ACT IV. SCENE I.

Friar Laurence's Cell.

Enter Friar LAURENCE and PARIS.

very fhort.

Fri. On thursday, fir? the time is
Par. My father Capulet will have it so;

And I am nothing flow to flack his haste.

Fri. You fay, you do not know the lady's mind;
Uneven is the course, I like it not.

Par. Immoderately the weeps for Tybalt's death,
And therefore have I little talk'd of love;
For Venus fmiles not in a house of tears.
Now, fir, her father counts it dangerous,
That she doth give her forrow so much sway;
And, in his wisdom, haftes our marriage,
To stop the inundation of her tears;
Which, too much minded by herself alone,
May be put from her by fociety:

Now do you know the reason of this hafte.

Fri. I would I knew not why it should be flow'd.

Look, fir, here comes the lady towards my cell.

Enter JULIET.

Par. Happily met, my lady, and my wife!

Jul. That may be, fir, when I may be a wife.

[Afide.

Par. That may be, must be, love, on thursday next. Jul. What must be shall be.

Fri.

That's a certain text.

Par. Come you to make confeffion to this father?
Jul. To answer that, were to confess to you.

Par.

Par. Do not deny to him, that you love me.
Jul. I will confefs to you, that I love him.
Par. So will you, I am fure, that you love me.
ful. If I do fo, it will be of more price,

Being spoke behind your back, than to your face.
Par. Poor foul, thy face is much abus'd with tears.
Jul. The tears have got small victory by that;
For it was bad enough, before their spite.

Par. Thou wrong'st it, more than tears, with that report.
Jul. That is no flander, fir, that is a truth;

And what I fpake, I fpake it to my face.

Par. Thy face is mine, and thou haft flander'd it.
Jul. It may be fo, for it is not mine own.-
Are you at leifure, holy father, now;

Or fhall I come to you at evening mass ?

Fri. My leifure ferves me, penfive daughter, now My lord, we mult entreat the time alone.

Par. God fhield, I should disturb devotion !—
Juliet, on thursday early will I rouse you:

Till then, adieu! and keep this holy kifs. [Exit PARIS.
Jul. O, fhut the door! and when thou haft done fo,
Come weep with me; Paft hope, past cure, past help!
Fri. Ah, Juliet, I already know thy grief;
It trains me past the compass of my wits:
I hear thou must, and nothing may prorogue it,
On thursday next be married to this county.

Jul. Tell me not, friar, that thou hear'st of this,
Unless thou tell me how I may prevent it:

If, in thy wisdom, thou canst give no help,
Do thou but call my resolution wife,

And with this knife I'll help it presently.

God join'd my heart and Romeo's, thou our hands;
And ere this hand, by thee to Romeo feal'd,
Shall be the label to another deed,

ΟΙ

Or my true heart with treacherous revolt
Turn to another, this shall slay them both:
Therefore, out of thy long-experienc'd time,
Give me fome prefent counfel; or, behold,
'Twixt my extremes and me this bloody knife
Shall play the umpire; arbitrating that
Which the commiffion of thy years and art
Could to no iffue of true honour bring.
Be not fo long to speak; I long to die,
If what thou speak'st speak not of remedy.

Fri. Hold, daughter; I do spy a kind of hope,
Which craves as desperate an execution
As that is defperate which we would prevent.
If, rather than to marry county Paris,
Thou haft the strength of will to flay thyself;
Then is it likely, thou wilt undertake
A thing like death to chide away this fhame,
That cop'st with death himself to scape from it;
And, if thou dar'ft, I'll give thee remedy.

Jul. O, bid me leap, rather than marry Paris,
From off the battlements of yonder tower;
Or walk in thievifh ways; or bid me lurk
Where ferpents are; chain me with roaring bears;
Or fhut me nightly in a charnel-house,

O'er-cover'd quite with dead men's rattling bones,
With reeky fhanks, and yellow chaplefs fculls;

Or bid me go into a new-made grave,

And hide me with a dead man in his shroud;

Things that, to hear them told, have made me tremble;

And I will do it without fear or doubt,

To live an unftain'd wife to my sweet love.

Fri. Hold, then; go home, be merry, give confent To marry Paris: Wednesday is to-morrow;

To-morrow night look that thou lie alone,

Let

Let not thy nurse lie with thee in thy chamber:
Take thou this phial, being then in bed,
And this distilled liquor drink thou off:

When, prefently, through all thy veins fhall run
A cold and drowsy humour, which shall seize
Each vital spirit; for no pulfe fhall keep
His natural progrefs, but furcease to beat :
No warmth, no breath, shall testify thou liv’st;
The roses in thy lips and cheeks shall fade
To paly ashes; thy eyes' windows fall,
Like death, when he shuts up the day of life;
Each part, depriv'd of fupple government,
Shall stiff, and stark, and cold, appear like death:
And in this borrow'd likeness of fhrunk death
Thou shalt remain full two and forty hours,
And then awake as from a pleasant sleep.
Now when the bridegroom in the morning comes
To roufe thee from thy bed, there art thou dead:
Then (as the manner of our country is,)

In thy best robes uncover'd on the bier,

Thou shalt be borne to that fame ancient vault,
Where all the kindred of the Capulets lie.
In the mean time, against thou shalt awake,
Shall Romeo by my letters know our drift;
And hither fhall he come; and he and I
Will watch thy waking, and that very night
Shall Romeo bear thee hence to Mantua.

And this fhall free thee from this present shame;
If no unconftant toy, nor womanish fear,

Abate thy valour in the acting it.

Jul. Give me, O give me! tell me not of fear.

Fri. Hold; get you gone, be strong and profperous

In this refolve: I'll fend a friar with speed

To Mantua, with my letters to thy lord.

Jul.

Jul. Love, give me ftrength! and strength shall help afford.

Farewell, dear father!

[Exeunt.

SCENE II.

A Room in Capulet's Houfe.

Enter CAPULET, Lady CAPULET, Nurfe, and Servant.

Cap. So many guests invite as here are writ.

Sirrah, go hire me twenty cunning cooks.

[Exit Servant.

2. Serv. You shall have none ill, fir; for I'll try if they can lick their fingers.

Cap. How canft thou try them fo?

2. Serv. Marry, fir, 'tis an ill cook that cannot lick his own fingers: therefore he, that cannot lick his fingers, goes not with me.

Cap. Go, begone.

[Exit Servant.

We shall be much unfurnish'd for this time.

What, is my daughter gone to friar Laurence?

Nurfe. Ay, forfooth.

Cap. Well, he may chance to do fome good on her: A peevish felf-will'd harlotry it is.

Enter JULIET.

Nurfe. See, where fhe comes from shrift with merry look. Cap. How now, my headstrong? where have you been gadding?

Jul. Where I have learn'd me to repent the fin

Of difobedient opposition

To you, and your behefts; and am enjoin'd
By holy Laurence to fall proftrate here,

And beg your pardon :-Pardon, I beseech you!
Henceforward I am ever rul'd by you.

Cap.