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Juliet's bedroom. It is the same as it was left when Juliet drank the potion. Her dagger is still on the small table, and she is laying upon her bed. |
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Nurse |
Mistress! what, mistress! Juliet! fast, I warrant her, she: |
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Why, lamb! why, lady! fie, you slug-a-bed! |
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Why, love, I say! madam! sweet-heart! why, bride! |
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What, not a word? you take your pennyworths now; |
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Sleep for a week; for the next night, I warrant, |
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The County Paris hath set up his rest, |
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That you shall rest but little. God forgive me, |
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Marry, and amen, how sound is she asleep! |
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I must needs wake her. Madam, madam, madam! |
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Ay, let the county take you in your bed; |
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He'll fright you up, i' faith. Will it not be? |
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What, dress'd! and in your clothes! and down again! |
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I must needs wake you; Lady! lady! lady! |
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Alas, alas! Help, help! my lady's dead! |
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O, well-a-day, that ever I was born! |
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Some aqua vitae, ho! My lord! my lady! |
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Lady Capulet |
What noise is here? |
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Lady Capulet |
What is the matter? |
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Nurse |
Look, look! O heavy day! |
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Lady Capulet |
O me, O me! My child, my only life, |
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Revive, look up, or I will die with thee! |
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Capulet |
For shame, bring Juliet forth; her lord is come. |
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Nurse |
She's dead, deceased, she's dead; alack the day! |
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Lady Capulet |
Alack the day, she's dead, she's dead, she's dead! |
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Capulet |
Ha! let me see her: out, alas! she's cold: |
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Her blood is settled, and her joints are stiff; |
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Life and these lips have long been separated: |
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Death lies on her like an untimely frost |
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Upon the sweetest flower of all the field. |
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Lady Capulet |
O woful time! |
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Capulet |
Death, that hath ta'en her hence to make me wail, |
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Ties up my tongue, and will not let me speak. |
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Enter FRIAR LAURENCE and PARIS, with Musicians |
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Friar Lawrence |
Come, is the bride ready to go to church? |
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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. |
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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? |
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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! |
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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! |
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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! |
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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. |
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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. |
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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. |
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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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First Musician |
Faith, we may put up our pipes, and be gone. |
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Nurse |
Honest goodfellows, ah, put up, put up; |
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For, well you know, this is a pitiful case. |
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First Musician |
Ay, by my troth, the case may be amended. |
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Peter |
Musicians, O, musicians, 'Heart's ease, Heart's |
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ease:' O, an you will have me live, play 'Heart's ease.' |
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First Musician |
Why 'Heart's ease?' |
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Peter |
O, musicians, because my heart itself plays 'My |
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heart is full of woe:' O, play me some merry dump, |
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First Musician |
Not a dump we; 'tis no time to play now. |
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Peter |
You will not, then? |
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Peter |
I will then give it you soundly. |
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First Musician |
What will you give us? |
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Peter |
No money, on my faith, but the gleek; |
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I will give you the minstrel. |
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First Musician |
Then I will give you the serving-creature. |
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Peter |
Then will I lay the serving-creature's dagger on |
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your pate. I will carry no crotchets: I'll re you, |
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I'll fa you; do you note me? |
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First Musician |
An you re us and fa us, you note us. |
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Second Musician |
Pray you, put up your dagger, and put out your wit. |
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Peter |
Then have at you with my wit! I will dry-beat you |
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with an iron wit, and put up my iron dagger. Answer |
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'When griping grief the heart doth wound, |
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And doleful dumps the mind oppress, |
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Then music with her silver sound'-- |
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why 'silver sound'? why 'music with her silver |
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sound'? What say you, Simon Catling? |
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Musician |
Marry, sir, because silver hath a sweet sound. |
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Peter |
Pretty! What say you, Hugh Rebeck? |
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Second Musician |
I say 'silver sound,' because musicians sound for silver. |
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Peter |
Pretty too! What say you, James Soundpost? |
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Third Musician |
Faith, I know not what to say. |
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Peter |
O, I cry you mercy; you are the singer: I will say |
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for you. It is 'music with her silver sound,' |
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because musicians have no gold for sounding: |
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'Then music with her silver sound |
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With speedy help doth lend redress.' |
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First Musician |
What a pestilent knave is this same! |
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Second Musician |
Hang him, Jack! Come, we'll in here; tarry for the |
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mourners, and stay dinner. |
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