Jul. Obreak, my heart!—poor bankrupt, break at once; To prison, eyes! ne'er look on liberty!

Vile earth, to earth refign; end motion here;
And thou, and Romeo, prefs one heavy bier!
Nurfe. O Tybalt, Tybalt, the best friend I had!
O courteous Tybalt! honest gentleman!
That ever I fhould live to fee thee dead!

Jul. What ftorm is this, that blows fo contrary?
Is Romeo flaughter'd? and is Tybalt dead?
My dear-lov'd coufin, and my dearer lord ?-
Tḥen, dreadful trumpet, found the general doom!
For who is living, if those two are gone?

Nurfe. Tybalt is gone, and Romeo banished;
Romeo, that kill'd him, he is banished.

Jul. O God!-did Romeo's hand shed Tybalt's blood? Nurse. It did, it did; alas the day! it did.

Jul. O ferpent heart, hid with a flow`ring face!
Did ever dragon keep so fair a cave?
Beautiful tyrant! fiend angelical!
Dove-feather'd raven! wolvish-ravening lamb
Defpifed fubftance of divinest show !
Juft opposite to what thou justly seem'st,
A damned faint, an honourable villain!-
O, nature! what hadft thou to do in hell,
When thou did'ft bower the spirit of a fiend
In mortal paradise of such sweet flesh ?—
Was ever book, containing fuch vile matter,
So fairly bound? O, that deceit should dwell
In fuch a gorgeous palace!

Nurse.
There's no trust,
No faith, no honesty in men; all perjur'd,
All forfworn, all naught, all diffemblers.-
Ah, where's my man? give me some aqua vita :—

Thefe

Thefe griefs, these woes, thefe forrows make me old.

Shame come to Romeo!

Jul.

Blister'd be thy tongue,

For fuch a wish! he was not born to fhame:

Upon his brow shame is asham'd to fit;

For 'tis a throne where honour may be crown'd
Sole monarch of the univerfal earth.

O, what a beast was I to chide at him!

Nurfe. Will you speak well of him that kill'd your cousin ? Jul. Shall I fpeak ill of him that is my husband ? Ah, poor my lord, what tongue shall smooth thy name, When I, thy three-hours wife, have mangled it ?— But, wherefore, villain, didft thou kill my cousin ? That villain cousin would have kill'd my husband : Back, foolish tears, back to your native spring; Your tributary drops belong to woe,

Which you, mistaking, offer up to joy.

My husband lives, that Tybalt would have flain;

And Tybalt's dead, that would have flain my husband:
All this is comfort; Wherefore weep I then?

Some word there was, worfer than Tybalt's death,
That murder'd me: I would forget it fain;

But, O! it preffes to my memory,

Like damned guilty deeds to finners' minds:
Tybalt is dead, and Romeo-banished;
That-banished, that one word-banished,

Hath flain ten thousand Tybalts. Tybalt's death
Was woe enough, if it had ended there :

Or, if four woe delights in fellowship,

And needly will be rank'd with other griefs,—
Why follow'd not, when she faid-Tybalt's dead,
Thy father, or thy mother, nay, or both,
Which modern lamentation might have mov'd?

But,

But, with a rear-ward following Tybalt's death,
Romeo is banished,-to speak that word,

Is father, mother, Tybalt, Romeo, Juliet,
All flain, all dead :-Romeo is banished,-
There is no end, no limit, measure, bound,

In that word's death; no words can that woe found.-
Where is my father, and my mother, nurse?

Nurse. Weeping and wailing over Tybalt's corfe : Will you go to them? I will bring you thither.

Jul. Wash they his wounds with tears? mine shall be spent,

When theirs are dry, for Romeo's banishment.

Take up those cords :-Poor ropes, you are beguil'd,
Both you and I; for Romeo is exil'd :

He made you for a highway to my bed;
But I, a maid, die maiden-widowed.

Come, cords; come, nurse; I'll to my wedding bed;
And death, not Romeo, take my maidenhead!
Nurse. Hie to your chamber: I'll find Romeo
To comfort you:-I wot well where he is.
Hark ye, your Romeo will be here at night;
I'll to him; he is hid at Laurence' cell.

Jul. O find him! give this ring to my true knight,
And bid him come to take his laft farewell.

[Exeunt.

SCENE III.

Friar Laurence's Cell.

Enter Friar LAURENCE and ROMEO.

Fri. Romeo, come forth; come forth, thou fearful man;

Affliction is enamour'd of thy parts,

And thou art wedded to calamity.

Rom. Father, what news? what is the prince's doom? What forrow craves acquaintance at my hand,

Is my dear fon with fuch four company:

I bring thee tidings of the prince's doom.

Rom. What lefs than dooms-day is the prince's doom ? Fri. A gentler judgment vanish'd from his lips, Not body's death, but body's banishment.

Rom. Ha! banishment? be merciful, fay-death :
For exile hath more terror in his look,

Much more than death: do not say-banishment.
Fri. Hence from Verona art thou banished:
Be patient, for the world is broad and wide.
Rom. There is no world without Verona walls,
But purgatory, torture, hell itself.

Hence-banished is banish'd from the world,
And world's exile is death:-then banishment
Is death mif-term'd calling death-banishment,
Thou cut'ft my head off with a golden axe,
And fmil'it upon the stroke that murders me.

:

Fri. O deadly fin! O rude unthankfulness!
Thy fault our law calls death; but the kind prince,
Taking thy part, hatl: rush'd aside the law,

And turn'd that black word death to banishment:
This is dear mercy, and thou feest it not.

Rom. 'Tis torture, and not mercy heaven is here,
Where Juliet lives; and every cat, and dog,
And little moufe, every unworthy thing,
Live here in heaven, and may look on her,
But Romeo may not.-More validity,
More honourable state, more courtship lives
In carrion flies, than Romeo: they may seize
On the white wonder of dear Juliet's hand,

And

And steal immortal bleffing from her lips;
Who, even in pure and vestal modesty,
Still blush, as thinking their own kisses sin;
But Romeo may not; he is banished:

Flies may do this, when I from this must fly;
They are free men, but I am banished.

And fay'st thou yet, that exile is not death?
Hadft thou no poison mix'd, no sharp-ground knife,
No fudden mean of death, though ne'er fo mean,
But-banished-to kill me; banished?

O friar, the damned use that word in hell;
Howlings attend it: How haft thou the heart,
Being a divine, a ghoftly confessor,

A fin-abfolver, and my friend profefs'd,

To mangle me with that word-banishment?

Fri. Thou fond mad man, hear me but speak a word.

Rom. O, thou wilt speak again of banishment. Fri. I'll give thee armour to keep off that word; Adverfity's sweet milk, philofophy,

To comfort thee, though thou art banished.

Rom. Yet banished?-Hang up philosophy!
Unless philofophy can make a Juliet,
Difplant a town, reverse a prince's doom;
It helps not, it prevails not, talk no more.

Fri. O, then I fee that madmen have no ears.

Rom. How should they, when that wife men have no eyes? Fri. Let me difpute with thee of thy eftate.

Rom. Thou canst not speak of what thou dost not feel: Wert thou as young as I, Juliet thy love, An hour but married, Tybalt murdered,

Doting like me, and like me banished,

Then might'ft thou spek, then might't thou tear thy hair, And fall upon the ground, as I do now,

Taking the measure of an unmade grave.