I do defy thy conjurations,
And apprehend thee for a felon here.
Rom. Wilt thou provoke me? then have at
thee, boy! [They fight.
Page. O Lord! they fight: I will go call the
watch. [Exit.
Par. [Falls.] O, I am slain!—If thou be mer-
ciful,
Open the tomb, lay me with Juliet [Dies.
Rom. In faith, I will. Let me peruse this face:
Mercutio's kinsman, noble County Paris!
What said my man when my betossed soul
Did not attend him as we rode? I think
He told me Paris should have married Juliet:
Said he not so? or did I dream it so?
Or am I mad, hearing him talk of Juliet,
To think it was so? O! give me thy hand,
One writ with me in sour misfortune's book:
I'll bury thee in a triumphant grave;
A grave? O, no! a lanthorn, slaughtered youth,
For here lies Juliet, and her beauty makes
This vault a feasting presence full of light.
Death, lie thou there, by a dead man interr'd,
[Laying PARIS in the tomb.
How oft when men are at the point of death
Have they been merry! which their keepers call
A lightning before death: O! how may I
Call this a lightning? O my love! my wife!
Death, that hath suck'd the honey of thy breath,
Hath had no power yet upon thy beauty:
Thou art not conquer'd; beauty's ensign yet
Is crimson in thy lips and in thy cheeks,
And death's pale flag is not advanced there.
Tybalt, liest thou there in thy bloody sheet?
O! what more favour can I do to thee,
Than with that hand that cut thy youth in twain
To sunder his that was thine enemy?
Forgive me, cousin! Ah! dear Juliet,
Why art thou yet so fair? Shall I believe
That unsubstantial Death is amorous,
And that the lean abhorred monster keeps
Thee here in dark to be his paramour?
For fear of that I still will stay with thee,
And never from this palace of dim night
Depart again: here, here will I remain
With worms that are thy chambermaids; O!
here
Will I set up my everlasting rest,
And shake the yoke of inauspicious stars
From this world-wearied flesh. Eyes, look your
last!
Arms, take your last embrace! and, lips, O you
The doors of breath, seal with a righteous kiss
A dateless bargain to engrossing death!
Come, bitter conduct, come, unsavoury guide!
Thou desperate pilot, now at once run on
The dashing rocks thy sea-sick weary bark!
Here's to my love! [Drinks.] O true apothecary!
Thy drugs are quick. Thus with a kiss I die.
[Dies.

Enter, at the other end of the Churchyard,
FRIAR LAURENCE, with a lanthom, crow,
and spade.
Fri. L. Saint Francis be my speed! how oft
to-night
Have my old feet stumbled at graves! Who's
there?
Bal. Here's one, a friend, and one that knows
you well.
Fri. L. Bliss be upon you! Tell me, good my
friend,
What torch is yond, that vainly lends his light
To grubs and eyeless skulls? as I discern,
It burneth in the Capel's monument.
Bal. It doth so, holy sir; and there's my
master,
One that you love.
Fri. L. Who is it?
Bal. Romeo,
Fri. L. How long hath he been there?
Bal. Full half an hour.
Fri. L. Go with me to the vault.
Bal. I dare not, sir.
My master knows not but I am gone hence;
And fearfully did menace me with death
If I did stay to look on his intents.
Fri. L. Stay then, I'll go alone. Fear comes
upon me;
O! much I fear some ill unlucky thing.
Bal. As I did sleep under this yew-tree here,
I dreamt my master and another fought,
And that my master slew him.
Fri. L. [Advances.] Romeo!
Alack, alack! what blood is this which stains
The stony entrance of this sepulchre?
What mean these masterless and gory swords
To lie discoloured by this place of peace?
[Enters the tomb.
Romeo! O, pale! Who else? what! Paris too?
And steep'd in blood? Ah! what an unkind
hour
Is guilty of this lamentable chance.
The lady stirs. [JULIET wakes.
Jul. O, comfortable friar! where is my lord?
I do remember well where I should be,
And there I am. Where is my Romeo?
[Noise within.
Fri. L. I hear some noise. Lady, come from
that nest
Of death, contagion, and unnatural sleep:
A greater power than we can contradict
Hath thwarted our intents: come, come away.
Thy husband in thy bosom there lies dead;
And Paris too: come, I'll dispose of thee
Among a sisterhood of holy nuns.
Stay not to question, for the watch is coming;
Come, go, good Juliet.—[Noise again.] I dare
no longer stay.
Jul. Go, get thee hence, for I will not away.
[Exit FRIAR LAURENCE.
What's here? a cup, clos'd in my true love's
hand?
Poison, I see, hath been his timeless end.
O churl! drunk all, and left no friendly drop
To help me after! I will kiss thy lips;
Haply, some poison yet doth hang on them,
To make me die with a restorative. [Kisses him.
Thy lips are warm!
First Watch. [Within.] Lead, boy: which way?
Jul. Yea, noise? then I'll be brief. O happy
dagger! [Snatching ROMEO'S dagger.
This is thy sheath; [Stabs herself.] there rest,
and let me die.
[Falls on ROMEO'S body and dies.

