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! 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, Cap. All things, that we ordained festival, 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 go, Sir Paris: Move them no more, by crossing their high will. [Exeunt CAPULET, Lady CAPULET, PARIS, and Friar. 1 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 Nurse. 1 Mus. Ay, by my troth, the case may be amended. Pet. Enter PETER. 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?" "My Pet. O, musicians! because my heart itself plays heart is full of woe." O! play me some merry dump, to comfort me. 2 Mus. Not a dump we: 't is no time to play now. Pet. Mus. You will not then? No. Pet. I will, then, give it you soundly. 1 Mus. What will you give us? Pet. No money, on my faith; but the gleek: 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 dry-beat you with an iron wit, and put up my iron dagger. - Answer me like men: When griping grief the heart doth wound, Why, And doleful dumps the mind oppress, Then music, with her silver sound; "silver sound?" why, "music 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? Pet. Pretty too! "silver sound," because musicians sound 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 - "music with her silver sound," because musicians you. It is " have seldom gold for sounding: Then music with her silver sound, With speedy help doth lend redress. 1 Mus. What a pestilent knave is this same. [Exit, singing. 2 Mus. Hang him, Jack! Come, we 'll in here; tarry for the mourners, and stay dinner. [Exeunt. Rom. If I may trust the flattering truth of sleep, I dreamt, my lady came and found me dead; (Strange dream! that gives a dead man leave to think) Ah me! how sweet is love itself possess'd, Enter BALThasar. News from Verona! How now, Balthasar? Dost thou not bring me letters from the friar? How fares my Juliet? That I ask again; Bal. Then she is well, and nothing can be ill: stars! Rom. Is it e'en so? then, I defy you, Bal. I do beseech you, Sir, have patience: Rom. Tush! thou art deceiv'd; Leave me, and do the thing I bid thee do. Bal. No, my good lord. No matter; get thee gone, And hire those horses: I'll be with thee straight. Well, Juliet, I will lie with thee to-night. [Exit BALTHASAR. Let's see for means: - O, mischief! thou art swift I do remember an apothecary, And hereabouts he dwells, which late I noted Green earthen pots, bladders, and musty seeds, Noting this penury, to myself I said O! this same thought did but fore-run my need, 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 And that the trunk may be discharg'd of breath Doth hurry from the fatal cannon's womb. Ap. Such mortal drugs I have; but Mantua's law Rom. Art thou so bare, and full of wretchedness, Rom. There is thy gold; worse poison to men's souls, Doing more murders in this loathsome world, Than these poor compounds that thou may'st not sell: |