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Take heed, take heed, for such die miserable.
Go, get thee to thy love, as was decreed,
Ascend her chamber, hence and comfort her :
But look thou stay not till the watch be set,
For then thou canst not pass to Mantua ;
Where thou shalt live till we can find a time 150
To blaze your marriage, reconcile your friends,
Beg pardon of the 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 hasten all the house to bed,
Which heavy sorrow makes them apt unto :

Romeo is coming.
Nurse. O Lord, I could have stay'd here all the night

To hear good counsel : 0, what learning is ! 160

My lord, I'll tell my lady you will come. Rom. Do so, and bid my sweet prepare to chide. Nurse. Here, sir, a ring she bid me give you, sir :

Hie you, make haste, for it grows very late. [Exit
Rom. How well my comfort is revived by this !
Fri. L. Go hence ; good night; and here stands all your

state :
Either be gone before the watch be set,
Or by the break of day disguised from hence :
Sojourn in Mantua; I'll find out your man,
And he shall signify from time to time

170 Every good hap to you that chances here :

Give me thy hand ; 'tis late: farewell; good night. Rom. But that a joy past joy calls out on me,

It were a grief, so brief to part with thee:
Farewell.

[Exeunt.

Scene IV.
A room in Capulet's house.

Enter Capulet, Lady Capulet, and Paris.
Cap. Things have fall’n out, sir, so unluckily,

That we have had no time to move our daughter.
Look you, she loved her kinsman Tybalt dearly,
And so did I. Well, we were born to die.
'Tis very late; she 'll not come down to-night :
I promise you, but for your company,

I would have been a-bed an hour ago.
Par. These times of woe afford no time to woo.

Madam, good night : commend me to your daughter. La. Cap. I will, and know her mind early to-morrow; 10

To-night she's mew'd up to her heaviness.
Cap. Sir Paris, I will make a desperate tender

Of my child's love: I think she will be ruled
In all respects by me; nay more, I doubt it not.
Wife, go you to her ere you go to bed ;
Acquaint her here of my son Paris' love;
And bid her, mark you me, on Wednesday next-

But, soft! what day is this?
Par.

Monday, my lord.
Cap. Monday! ha, ha! Well, Wednesday is too soon ;

O'Thursday let it be : oʻThursday, tell her,
She shall be married to this noble earl.
Will you be ready? do you like this haste ?
We'll keep no great ado; a friend or two;
For, hark you, Tybalt being slain so late,
It may be thought we held him carelessly,
Being our kinsman, if we revel much :

20

Therefore we'll have some half-a-dozen friends,

And there an end. But what say you to Thursday? Par. My lord, I would that Thursday were to-morrow. Cap. Well, get you gone : o' Thursday be it then.

30
Go you to Juliet ere you go to bed,
Prepare her, wife, against this wedding-day.
Farewell, my lord. Light to my chamber, ho!
Afore me, it is so very very late,
That we may call it early by and by :
Good night.

[Exeunt.

Scene V.

Capulet's orchard.
Enter Romeo and Juliet, above, at the window.
Jul. Wilt thou be gone? it is not yet near day:

It was the nightingale, and not the lark,
That pierced the fearful hollow of thine ear;
Nightly she sings on yond pomegranate-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 severing clouds in yonder east :
Night's candles are burnt out, and jocund day
Stands tiptoe on the misty mountain tops :

I must be gone and live, or stay and die.
Jul. Yond light is not day-light, I know it, I:

It is some meteor that the sun exhales,
To be to thee this night a torch-bearer,
And light thee on thy way to Mantua :

Therefore stay yet; thou need'st not to be gone.
Rom. Let me be ta’en, let me be put to death ;

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I am content, so thou wilt have it so.
I'll say yon grey is not the morning's eye,
'Tis but the pale reflex of Cynthia's brow; 20
Nor that is not the lark, whose notes do beat
The vaulty heaven so high above our heads :
I have more care to stay than will to go:
Come, death, and welcome! Juliet wills it so.

How is ’t, my soul ? let's talk : it is not day.
Jul. It is, it is : hie hence, be gone, away!

It is the lark that sings so out of tune,
Straining harsh discords and unpleasing sharps.
Some say the lark makes sweet division ;
This doth not so, for she divideth us :

30
Some say the lark and loathed toad change eyes ;
O, now I would they had changed voices too!
Since arm from arm that voice doth us affray,
Hunting thee hence with hunts-up to the day.

O, now be gone; more light and light it grows.
Rom.. More light and light : more dark and dark our woes!

Enter Nurse, to the chamber.
Nurse. Madam!
Jul. Nurse ?
Nurse. Your lady mother is coming to your chamber :

The day is broke; be wary, look about. [Exit. 40
Jul. Then, window, let day in, and let life out.
Rom. Farewell, farewell! one kiss, and I'll descend.

[Descends. Jul. Art thou gone so ? my lord, my love, my friend!

I must hear from thee every day in the hour,
For in a minute there are many days:
O, by this count I shall be much in years

Ere I again behold my Romeo ! Rom. Farewell!

I will omit no opportunity

That may convey my greetings, love, to thee. 50 Jul. O, think'st thou we shall ever meet again? Rom. I doubt it not; and all these woes shall serve

For sweet discourses in our time to come.
Jul. O God! I have an ill-divining soul.

Methinks I see thee, now thou art below,
As one dead in the bottom of a tomb :

Either my eyesight fails or thou look'st pale.
Rom. And trust me, love, in my eye so do you:

Dry sorrow drinks our blood. Adieu, adieu! [Exit. Jul. O fortune, fortune! all men call thee fickle: 60

If thou art fickle, what dost thou with him
That is renown's for faith? Be fickle, fortune;
For then, I hope, thou wilt not keep him long,

But send him back.
La. Cap. [Within] Ho, daughter! are you up?
Jul. Who is 't that calls ? it is my lady mother!

Is she not down so late, or up so early ?
What unaccustom’d cause procures her hither ?

Enter Lady Capulet.
La. Cap. Why, how now, Juliet !
Jul.

Madam, I am not well. La. Cap. Evermore weeping for your cousin's death? 70

What, wilt thou wash him from his grave with tears ?
An if thou couldst, thou couldst not make him live;
Therefore have done : some grief shows much of love,

But much of grief shows still some want of wit.
Jul. Yet let me weep for such a feeling loss.

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