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| As soon as Tybalt had our Romeus espied, He threw a thrust at him that would have passed from side to side; But Romeus ever went, doubting his foes, well armed, So that the sword, kept out by mail, hath nothing Romeus harmed. “Thou dost me wrong,” quoth he, “for I but part the fray; Not dread, but other weighty cause my hasty hand doth stay. Thou art the chief of thine, the noblest eke thou art, Wherefore leave off thy malice now, and help these folk to part. Many are hurt, some slain, and some are like to die.” | 89. Tybalt sees Romeus and attacks him; Romeus tries to assuage him by saying that he has come to stop the fray, yet to no avail.
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| “No, coward, traitor boy,” quoth he, “straightway I mind to try, Whether thy sugared talk, and tongue so smoothly filed, Against the force of this my sword shall serve thee for a shield.” And then at Romeus’ head a blow he strake so hard, That might have clove him to the brain but for his cunning ward. | 90. Tybalt does not listen to Romeo and hits him again.
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| It was but lent to him that could repay again, And give him death for interest, a well forborne gain. Right as a forest boar, that lodgéd in the thick, Pinchéd with dog, or else with spear y-prickéd to the quick, His bristles stiff upright upon his back doth set, And in his foamy mouth his sharp and crooked tusks doth whet; Or as a lion wild that rampeth in his rage, His whelps bereft, whose fury can no weaker beast assuage; Such seeméd Romeus in every other’s sight, When he him shope, of wrong received t’avenge himself by fight. Even as two thunderbolts thrown down out of the sky, That through the air, the massy earth, and seas, have power to fly; So met these two, and while they change a blow or twain, Our Romeus thrust him through the throat, and so is Tybalt slain. | 91. Romeus responds to Tybalt’s attack and kills him.
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| Lo, here the end of those that stir a deadly strife: Who thirsteth after other’s death, himself hath lost his life. | 92. The narrator draws the moral: whoever seeks to give death loses his own life.
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1040 | The Capulets are quailed by Tybalt’s overthrow, The courage of the Montagues by Romeus’ sight doth grow. The townsmen waxen strong, the Prince doth send his force; The fray hath end. | 93. The fray is ended by the Prince’s force.
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| The Capulets do bring the breathless corpse Before the Prince, and crave that cruel deadly pain May be the guerdon of his fault, that hath their kinsman slain. | 94. The Capulets plead for punishment.
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| The Montagues do plead their Romeus void of fault; | 95. The Montagues defend Romeus.
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| The lookers-on do say, the fight begun was by Tybalt. | 96. The onlookers blame Tybalt.
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| The Prince doth pause, and then gives sentence in a while, That Romeus for slaying him should go into exile. His foes would have him hanged, or starve in prison strong; His friends do think, but dare not say, that Romeus hath wrong. | 97. The Prince sentences Romeus to exile.
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| Both households straight are charged on pain of losing life, Their bloody weapons laid aside, to cease the stirréd strife. | 98. The Prince sentences the two households to death in case of new fights.
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| This common plague is spread through all the town anon, From side to side the town is filled with murmur and with moan, For Tybalt’s hasty death bewailéd was of some, Both for his skill in feats of arms, and for, in time to come He should, had this not chanced, been rich and of great power, To help his friends, and serve the state; which hope within an hour Was wasted quite, and he, thus yielding up his breath, More than he holp the town in life, hath harmed it by his death. | 99. The town bewails the loss of valiant Tybalt.
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| And other some bewail, but ladies most of all, The luckless lot by Fortune’s guilt that is so late befall, Without his fault, unto the seely Romeus; For whilst that he from native land shall live exiléd thus, From heavenly beauty’s light and his well-shapéd parts, The sight of which was wont, fair dames, to glad your youthful hearts, Shall you be banished quite, and till he do return, What hope have you to joy, what hope to cease to mourn? This Romeus was born so much in heaven’s grace, Of Fortune and of Nature so beloved, that in his face, Beside the heavenly beau- ty glist’ring aye so bright, And seemly grace that wonted so to glad the seer’s sight, A certain charm was graved by Nature’s secret art, That virtue had to draw to it the love of many a heart. So every one doth wish to bear a part of pain, That he releaséd of exile might straight return again. | 100. The town bewails the lot of Romeus and hope that he may soon return from exile.
