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 wouldst lose.
Fie, fie, thou sham’st thy shape, thy love, thy wit;
Which, like a 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,
Misshapen in the conduct of them both,
Like powder in a skilless soldier’s flask,
Is set a-fire by thine own ignorance,
And thou dismember’d with thine own defence.
What, rouse thee, man! thy Juliet is alive,
For whose dear sake thou wast but lately dead;
There art thou happy: Tybalt would kill thee,
But thou slewest Tybalt; there art thou happy too:
The law, that threaten’d death, becomes thy friend,
And turns it to exile; there art thou happy:
A pack of blessings lights upon thy back;
Happiness courts thee in her best array;
But, like a misbehav’d and sullen wench,
Thou pout’st upon thy fortune and thy love:—
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
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: O, what learning is!—
My lord, I’ll tell my lady you will come.
Romeo.
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.]
Romeo.
How well my comfort is reviv’d by this!
Friar.
Go hence; good night! and here stands all your state:
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.
Romeo.
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.]
Capulet.
Things have fallen out, sir, so unluckily
That we have had no time to move our daughter:
Look you, she lov’d her kinsman Tybalt dearly,
And so did I; well, we were born to die.
‘Tis very late; she’ll not come down tonight:
I promise you, but for your company,
I would have been a-bed an hour ago.
Paris.
These times of woe afford no tune to woo.—
Madam, good night: commend me to your daughter.
Lady Capulet.
I will, and know her mind early tomorrow;
Tonight she’s mew’d up to her heaviness.
Capulet.
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 next,—
But, soft! what day is this?
Paris.
Monday, my lord.
Capulet.
Monday! ha, ha! Well, Wednesday is too soon,
Thursday let it be;—a 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?
Paris.
My lord, I would that Thursday were tomorrow.
Capulet.
Well, get you gone: o’ Thursday be it then.—
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.]