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Did murder her; as that name's cursed hand
sack The hateful mansion.
[Drarving his Sword. Fri.
Hold thy desperate hand: Art thou a man? thy form cries out, thou art ; Thy tears are womanish; thy wild acts denote The unreasonable fury of a beast : Unseemly woman, in a seeming man! Or ill-beseeming beast, in seeming both! Thou hast amaz’d me: by my holy order, I thought thy disposition better temper'd. Hast thou slain Tybalt? wilt thou slay thyself: And slay thy lady too that lives in thee, By doing damned hate upon thyself? Why rail'st thou on thy birth, the heaven, and earth? Since birth, and heaven, and earth, all three do meet In thee at once; which thou at once would'st lose. Fye, fye! thou sham'st thy shape, thy love, thy
wit; Which, like an usurer, abound'st in all, And usest none in that true use indeed Which should bedeck thy shape, thy love, thy wit. Thy noble shape is but a form of wax, Digressing from the valour of a man: Thy dear love, sworn, but hollow perjury, Killing that love which thou hast vow'd to cherish : Thy wit, that ornament to shape and love, Mis-shapen in the conduct of them both, Like powder in a skill-less soldier's flask, Is set on file by thine own ignorance,
And thou dismember'd with thine own defence.3
Nurse. O Lord, I could have staid here all the night,
Rom. Do so, and bid my sweet prepare to chide.
3 Torn to pieces with thine own weapons.
Hie you, make haste, for it grows very late.
[Exit Nurse. Rom. How well my comfort is reviv'd by this ! Fri. Go hence: Good night; and here stands all
your state;4 Either be gone before the watch be set, Or by the break of day disguis'd from hence : Sojourn in Mantua ; I'll find out your man, And he shall signify from time to time 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.
A Room in Capulet's House.
Enter CAPULET, Lady CAPULET, and PARIS.
Cap. Things have fallen out, sir, so unluckily,
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-mor
4 The whole of your fortune depends on this.
To-night she's mew'd s up to her heaviness.
Cap. Sir Paris, I will make a desperate tender Of my child's love: I think, she will be rul'd 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 nextBut, soft; What day is this? Par.
Monday, my lord. Cap. Monday ? ha! ha! Well, Wednesday is too
soon, O' Thursday let it be;-o' Thursday, 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 : 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-mor
Cap. Well, get you gone :-O'Thursday be it
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 late, that we May call it early by and by :-Good night, [Exeunt.
5 Shut up.
Enter Romeo and JULIET.
Jul. Wilt thou be gone? it is not yet near day: It was the nightingale, and not the lark, That pierc'd the fearful hollow of thine ear ; Nightly she sings on yon 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. Yon 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; 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 ;7 Nor that is not the lark, whose notes do beat The vaulty heaven so high above our heads : I have more care 8 to stay, than will to go ;Come, death, and welcome ! Juliet wills it so.
? Reflection of the moon.