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| But how doth mourn among the mourners Juliet! How doth she bathe her breast in tears! What deep sighs doth she fet! How doth she tear her hair! Her weed how doth she rent! How fares the lover hearing of her lover’s banishment! How wails she Tybalt’s death, whom she had loved so well! Her hearty grief and piteous plaint, cunning I want to tell. For delving deeply now in depth of deep despair, With wretched sorrow’s cruel sound she fills the empty air; And to the lowest hell down falls her heavy cry, And up unto the heaven’s height her piteous plaint doth fly. The waters and the woods of sighs and sobs resound, And from the hard resounding rocks her sorrows do rebound. Eke from her teary eyne down rainéd many a shower, That in the garden where she walked might water herb and flower. But when at length she saw herself outragéd so, Unto her chamber straight she hied; there, overcharged with woe, Upon her stately bed her painful parts she threw, And in so wondrous wise began her sorrows to renew, That sure no heart so hard, but it of flint had bin, But would have rued the piteous plaint that she did languish in. Then rapt out of herself, whilst she on every side Did cast her restless eye, at length the window she espied, Through which she had with joy seen Romeus many a time, Which oft the vent’rous knight was wont for Juliet’s sake to climb. | 101. Description of Juliet’s despair; she retires to her room.
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| She cried, “O cursed window, accursed be every pane, Through which, alas, too soon I raught the cause of life and bane; If by thy mean I have some slight delight received, Or else such fading pleasure as by Fortune straight was reaved, Hast thou not made me pay a tribute rigorous Of heapéd grief and lasting care, and sorrows dolorous, That these my tender parts, which needful strength do lack To bear so great unwieldy load upon so weak a back, Oppressed with weight of cares and with these sorrows rife, At length must open wide to death the gates of loathéd life; That so my weary sprite may somewhere else unload His deadly load, and free from thrall may seek elsewhere abode For pleasant, quiet ease and for assuréd rest, Which I as yet could never find but for my more unrest? | 102. Juliet curses the window which has let in Romeus and given her pleasure and deadly sorrow.
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| O Romeus, when first we both acquainted were, When to thy painted promises I lent my list’ning ear, Which to the brinks you filled with many a solemn oath, And I them judged empty of guile, and fraughted full of troth, I thought you rather would continue our good will, And seek t’appease our fathers’ strife, which daily groweth still. I little weened you would have sought occasion how By such an heinous act to break the peace and eke your vow; Whereby your bright renown all whole y-clipséd is, And I unhappy, husbandless, of comfort robbed and bliss. But if you did so much the blood of Capels thirst, Why have you often sparéd mine mine might have quenched it first. Since that so many times and in so secret place, Where you were wont with veil of love to hide your hatred’s face. My doubtful life hath happed by fatal doom to stand In mercy of your cruel heart, and of your bloody hand. What? seemed the conquest which you got of me so small? What? seemed it not enough that I, poor wretch, was made your thrall? But that you must increase it with that kinsman’s blood, Which for his worth and love to me, most in my favour stood Well, go henceforth elsewhere, and seek another while Some other as unhappy as I, by flattery to beguile. And, where I come, see that you shun to show your face, For your excuse within my heart shall find no resting place. And I that now, too late, my former fault repent, Will so the rest of weary life with many tears lament, That soon my joiceless corpse shall yield up banished breath, And where on earth it restless lived, in earth seek rest by death.” | 103. Juliet is angry with Romeus for breaking the peace between their families and beguiling her.