Enter Watch, with the Page of PARIS.
Page. This is the place; there where the
torch doth burn.
First Watch. The ground is bloody; search
about the churchyard.
Go, some of you; whoe'er you find, attach.
[Exeunt some of the Watch.
Pitiful sight! here lies the county slain,
And Juliet bleeding, warm, and newly dead,
Who here hath lain these two days buried.
Go, tell the prince, run to the Capulets,
Raise up the Montagues, some others search:
[Exeunt others of the Watch.
We see the ground whereon these woes do lie;
But the true ground of all these piteous woes
We cannot without circumstance descry.

Re-enter some of the Watch, with BAL-
THASAR.
Sec. Watch. Here's Romeo's man; we found
him in the churchyard.
First Watch. Hold him in safety, till the
prince come hither.

Re-enter other of the Watch, with FRIAR
LAURENCE.
Third Watch. Here is a friar, that trembles,
sighs, and weeps;
We took this mattock and this spade from him,
As he was coming from this churchyard side.
First Watch. A great suspicion: stay the
friar too.

Enter the PRINCE and Attendants.
Prince. What misadventure is so early up,
That calls our person from our morning's rest?

Enter CAPULET, LADY CAPULET, and Others.
Cap. What should it be, that they so
shriek abroad?
Lady Cap. The people in the street cry
Romeo,
Some Juliet, and some Paris; and all run
With open outcry toward our monument.
Prince. What fear is this which startles in
our ears?
First Watch. Sovereign, here lies the County
Paris slain;
And Romeo dead; and Juliet, dead before,
Warm and new kill'd.
Prince. Search, seek, and know how this foul
murder comes.
First Watch. Here is a friar, and slaughter'd
Romeo's man;
With instruments upon them, fit to open
These dead men's tombs.
Cap. O, heaven!—O wife! look how our
daughter bleeds!
This dagger hath mista'en!—for, lo, his house
Is empty on the back of Montague—
And is mis-sheathed in my daughter's bosom.
Lady Cap. O me! this sight of death is as a
bell,
That warns my old age to a sepulchre.

Enter MONTAGUE and Others.
Prince. Come, Montague: for thou art early
up,
To see thy son and heir more early down.
Mon. Alas! my liege, my wife is dead to-
night;
Grief of my son's exile hath stopp'd her breath.
What further woe conspires against mine age?
Prince. Look, and thou shalt see.
Mon. O thou untaught! what manners is in
this,
To press before thy father to a grave?
Prince. Seal up the mouth of outrage for a
while,
Till we can clear these ambiguities,
And know their spring, their head, their true
descent;
And then will I be general of your woes,
And lead you even to death: meantime forbear,
And let mischance be slave to patience.
Bring forth the parties of suspicion.
Fri. L. I am the greatest, able to do least,
Yet most suspected, as the time and place
Doth make against me, of this direful murder;
And here I stand, both to impeach and purge
Myself condemned and myself excus'd.
Prince. Then say at once what thou dost
know in this.
Fri. L. I will be brief, for my short date of
breath
Is not so long as is a tedious tale.
Romeo, there dead, was husband to that Juliet;
And she, there dead, that Romeo's faithful wife:
I married them; and their stolen marriage-day
Was Tybalt's doomsday, whose untimely death
Banish'd the new-made bridegroom from this
city;
For whom, and not for Tybalt, Juliet pin'd.
You, to remove that siege of grief from her,
Betroth'd, and would have married her perforce,
To County Paris: then comes she to me,
And, with wild looks bid me devise some mean
To rid her from this second marriage,
Or in my cell there would she kill herself.
Then gave I her.—so tutor'd by my art,—
A sleeping potion; which so took effect
As I intended, for it wrought on her
The form of death: meantime I writ to Romeo
That he should hither come as this dire night,
To help to take her from her borrow'd grave,
Being the time the potion's force should cease.
But he which bore my letter, Friar John,
Was stay'd by accident, and yesternight
Return'd my letter back. Then, all alone,
At the prefixed hour of her waking,
Came I to take her from her kindred's vault,
Meaning to keep her closely at my cell,
Till I conveniently could send to Romeo:
But, when I came,—some minute ere the time
Of her awakening,—here untimely lay
The noble Paris and true Romeo dead.
She wakes; and I entreated her come forth,
And bear this work of heaven with patience;
But then a noise did scare me from the tomb,
And she, too desperate, would not go with me,
But, as it seems, did violence on herself.
All this I know; and to the marriage
Her nurse is privy: and, if aught in this
Miscarried by my fault, let my old life
Be sacrific'd, some hour before his time,
Unto the rigour of severest law.
Prince. We still have known thee for a holy
man.
Where's Romeo's man? what can he say in
this?
Bal. I brought my master news of Juliet's
death;
And then in post he came from Mantua
To this same place, to this same monument.
This letter he early bid me give his father,
And threaten'd me with death, going In the
vault,
If I departed not and left him there.
Prince. Give me the letter; I will look on it.
Where is the county's page that rais'd the
watch?
Sirrah, what made your master in this place?
Page. He came with flowers to strew his
lady's grave,
And bid me stand aloof, and so I did;
Anon, comes one with light to ope the tomb;
And by and by my master drew on him;
And then I ran away to call the watch.
Prince. This letter doth make good the friar's
words,
Their course of love, the tidings of her death:
And here he writes that he did buy a poison
Of a poor 'pothecary, and therewithal
Came to this vault to die, and lie with Juliet.
Where be these enemies?—Capulet! Montague!
See what a scourge is laid upon your hate,
That heaven finds means to kill your joys with
love;
And I, for winking at your discords too,
Have lost a brace of kinsmen: all are punish'd.
Cap. O brother Montague' give me thy hand:
This is my daughter's jointure, for no more
Can I demand.
Mon. But I can give thee more;
For I will raise her statue in pure gold;
That while Verona by that name is known,
There shall no figure at such rate be set
As that of true and faithful Juliet.
Cap. As rich shall Romeo by his lady lie;
Poor sacrifices of our enmity!
Prince. A glooming peace this morning with
it brings;
The sun, for sorrow, will not show his head:
Go hence, to have more talk of these sad things:
Some shall be pardon'd, and some punished
For never was a story of more woe
Than this of Juliet and her Romeo. [Exeunt.

