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And flay thy lady too, that lives in thee?
What, rouse thee, man, thy Juliet is alive,
For whofe dear fake thou waft but lately dead:
There art thou happy. Tybalt would kill thee,
But thou flew'st Tybalt; there thou're happy too.
The law that threatned death became thy friend,
And turn'd it to exile; there art thou happy.
A pack of bleffings light upon thy back,
Happiness courts thee in her beft array,
But like a misbehav'd and fullen wench,
Thou pout'ft upon thy fortune and thy love.
Take heed, take heed, for fuch die miferable.
Go get thee to thy love, as was decreed,
Afcend her chamber, hence and comfort her:
But look thou stay not 'till the watch be fet,
For then thou canst not pass to Mantua,
Where thou shalt live, 'till we can find a time
To blaze your marriage, reconcile your friends,
Beg pardon of thy prince, and call thee back
With twenty hundred thousand times more joy,
Than thou went'st forth in lamentation.
Go before, nurse; commend me to thy lady,
And bid her haften all the house to bed,
Which heavy forrow makes them apt unto.
Romeo is coming.

Nurfe. O lord, I could have staid here all night long,

To hear good counsel: oh, what learning is!

My lord, I'll tell my lady you will come.

Rom. Do fo, and bid my sweet prepare to chide.

Nurse. Here, Sir, a ring fhe bid me give you, Sir:

Hie you, make hafte, for it grows very late.

*Here follows in the common books a great deal of nonfenfe, not one word of which is to be found in the first edition.

Thou putteft up thy fortune.

Rom.

Rom. How well my comfort is reviv'd by this.
Fri. Sojourn in Mantua; I'll find out your man,
And he shall fignifie from time to time

Every good hap to you that chances here:
Give me thy hand, 'tis late, farewel, good-night.
Rom. But that a joy, past joy, calls out on me,
It were a grief, fo brief to part with thee.

Cap. Th

* SCENE VI.

Capulet's House.

Enter Capulet, Lady Capulet, and Paris.

HINGS have faln out, Sir, fo unluckily,

[Exeunt.

That we have had no time to move our daughter:

Look you, she lov'd her kinsman Tybalt dearly,

And fo did I Well, we were born to die

'Tis very late, fhe'll not come down to-night.

Par. These times of woe afford no time to wooe: Madam, good-night, commend me to your daughter. Cap. Sir Paris, I will make a desperate tender

Of my child's love: I think fhe will be rul'd

In all refpects by me, nay more, I doubt it not.

But foft; what day is this?

Par. Monday, my lord.

Cap. Monday? ha! ha! well, Wednesday is too foon,
On Thursday let it be: you fhall be marry'd.

We'll keep no great a-do----- a friend or two
For, hark you, Tybalt being flain so late,
It may be thought we held him carelesly,
Being our kinsman, if we revel much:

Vo L. VI.

Qq

There

* Some few unnecessary verfes are omitted in this scene according to the oldeft editions.

Therefore we'll have fome half a dozen friends,
And there's an end. But what say you to Thursday?
Par. My lord, I would that Thursday were to-morrow.
Cap. Well, get you gone- -----on Thursday be it then:
Go you to Juliet ere you go to bed,
[To lady Capulet.

Prepare her, wife, against this wedding-day.
Farewel, my lord ---- light to my chamber, hoa!
Good-night.

[Exeunt.

Jul.

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SCENE VII.

The Garden.

Enter Romeo and Juliet above at a window; a ladder

of ropes fet.

ILT thou be gone? it is not yet near day:

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It was the Nightingale, and not the Lark,

'That pierc'd the fearful hollow of thine ear; Nightly the fings on yond pomgranate tree: Believe me love, it was the nightingale.

Rom. It was the Lark, the herald of the morn, 'No Nightingale. Look, love, what envious streaks

'Do lace the fevering clouds in yonder east:

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Night's candles are burnt out, and jocund day

• Stands tiptoe on the misty mountain tops.

'I must be gone and live, or ftay and dye.

Jul. Yon light is not day-light, I know it well:
It is fome meteor that the fun exhales,
• To be to thee this night a torch-bearer,
And light thee on thy way to Mantua

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Then stay a while, thou fhalt not go so foon.

Rom. Let me then stay, let me be 'ta'en and dye; If thou wilt have it fo, I am content.

I'll fay yon gray is not the morning's eye,
'Tis but the pale reflex of Cynthia's brow;
I'll fay it is the Nightingale that beats
< The vaulty heav'ns fo high above our heads,
And not the Lark, the meffenger of morn.

Come death and welcome: Juliet wills it fo.
What fays my love? let's talk, it is not day.
Jul. It is, it is, hie hence, be gone, away:
It is the lark that fings so out of tune,
Straining harsh discords, and unpleafing fharps.
Some fay the lark makes sweet divifion;

This doth not fo: for fhe divideth us.

† Some fay, the lark and loathed toad change eyes,
O now I would they had chang'd voices too!

O now be gone, more light and light it grows.
Rom. Farewel my love: one kiss, and I'll defcend.
Enter Nurfe.

Nurse. Madam.

Jul. Nurse.

Nurse. Your lady mother's coming to your cham ber: The day is broke, be wary, look about.

Jul. Art thou gone fo? love! lord! ah husband! friend!

I must hear from thee ev'ry day in th' hour,

For in a minute there are many days.

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Therefore ftay, yet thou need'ft not to be gone.
Rom. Let me be ta'en, let me be put to death,

I am content, if thou wilt have it fo.
I'll fay yon gray is not the morning's eye,
'Tis but the pale reflex of Cynthia's brow,
Nor that is not the lark whofe notes do beat
The vaulty beav'ns fo high above our heads.
I have more care to stay than will to go.
Come death &c.

+ alluding to fome fable, or fome notion of the Naturalifts.

1

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O by this count I shall be much in years,
Ere I again behold my Romeo.

Rom. Farewel: I will omit no opportunity,
That may convey my greetings, love, to thee.
Jul. O think'st thou we shall ever meet again?
Rem. I doubt it not, and all these woes shall serve
For fweet difcourfes, in our time to come.

Jul. O God! I have an ill-divining soul,
Methinks I fee thee, now thou art below,
As one dead in the bottom of a tomb:
Either my eye-fight fails, or thou look'st pale.
Rom. And trust me, love, in mine
Dry Sorrow drinks our blood. Adieu, adieu.

SCENE

eye

Juliet's Chamber.

Enter Juliet.

[Romeo defcends.

fo do you:

VIII.

Jul. Oh fortune, fortune, all men call thee fickle,

If thou art fickle, what doft thou with him
That is renown'd for faith? be fickle fortune:
For then I hope thou wilt not keep him long,
But fend him back.

Enter lady Capulet.

La. Cap. Ho daughter, are you up?

Jul. Who is't that calls? is it my lady mother?
What unaccustom'd caufe procures her hither?
La. Cap. Why how now, Juliet?

Jul. Madam, I'm not well.

La. Cap. Evermore weeping for your coufin's death ? What, wilt thou wash him from his grave with tears?

Jul. Yet let me weep, for such a feeling lofs.

[Exeunt.

*

* Several unnecessary lines are omitted in this fcene, which is printed more agreeably to the first edition.

La.

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