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| These said, her tender heart, by pain oppresséd sore, Restrained her tears, and forced her tongue to keep her talk in store; And then as still she was, as if in sownd she lay, And then again, wroth with herself, with feeble voice ’gan say: “Ah, cruel murdering tongue, murd’rer of others’ fame, How durst thou once attempt to touch the honour of his name? Whose deadly foes do yield him due and earnéd praise; For though his freedom be bereft, his honour not decays. Why blam’st thou Romeus for slaying of Tybalt, Since he is guiltless quite of all, and Tybalt bears the fault? Whither shall he, alas, poor banished man, now fly? What place of succour shall he seek beneath the starry sky? Since she pursueth him, and him defames by wrong, That in distress should be his fort, and only rampire strong. Receive the recompense, O Romeus, of thy wife, Who, for she was unkind herself, doth offer up her life, In flames of ire, in sighs, in sorrow and in ruth, So to revenge the crime she did commit against thy truth.” | 104. Juliet repents the words and blames herself for being unloyal to Romeus.
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| These said, she could no more; her senses all ’gan fail, And deadly pangs began straightway her tender heart assail; Her limbs she stretchéd forth, she drew no more her breath: | 105. Juliet seems to be about to die with anguish.
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| Who had been there might well have seen the signs of present death. | 106. The narrator underlines Juliet’s signs of present death.
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| The nurse that knew no cause why she absented her, Did doubt lest that some sudden grief too much tormented her. Each where but where she was the careful beldam sought; Last, of the chamber where she lay she haply her bethought; Where she with piteous eye her nurse-child did behold, Her limbs stretched out, her outward parts as any marble cold. The nurse supposed that she had paid to death her debt, And then, as she had lost her wits, she cried to Juliet: | 107. The nurse looks for Juliet and finally finds her in her chamber.
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| “Ah, my dear heart,” quoth she, “how grieveth me thy death! Alas, what cause hast thou thus soon to yield up living breath?” But while she handled her, and chaféd every part, She knew there was some spark of life by beating of her heart, So that a thousand times she called upon her name; There is no way to help a trance but she hath tried the same: She openeth wide her mouth, she stoppeth close her nose, She bendeth down her breast, she wrings her fingers and her toes, And on her bosom cold she layeth clothés hot; A warméd and a wholesome juice she poureth down her throat. At length doth Juliet heave faintly up her eyes, And then she stretcheth forth her arm, and then her nurse she spies. | 108. The nurse thinks her dead but then helps her to come round.
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| But when she was awaked from her unkindly trance, “Why dost thou trouble me,” quoth she, “what drove thee, with mischance, To come to see my sprite forsake my breathless corpse? Go hence, and let me die, if thou have on my smart remorse. For who would see her friend to live in deadly pain? Alas, I see my grief begun for ever will remain. Or who would seek to live, all pleasure being past? My mirth is done, my mourning moan for aye is like to last. Wherefore since that there is none other remedy, Come, gentle death, and rive my heart at once, and let me die.” | 109. Juliet rebukes the nurse for reviving her, as she wants to be dead.
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| The nurse with trickling tears, to witness inward smart, With hollow sigh fetched from the depth of her appalléd heart, Thus spoke to Juliet, y-clad with ugly care: “Good lady mine, I do not know what makes you thus to fare; Ne yet the cause of your unmeasured heaviness. But of this one I you assure, for care and sorrow’s stress, This hour large and more I thought, so God me save, That my dead corpse should wait on yours to your untimely grave.” “Alas, my tender nurse and trusty friend,” quoth she, “Art thou so blind that with thine eye thou canst not easily see The lawful cause I have to sorrow and to mourn, Since those the which I held most dear, I have at once forlorn.” | 110. Juliet discloses the reason of her suffering to the nurse.