Act V. Scene II.

Act V. Scene II.
Scene II.—Verona. FRIAR
LAURENCE'S Cell.

Enter FRIAR JOHN.

Fri. J. Holy Franciscan friar! brother, ho!

Enter FRIAR LAURENCE.
Fri. L. This same should be the voice of Friar
John.
Welcome from Mantua: what says Romeo?
Or, if his mind be writ, give me his letter.
Fri. J. Going to find a bare-foot brother out,
One of our order, to associate me,
Here in this city visiting the sick,
And finding him, the searchers of the town,
Suspecting that we both were in a house
Where the infectious pestilence did reign,
Seal'd up the doors, and would not let us forth;
So that my speed to Mantua there was stay'd.
Fri. L. Who bare my letter then to Romeo?
Fri. J. I could not send it, here it is again,
Nor get a messenger to bring it thee,
So fearful were they of infection.
Fri. L. Unhappy fortune! by my brother-
hood,
The letter was not nice, but full of charge
Of dear import; and the neglecting it
May do much danger. Friar John, go hence;
Get me an iron crow, and bring it straight
Unto my cell.
Fri. J. Brother, I'll go and bring it thee.
[Exit.
Fri. L. Now must I to the monument
alone;
Within this three hours will fair Juliet wake:
She will beshrew me much that Romeo
Hath had no notice of these accidents;
But I will write again to Mantua,
And keep her at my cell tall Romeo come:
Poor living corse, clos'd in a dead man's tomb!
[Exit.

Act V. Scene I.

Act V. Scene I.
Act V. Scene I.—Mantua. A Street.

Enter ROMEO.

Rom. If I may trust the flattering truth 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, 'booted.
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 Capel's 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. I do beseech you, sir, have patience:
Your looks are pale and wild, and do import
Some misadventure.
Rom. 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.
Rom. No matter; get thee gone,
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, which late I noted
In tatter'd weeds, with overwhelming brows,
Culling of simples; meagre 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-shaped 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
An 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!

Enter Apothecary.
Ap. 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 gear
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.
Rom. Art thou so bare, and full of wretched-
ness,
And fear'st to die? famine is in thy cheeks,
Need and oppression starveth in thine eyes,
Contempt and beggary hang upon thy back;
The world is not thy friend nor the world's law:
The world affords no law to make thee rich;
Then be not poor, but break it, and take this.
Ap. My poverty, but not my will, consents.
Rom. I pay thy poverty, and not thy will.
Ap. Put this in any liquid thing you will,
And drink it off; and, if you had the strength
Of twenty men, it would dispatch you straight.
Rom. There is thy gold, worse poison to men's
souls,
Doing more murders in this loathsome world
Than these poor compounds that thou mayst
not sell:
I sell thee poison, thou hast sold me none.
Farewell; buy food, and get thyself in flesh.
Come, cordial and not poison, go with me
To Juliet's grave, for there must I use thee.
[Exeunt.

