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Enter FRIAR LAWRENCE, with Lanthon, Crow, and
old feet stumbled at graves ! who's there? Alack ! alack! what blood is this, which stains The stony entrance of this sepulchre?
Jul. Who's there?
Fri. Ah, Juliet awake, and Romeo dead ! And Paris too !---Oh, what unkind hour Is guilty of this lamentable chance?
Jul. Here he is still, and I will hold him fast; They shall not tear him from me
Fri. Patience, lady
Jul. Who is that? O, thou cursed Friar! patience ! - Talk'st thou of patience to a wretch like me!
Fri. O, fatal error! rise, thou fair distress'd,
Jul. Come thou not near me,
[Draws a Dagger. Fri. I wonder not thy griefs have made thee
Jul. Go, get thee hence, I will not away-
Then I'll be brief --Oh, happy dagger!
[Kills herself. Enter the Prince, BALTHASAR, and ATTENDANTS,
with the FRIAR. Prince. What misadventure is so early up, That calls our person from its morning rest ?
Enter CAPULET. Cap. What should it be, that they so shriek
Cap. Oh me! this sight of death is as a bell,
age to a sepulchre,
Enter MONTAGUE. Prince. Come, Montague, for thou art early up, To see thy son and heir now early fall’n.
Mont. Alas, my liege, my wife is dead to-night; Grief of my son's exile hath stopp'd her breath. What farther woe conspires against my age !
Prince. Look there--and see
Mont. Oh, 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 and head-meantime forbear, And let mischance be slave to paiience. Bring forth the parties of suspicion.
Fri. I am the greatest.
Prince. Then say, at once, what thou dost know of
this. Fri. Let us retire from this dread scene of death, And I'll unfold the whole; if aught in this Miscarried by my fauit, let my old life Be sacrific'd, some hours before its time, Unto the rigour of severest law,
Prince. We still have known thee for a holy man. Let Romeo's man, and let the boy attend us : We'll hence, and farther scan these sad disasters : Well may ye mourn, my lords, (now wise too late) These tragic issues of your mutual hate : From private feuds, what dire misfortunes flow! Whate'er the cause, the sure effect is woe,