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| Her nurse then answered thus: “Methinks it sits you ill To fall in these extremities that may you guiltless spill. For when the storms of care and troubles do arise, Then is the time for men to know the foolish from the wise. You are accounted wise, a fool am I your nurse; But I see not how in like case I could behave me worse. Tybalt your friend is dead; what, ween you by your tears To call him back again? think you that he your crying hears? You shall perceive the fault, if it be justly tried, Of his so sudden death, was in his rashness and his pride. Would you that Romeus himself had wrongéd so, To suffer himself causeless to be outraged of his foe, To whom in no respect he ought a place to give? Let it suffice to thee, fair dame, that Romeus doth live, And that there is good hope that he, within a while, With greater glory shall be called home from his hard exile. How well y-born he is, thyself, I know, canst tell, By kindred strong, and well allied, of all belovéd well. With patience arm thyself, for though that Fortune’s crime, Without your fault, to both your griefs, depart you for a time, I dare say, for amends of all your present pain, She will restore your own to you, within a month or twain, With such contented ease as never erst you had; Wherefore rejoice a while in hope, and be no more so sad. | 111. The nurse reassures Juliet and tells her that Romeus will return from exile soon.
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| And that I may discharge your heart of heavy care, A certain way I have found out, my pains ne will I spare, To learn his present state, and what in time to come He minds to do; which known by me, you shall know all and some. But that I dread the whilst your sorrows will you quell, Straight would I hie where he doth lurk, to Friar Laurence’ cell. But if you ’gin eftsoons, as erst you did, to mourn, Whereto go I? you will be dead, before I thence return. So I shall spend in waste my time and busy pain. So unto you, your life once lost, good answer comes in vain; So shall I rid myself with this sharp-pointed knife; So shall you cause your parents dear wax weary of their life; So shall your Romeus, despising lively breath, With hasty foot, before his time, run to untimely death. Where, if you can awhile, by reason, rage suppress, I hope at my return to bring the salve of your distress. Now choose to have me here a partner of your pain, Or promise me to feed on hope till I return again.” | 112. The nurse will go to Frair Laurence’s cell to find Romeus, and urges Juliet to be confident.
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| Her mistress sends her forth, and makes a grave behest With reason’s reign to rule the thoughts that rage within her breast. | 113. Juliet sends the nurse to look for Romeus.
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| When hugy heaps of harms are heaped before her eyes, Then vanish they by hope of ’scape; and thus the lady lies ’Twixt well assuréd trust, and doubtful lewd despair: Now black and ugly be her thoughts; now seem they white and fair. As oft in summer tide black clouds do dim the sun, And straight again in clearest sky his restless steeds do run, So Juliet’s wand’ring mind y-clouded is with woe, And by and by her hasty thought the woes doth overgo. | 114. Juliet is tossed between hope and despair.
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| But now is time to tell, whilst she was tosséd thus, What winds did drive or haven did hold her lover, Romeus. | 115. Narrative shift from Juliet to Romeus.
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| When he had slain his foe that ’gan this deadly strife, And saw the furious fray had end by ending Tybalt’s life, He fled the sharp revenge of those that yet did live, And doubting much what penal doom the troubled prince might give, He sought somewhere unseen to lurk a little space, And trusty Laurence’ secret cell he thought the surest place. | 116. Romeus hides away and goes to the friar.
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| In doubtful hap aye best a trusty friend is tried; The friendly friar in this distress doth grant his friend to hide. A secret place he hath, well sealed round about, The mouth of which so close is shut, that none may find it out; But room there is to walk, and place to sit and rest, Beside a bed to sleep upon, full soft and trimly drest. The floor is planked so, with mats it is so warm, That neither wind nor smoky damps have power him aught to harm. Where he was wont in youth his fair friends to bestow, There now he hideth Romeus, whilst forth he goeth to know Both what is said and done, and what appointed pain, Is publishéd by trumpet’s sound; then home he hies again. | 117. The friar hides him in a secret place inside his cell, and goes out to learn what has been said.
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| By this, unto his cell the nurse with speedy pace Was come the nearest way; she sought no idle resting place. The friar sent home the news of Romeus’ certain health, And promise made, what so befell, he should that night by stealth Come to his wonted place, that they in needful wise Of their affairs in time to come might thoroughly devise. | 118. The nurse arrives at the friar’s cell and is informed by him that that night Romeus will go to Juliet’s room.