Act IV. Scene V.

Act IV. Scene V.
Scene V.—The Same. 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? you take your pennyworths
now:
Sleep for a week; for the next night, I warrant,
The County Paris hath set up his rest,
That you shall rest but little. God forgive me,
Marry, and amen, 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?
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 Cap. What noise is here?
Nurse. O lamentable day!
Lady Cap. What is the matter?
Nurse. Look, look! O heavy day!
Lady Cap. O me, O me! my child, my only
life,
Revive, look up, or I will die with thee!
Help, help! Call help.

Enter CAPULET.
Cap. For shame! bring Juliet forth; her
lord is come.
Nurse. She's dead, deceas'd, she's dead;
alack the day!
Lady Cap. Alack the day! she's dead, she's
dead! she's dead!
Cap. 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 tike an untimely frost
Upon the sweetest flower of all the field.
Nurse. O lamentable day!
Lady Cap. O woeful time!
Cap. 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.
Fri. L. Come, is the bride ready to go to
church?
Cap. Ready to go, but never to return.
O son! the night before thy wedding-day
Hath Death lain with thy wife. 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!
Par. Have I thought long to see this mom-
ing's face,
And doth it give me such a sight as this?
Lady Cap. Accurs'd, 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 woeful, woeful, woeful day!
Most lamentable day, most woeful 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 woeful day, O woeful day!
Par. 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!
Cap. Despis'd, distressed, hated, martyr'd,
kill'd!
Uncomfortable time, why cam'st thou now
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. L. 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.
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. L. 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.
First Mus. 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.
First Mus. Ay, by my troth, the case may be
amended.

Enter PETER.
Pet. Musicians! O! musicians, 'Heart's ease,
Heart's ease:' O! an ye will have me live, play
'Heart's ease.'
First 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.
Sec. Mus. Not a dump we; 'tis no time to
play now.
Pet. You will not then?
Musicians. No.
Pet. I will then give it you soundly.
First Mus. What will you give us?
Pet. No money, on my faith! but the gleek;
I will give you the minstrel.
First 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?
First Mus. An you re us, and fa us, you
note us.
Sec. Mus. Pray you, put up your dagger, and
put out your wit.
Pet. Then have at you with my wit! I will
dry-beat 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?
First Mus. Marry, sir, because silver hath a
sweet sound.
Pet. Pretty! What say you, Hugh Rebeck?
Sec. Mus. I say 'silver sound,' because mu-
sicians sound for silver.
Pet. Pretty too! What say you, James
Soundpost?
Third 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, '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.
First Mus. What a pestilent knave is this
same!
Sec. Mus. Hang him, Jack! Come, we'll in
here; tarry for the mourners, and stay dinner.
[Exeunt.

Act IV. Scene IV.

Act IV. Scene IV.
Scene IV.—The Same. Hall in CAPULET'S
House.

Enter LADY CAPULET and Nurse.

Lady Cap. Hold, take these keys, and fetch
more spices, nurse.
Nurse. They call for dates and quinces in
the pastry.

Enter CAPULET.
Cap. Come, stir, stir, stir! the second cock
hath crow'd,
The curfew bell hath rung, 'tis three o'clock:
Look to the bak'd meats, good Angelica:
Spare not for cost.
Nurse. Go, go, you cot-quean, go;
Get you to bed; faith, you'll be sick to-morrow
For this night's watching.
Cap. No, not a whit; what I I have watch'd
ere now
All night for lesser cause, and ne'er been sick.
Lady Cap. Ay, you have been a mouse-hunt
in your time;
But I will watch you from such watching now.
[Exeunt LADY CAPULET and Nurse.
Cap. A jealous-hood, a jealous-hood!

Enter three or four Serving-men, with spits,
logs, and baskets.
Now, fellow,
What's there?
First Serv. Things for the cook, sir; but I
know not what.
Cap. Make haste, make haste. [Exit first
Serving-man.] Sirrah, fetch drier logs:
Call Peter, he will show thee where they are.
Sec. Serv. I have a head, sir, that will find out
logs,
And never trouble Peter for the matter. [Exit.
Cap. Mass, and well said; a merry whoreson,
ha!
Thou shalt be logger-head. Good faith! 'tis
day:
The county will be here with music straight,
For so he said he would. [Music within.] I hear
him near.
Nurse! Wife! what, ho! What, nurse, I say!

Re-enter Nurse.
Go waken Juliet, go and trim her up;
I'll go and chat with Paris. Hie, make haste,
Make haste; the bridegroom he is come
already:
Make haste, I say. [Exeunt.