Romeo and Juliet - William Shakespeare (world of reading txt) 📗
- Author: William Shakespeare
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Despised, distressed, hated, martyr’d, kill’d!
Uncomfortable time, why camest 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.
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 ’twas your heaven she should be advanced:
And weep ye now, seeing she is advanced
Above the clouds, as high as heaven itself?
O, 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.
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.
Sir, go you in; and, madam, go with him;
And go, Sir Paris; everyone prepare
To follow this fair corse unto her grave:
The heavens do lour upon you for some ill;
Move them no more by crossing their high will. Exeunt Capulet, Lady Capulet, Paris, and Friar Laurence.
Honest good fellows, ah, put up, put up;
For, well you know, this is a pitiful case. Exit.
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?
First Musician Marry, sir, because silver hath a sweet sound. Peter Pretty! What say you, Hugh Rebeck? Second Musician I say “silver sound,” because musicians sound for silver. Peter Pretty too! What say you, James Soundpost? Third Musician Faith, I know not what to say. PeterO, I cry you mercy; you are the singer: I will say for you. It is “music with her silver sound,” because musicians have no gold for sounding:
“Then music with her silver sound
With speedy help doth lend redress.”
Exit.
First Musician What a pestilent knave is this same! Second Musician Hang him, Jack! Come, we’ll in here; tarry for the mourners, and stay dinner. Exeunt. Act V Scene IMantua. A street.
Enter Romeo. RomeoIf 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 breathed such life with kisses in my lips,
That I revived, and was an emperor.
Ah me! how sweet is love itself possess’d,
When but love’s shadows are so rich in joy!
News from Verona!—How now, Balthasar!
Dost thou not bring me letters from the friar?
How doth my lady? Is my father well?
How fares my Juliet? that I ask again;
For nothing can be ill, if she be well.
Then she is well, and nothing can be ill:
Her body sleeps in Capel’s 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.
Is it even 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.
I do beseech you, sir, have patience:
Your looks are pale and wild, and do import
Some misadventure.
Tush, thou art deceived:
Leave me, and do the thing I bid thee do.
Hast thou no letters to me from the friar?
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: O 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 had worn him to the bones:
And in his needy shop a tortoise hung,
An alligator stuff’d, and other skins
Of ill-shaped 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,
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