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| Those joyful news the nurse brought home with merry joy; And now our Juliet joys to think she shall her love enjoy. | 119. The nurse gives the joyful news to Juliet.
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| The friar shuts fast his door, and then to him beneath, That waits to hear the doubtful news of life or else of death, “Thy hap,” quoth he, “is good, danger of death is none, But thou shalt live, and do full well, in spite of spiteful fone. This only pain for thee was erst proclaimed aloud, A banished man, thou may’st thee not within Verona shroud.” These heavy tidings heard, his golden locks he tare, And like a frantic man hath torn the garments that he ware. And as the smitten deer So wal’treth he, and with his breast doth beat the trodden ground. He rises eft, and strikes his head against the walls, He falleth down again, and loud for hasty death he calls: | 120. Romeo learns from the Friar that the Prince banished him from Verona and plunges into deep despair.
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| “Come speedy death,” quoth he, “the readiest leech in love; Since nought can else beneath the sun the ground of grief remove, Of loathsome life break down the hated, staggering stays, Destroy, destroy at once the life that faintly yet decays. But you, fair dame, in whom dame Nature did devise With cunning hand to work that might seem wondrous in our eyes, For you, I pray the Gods, your pleasures to increase, And all mishap, with this my death, for evermore to cease. And mighty Jove with speed of justice bring them low, Whose lofty pride, without our guilt, our bliss doth overblow. And Cupid grant to those their speedy wrongs’ redress, That shall bewail my cruel death and pity her distress.” Therewith a cloud of sighs he breathed into the skies, And two great streams of bitter tears ran from his swollen eyes. These things the ancient friar with sorrow saw and heard, Of such beginning, eke the end, the wise man greatly feared. But lo, he was so weak, by reason of his age, That he ne could by force repress the rigour of his rage. His wise and friendly words he speaketh to the air, For Romeus so vexéd is with care and with despair, That no advice can pierce his close forestoppéd ears; So now the friar doth take his part in shedding ruthful tears. With colour pale and wan, with arms full hard y-fold, With woeful cheer his wailing friend he standeth to behold. And then our Romeus with tender hands y-wrung, With voice with plaint made hoarse, with sobs, and with a falt’ring tongue, Renewed with novel moan the dolours of his heart; His outward dreary cheer bewrayed his store of inward smart. First Nature did he blame, the author of his life, In which his joys had been so scant, and sorrows aye so rife; The time and place of birth he fiercely did reprove, He cried out, with open mouth, against the stars above; The fatal sisters three, he said, had done him wrong, The thread that should not have been spun, they had drawn forth too long. He wished that he had before this time been born, Or that as soon as he wan light, his life he had forlorn. His nurse he curséd, and the hand that gave him pap, The midwife eke with tender grip that held him in her lap; And then did he complain on Venus’ cruel son, Who led him first unto the rocks which he should warely shun: By means whereof he lost both life and liberty, And died a hundred times a day, and yet could never die. Love’s troubles lasten long, the joys he gives are short; He forceth not a lover’s pain, their earnest is his sport. A thousand things and more I here let pass to write, Which unto Love this woeful man did speak in great despite. On Fortune eke he railed, he called her deaf and blind, Unconstant, fond, deceitful, rash, unruthful, and unkind. And to himself he laid a great part of the fault, For that he slew and was not slain, in fighting with Tybalt. He blamed all the world, and all he did defy, But Juliet for whom he lived, for whom eke would he die. When after raging fits appeaséd was his rage, And when his passions, poured forth, ’gan partly to assuage, So wisely did the friar unto his tale reply, That he straight cared for his life, that erst had care to die. | 121. Romeo threatens to kill himself.
