Most miserable hour that e'er time saw In lasting labour of his pilgrimage! But one, poor one, one poor and loving child, And cruel death hath catch'd it from my sight! O day! O day! O day! O hateful day! Par. Beguil'd, divorced, wronged, spited, slain! By cruel cruel thee quite overthrown! O love! O life!-not life, but love in death! Cap. Despis'd, distressed, hated, martyr'd, kill'd!— Uncomfortable time, why cam'st thou now To murder, murder our solemnity?— O child! O child!-my soul, and not my child!- And with my child my joys are buried! Fri. L. 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; Our bridal flowers serve for a buried corse, And all things change them to the contrary. Fri. L. Sir, go you in,-and, madam, go with him ;And go, Sir Paris;-every one prepare To follow this fair corse unto her grave: The heavens do lower upon you for some ill; Move them no more by crossing their high will. [Exeunt CAP., LADY CAP., PARIS, and Friar. 1 Mus. Faith, we may put up our pipes and be gone. Nurse. Honest good fellows, ah, put up, put up; For, well you know, this is a pitiful case. 1 Mus. Ay, by my troth, the case may be amended. Enter PETER. [Exit. Pet. Musicians, O, musicians, Heart's case, Heart's ease: O, an you will have me live, play Heart's ease. 1 Mus. Why Heart's ease? Pet. O, musicians, because my heart itself plays My heart is full of woe: O, play me some merry dump to comfort me. 1 Mus. Not a dump we; 'tis no time to play now. Pet. You will not, then? 1 Mus. No. Pet. I will, then, give it you soundly. 1 Mus. What will you give us? Pet. No money, on my faith; but the gleek,—I will give you the minstrel. 1 Mus. Then will I give you the serving-creature. Pet. Then will I lay the serving-creature's dagger on your pate. I will carry no crochets: I'll re you, I'll fa you; do you note me? 1 Mus. An you re us and fa us, you note us. 2 Mus. Pray you, put up your dagger, and put out your wit. Pet. 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, why silver sound? why music with her silver sound?-What say you, Simon Catling? 1 Mus. Marry, sir, because silver hath a sweet sound. Pet. Pretty!-What say you, Hugh Rebeck? 2 Mus. I say silver sound because musicians sound for silver. Pet. Pretty too!-What say you, James Soundpost? 3 Mus. Faith, I know not what to say. Pet. O, 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. 1 Mus. What a pestilent knave is this same! [Exit. 2 Mus. Hang him, Jack!-Come, we'll in here; tarry for the mourners, and stay dinner. [Exeunt. Rom. If I may trust the flattering eye of sleep, 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 !—— Enter BALTHASAR. News from Verona!-How now, Balthasar! Bal. Then she is well, and nothing can be ill: Rom. 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. Bal. I do beseech you, sir, have patience: Your looks are pale and wild, and do import Some misadventure. Rom. Tush, thou art deceiv'd: [Exit BALTHASAR. Well, Juliet, I will lie with thee to-night. And hereabouts he dwells,-which late I noted Green earthen pots, bladders, and musty seeds, Ap. Enter Apothecary. Who calls so loud? Rom. Come hither, man.-I see that thou art poor; A dram of poison; such soon-speeding gear As violently as hasty powder fir'd Doth hurry from the fatal cannon's womb. Ap. Such mortal drugs I have; but Mantua's law Rom. Art thou so bare and full of wretchedness, Rom. There is thy gold; worse poison to men's souls, SCENE II.-FRIAR LAWRENCE's Cell. Enter FRIAR JOHN. Fri. J. Holy Franciscan friar! brother, ho! Enter FRIAR LAWRENCE. [Exeunt. Fri. L. This same should be the voice of Friar John. Welcome from Mantua: what says Romeo? Or, if his mind be writ, give me his letter. Fri. J. Going to find a barefoot brother out, One of our order, to associate me, Here in this city visiting the sick, And finding him, the searchers of the town, |