Abbildungen der Seite


Par. Beguil'd, divorced, wronged, spited, slain!
Most detestable death, by thee beguild,
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 ! alack! my child is dead;
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, But heaven keeps his part in eternal life. The most you sought was her promotion, For 't was your heaven she should be advanc'd; And weep ye now, seeing she is advanc'd Above the clouds, as high as heaven itself? 0! 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. 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 low'r upon you, for some ill;
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.

Enter PETER. Pet. Musicians, 0, musicians! "Heart's ease, Heart's ease:” 0! an you will have me live, play — "Heart's ease.”

1 Mus. Why “Heart's ease?”
Pet. 0, musicians! because my heart itself plays

“My heart is full of woe.” O! play me some merry dump, to comfort


2 Mus. Not a dump we: 't is no time to play now.
Pet. You will not then?
Mus. 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,

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?

1 Mus. Marry, Sir, because silver hath a sweet sound.
Pet. Pretty! What say you, Hugh Rebeck?
2 Mus. I say

"silver sound," because musicians sound for silver.

Pet. Pretty too! - What say you, James Soundpost ? 3 Mus. 'Faith, I know not what to say. Pet. 0! I cry you mercy; you are the singer: I will say for

“music with her silver sound,” because musicians have seldom gold for sounding:

Then music with her silver sound,
With speedy help doth lend redress.

[Exit, singing. 1 Mus. What a pestilent knave is this same.

2 Mus. Hang him, Jack! Come, we'll in here; tarry for the mourners, and stay dinner.


you. It is


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.
Ab me! how sweet is love itself possessid,
When but love's shadows are so rich in joy?

News from Verona!

Balthasar? Dost thou not bring me letters from the friar? How doth my lady? Is my father well?

- How now,

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 Capels' 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 e'en 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.

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.

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 : -0, 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 bad worn him to the bones: And in his needy shop a tortoise hung, An alligator stuff'd, and other skins Of ill-shap'd 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 Mautua,
Here lives a caitiff wretch would sell it him.
0! 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.

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
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 wretchedness,
And fear'st to die? famine is in thy cheeks,
Need and oppression starveth in thy 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 despatch you straight.

Rom. There is thy gold; worse poison to men's souls, Doing more murders in this loathsome world, Thao these poor compounds that thou may'st not sell:

« ZurückWeiter »