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| Thy crying, and thy weeping eyes quite from off thy mind outchased, And in her stead affections lewd A wise man in the midst of troubles and distress Still stands not wailing present harm, but seeks his harm’s redress. As when the winter flaws with dreadful noise arise, And heave the foamy swelling waves up to the starry skies, So that the bruiséd bark in cruel seas betost, Despaireth of the happy haven, in danger to be lost, The pilot bold at helm, cries, ‘Mates, strike now your sail,’ And turns her stem into the waves that strongly her assail; Then driven hard upon the bare and wrackful shore, In greater danger to be wracked than he had been before, He seeth his ship full right against the rock to run, But yet he doth what lieth in him the perilous rock to shun: Sometimes the beaten boat, by cunning government, The anchors lost, the cables broke, and all the tackle spent, The rudder smitten off, and overboard the mast, Doth win the long desiréd port, the stormy danger past: But if the master dread, and overpressed with woe Begin to wring his hands, and lets the guiding rudder go, The ship rents on the rock, or sinketh in the deep, And eke the coward drenchéd is: so, if thou still beweep And seek not how to help the changes that do chance, Thy cause of sorrow shall increase, thou cause of thy mischance. Other account thee wise, prove not thyself a fool; Now put in practice lessons learned of old in wisdom’s school. The wise man saith, ‘Beware thou double not thy pain, For one perhaps thou may’st abide, but hardly suffer twain.’ As well we ought to seek things hurtful to decrease, As to endeavour helping things by study to increase. The praise of true freedom in wisdom’s bondage lies, He winneth blame whose deeds be fond, although his words be wise. Sickness the body’s gaol, grief gaol is of the mind, If thou canst ’scape from heavy grief, true freedom shalt thou find. Fortune can fill nothing so full of hearty grief, But in the same a constant mind finds solace and relief. Virtue is always thrall to troubles and annoy, But wisdom in adversity finds cause of quiet joy. And they most wretched are that know no wretchedness, And after great extremity mishaps aye waxen less. Like as there is no weal but wastes away sometime, So every kind of wailéd woe will wear away in time. If thou wilt master quite the troubles that thee spill, Endeavour first by reason’s help to master witless will. A sundry med’cine hath each sundry faint disease, But patience, a common salve, to every wound gives ease. The world is always full of chances and of change, Wherefore the change of chance must not seem to a wise man strange. in changing, but her kind, But all her changes cannot change a steady constant mind. Though wavering Fortune turn from thee her smiling face, And Sorrow seek to set himself in banished Pleasure’s place, Yet may thy marred state be mended in a while, And she eftsoons that frowneth now, with peasant cheer shall smile, For as her happy state no long while standeth sure, Even so the heavy plight she brings, not always doth endure. What need so many words to thee that art so wise? Thou better canst advise thyself, than I can thee advise. Wisdom, I see, is vain, if thus in time of need A wise man’s wit unpractised doth stand him in no steed. I know thou hast some cause of sorrow and of care, But well I wot thou hast no cause thus franticly to fare. Affection’s foggy mist thy feebled sight doth blind; But if that reason’s beams again might shine into thy mind, If thou would’st view thy state with an indifferent eye, I think thou would’st condemn thy plaint, thy sighing, and thy cry. With valiant hand thou mad’st thy foe yield up his breath, Thou hast escaped his sword and eke the laws that threaten death. By thy escape thy friends are fraughted full of joy, And by his death thy deadly foes are laden with annoy. Wilt thou with trusty friends of pleasure take some part? Or else to please thy hateful foes be partner of their smart? Why cry’st thou out on love? Why dost thou blame thy fate? Why dost thou so cry after death? Thy life why dost thou hate? Dost thou repent the choice that thou so late didst choose? Love is thy Lord; thou ought’st obey and not thy prince accuse. For thou hast found, thou know’st, great favour in his sight. He granted thee, at thy request, thy only heart’s delight. So that the gods envied the bliss thou lived’st in; To give to such unthankful men is folly and a sin. Methinks I hear thee