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| Friar Lawrence |
Come, is the bride ready to go to church? |
| Capulet |
Ready to go, but never to return. |
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O son! the night before thy wedding-day |
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Hath Death lain with thy wife. There she lies, |
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Flower as she was, deflowered by him. |
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Death is my son-in-law, Death is my heir; |
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My daughter he hath wedded: I will die, |
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And leave him all; life, living, all is Death's. |
| Paris |
Have I thought long to see this morning's face, |
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And doth it give me such a sight as this? |
| Lady Capulet |
Accursed, unhappy, wretched, hateful day! |
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Most miserable hour that e'er time saw |
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In lasting labour of his pilgrimage! |
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But one, poor one, one poor and loving child, |
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But one thing to rejoice and solace in, |
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And cruel death hath catch'd it from my sight! |
| Nurse |
O woe! O woful, woful, woful day! |
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Most lamentable day, most woful day, |
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That ever, ever, I did yet behold! |
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O day! O day! O day! O hateful day! |
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Never was seen so black a day as this: |
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O woful day, O woful day! |
| Paris |
Beguiled, divorced, wronged, spited, slain! |
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Most detestable death, by thee beguil'd, |
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By cruel cruel thee quite overthrown! |
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O love! O life! not life, but love in death! |
| Capulet |
Despised, distressed, hated, martyr'd, kill'd! |
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Uncomfortable time, why camest thou now |
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To murder, murder our solemnity? |
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O child! O child! my soul, and not my child! |
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Dead art thou! Alack! my child is dead; |
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And with my child my joys are buried. |
| Friar Lawrence |
Peace, ho, for shame! confusion's cure lives not |
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In these confusions. Heaven and yourself |
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Had part in this fair maid; now heaven hath all, |
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And all the better is it for the maid: |
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Your part in her you could not keep from death, |
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But heaven keeps his part in eternal life. |
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The most you sought was her promotion; |
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For 'twas your heaven she should be advanced: |
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And weep ye now, seeing she is advanced |
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Above the clouds, as high as heaven itself? |
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O, in this love, you love your child so ill, |
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That you run mad, seeing that she is well: |
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She's not well married that lives married long; |
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But she's best married that dies married young. |
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Dry up your tears, and stick your rosemary |
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On this fair corse; and, as the custom is, |
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In all her best array bear her to church: |
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For though fond nature bids us an lament, |
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Yet nature's tears are reason's merriment. |
| Capulet |
All things that we ordained festival, |
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Turn from their office to black funeral; |
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Our instruments to melancholy bells, |
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Our wedding cheer to a sad burial feast, |
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Our solemn hymns to sullen dirges change, |
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Our bridal flowers serve for a buried corse, |
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And all things change them to the contrary. |
| Friar Lawrence |
Sir, go you in; and, madam, go with him; |
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And go, Sir Paris; every one prepare |
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To follow this fair corse unto her grave: |
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The heavens do lour upon you for some ill; |
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Move them no more by crossing their high will. |
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Exeunt CAPULET, LADY CAPULET, PARIS, and FRIAR LAURENCE |
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