say, the cruel banishment Is only cause of thy unrest; only thou dost lament That from thy native land and friends thou must depart, Enforced to fly from her that hath the keeping of thy heart: And so oppressed with weight of smart that thou dost feel, Thou dost complain of Cupid’s brand, and Fortune’s turning wheel. Unto a valiant heart there is no banishment, All countries are his native soil beneath the firmament. As to the fish the sea, as to the fowl the air, So is like pleasant to the wise each place of his repair. Though froward Fortune chase thee hence into exile, With doubled honour shall she call thee home within a while. Admit thou should’st abide abroad a year or twain, Should so short absence cause so long and eke so grievous pain? Though thou ne may’st thy friends here in Verona see, They are not banished Mantua, where safely thou may’st be. Thither they may resort, though thou resort not hither, And there in surety may you talk of your affairs together. Yea, but this while, alas, thy Juliet must thou miss, The only pillar of thy health, and anchor of thy bliss. Thy heart thou leav’st with her, when thou dost hence depart, And in thy breast incloséd bear’st her tender friendly heart. But if thou rue so much to leave the rest behind, With thought of passéd joys content thy uncontented mind. So shall the moan decrease wherewith thy mind doth melt, Compared to the heavenly joys which thou hast often felt. He is too nice a weakling that shrinketh at a shower, And he unworthy of the sweet, that tasteth not the sour. Call now again to mind thy first consuming flame, How didst thou vainly burn in love of an unloving dame? Hadst thou not well-nigh wept quite out thy swelling eyne Did not thy parts, fordone with pain, languish away and pine? Those griefs and others like were haply overpast, And thou in height of Fortune’s wheel well placéd at the last! From whence thou art now fall’n, that, raiséd up again, With greater joy a greater while in pleasure may’st thou reign. Compare the present while with times y-past before, And think that Fortune hath for thee great pleasure yet in store. The whilst, this little wrong receive thou patiently, And what of force must needs be done, that do thou willingly. Folly it is to fear that thou canst not avoid, And madness to desire it much that cannot be enjoyed. To give to Fortune place, not aye deserveth blame, But skill it is, according to the times thyself to frame.” | 122. The friar rebukes him.
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| Whilst to this skilful lore he lent his list’ning ears, His sighs are stopped and stoppéd are the conduits of his tears. As blackest clouds are chased by winter’s nimble wind, So have his reasons chased care out of his careful mind. As of a morning foul ensues an evening fair, So banished hope returneth home to banish his despair. Now is affection’s veil removed from his eyes, He seeth the path that he must walk, and reason makes him wise. For very shame the blood doth flash in both his cheeks, He thanks the father for his lore, and farther aid he seeks. He saith, that skilless youth for counsel is unfit, And anger oft with hastiness are joined to want of wit; But sound advice abounds in heads with hoarish hairs, For wisdom is by practice won, and perfect made by years. But aye from this time forth his ready bending will Shall be in awe and governed by Friar Laurence’ skill. | 123. Romeus is convinced and reassured by the wise friar.
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| The governor is now right careful of his charge, To whom he doth wisely discourse of his affairs at large. He tells him how he shall depart the town unknown, Both mindful of his friend’s safety, and careful of his own; How he shall guide himself, how he shall seek to win The friendship of the better sort, how warely to creep in The favour of the Mantuan prince and how he may Appease the wrath of Escalus, and wipe the fault away; The choler of his foes by gentle means t’assuage, Or else by force and practices to bridle quite their rage: | 124. The friar gives him instructions on how to leave Verona, gain the favour of the Mantuan Prince and appease Escalus.
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| And last he chargeth him at his appointed hour To go with manly, merry cheer unto his lady’s bower, And there with wholesome words to salve her sorrow’s smart, And to revive, if need require, her faint and dying heart. | 125. The friar tells him to pay a last visit to his wife.
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| The old man’s words have filled with joy our Romeus’ breast, And eke the old wife’s talk hath set our Juliet’s heart at rest. Whereto may I compare, O lovers, this your day? Like days the painful mariners are wonted to assay; For, beat with tempest great, when they at length espy Some little beam of Phoebus’ light, that pierceth through the sky, To clear the shadowed earth by clearness of his face, They hope that dreadless they shall run the remnant of their race; Yea, they assure themselves, and quite behind their back They cast all doubt, and thank the gods for ’scaping of the wrack; But straight the boisterous winds with greater fury blow, And overboard the broken mast the stormy blasts do throw; The heavens large are clad with clouds as dark as hell, And twice as high the striving waves begin to roar and swell; With greater dangers dread the men are vexéd more, In greater peril of their life than they had been before. | 126. Romeus and Juliet feel reassured, but the narrator anticipates that a new storm is looming ahead.
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| The golden sun was gone to lodge him in the west, The full moon eke in yonder south had sent most men to rest, When restless Romeus and restless Juliet In wonted sort, by wonted mean, in Juliet’s chamber met. And from the window’s top down had he leapéd scarce, When she with arms outstretchéd wide so hard did him embrace, That well-nigh had the sprite, not forced by deadly force, Flown unto death, before the time abandoning the corpse, Thus muet stood they both the eighth part of an hour, And both would speak, but neither had of speaking any power; But on his breast her head doth joyless Juliet lay, And on her slender neck his chin doth ruthful Romeus stay. Their scalding sighs ascend, and by their cheeks down fall Their trickling tears, as crystal clear, but bitterer far than gall. Then he, to end the grief which both they lived in, Did kiss his love, and wisely thus his tale he did begin: | 127. At night Romeus and Juliet meet in her chamber and embrace.
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| “My Juliet, my love, my only hope and care, To you I purpose not as now with length of word declare The diverseness and eke the accidents so strange Of frail unconstant Fortune, that delighteth still in change; Who in a moment heaves her friends up to the height Of her swift-turning slippery wheel, then fleets her friendship straight. O wondrous change, even with the twinkling of an eye Whom erst herself had rashly set in pleasant place so high, The same in great despite down headlong doth she throw, And while she treads and spurneth at the lofty state laid low, More sorrow doth she shape within an hour’s space, Than pleasure in an hundred years; so geason is her grace. The proof whereof in me, alas, too plain appears, Whom tenderly my careful friends have fostered with my feres, In prosperous high degree, maintainéd so by fate, That, as yourself did see, my foes envied my noble state. One thing there was I did above the rest desire, To which as to the sovereign good by hope I would aspire. That by our marriage mean we might within a while, To work our perfect happiness, our parents reconcile: That safely so we might, not stopped by sturdy strife, Unto the bounds that God hath set, guide forth our pleasant life. But now, alack, too soon my bliss is overblown, And upside down my purpose and my enterprise are thrown. And driven from my friends, of strangers must I crave; Oh, grant it God, from dangers dread that I may surety have. For lo, henceforth I must wander in lands unknown (So hard I find the Prince’s doom), exiléd from mine own. Which thing I have thought good to set before your eyes And to exhort you now to prove yourself a woman wise, That patiently you bear my absent long abode, For what above by fatal dooms decreéd is, that God”. | 128. Romeus’ speech on inconstant Fortune and report of his own banishment.
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1630 | And more than this to say, it seeméd, he was bent, But Juliet in deadly grief, Brake off his tale begun, and whilst his speech he stayed, These selfsame words, or like to these, with dreary cheer she said: “Why, Romeus, can it be thou hast so hard a heart; So far removed from ruth; so far from thinking on my smart; To leave me thus alone, thou cause of my distress, Besiegéd with so great a camp of mortal wretchedness, That every hour now, and moment in a day, A thousand times Death brags, as he would reave my life away? Yet such is my mishap, O cruel destiny, That still I live, and wish for death, but yet can never die; So that just cause I have to think, as seemeth me, That froward Fortune did of late with cruel Death agree To lengthen loathéd life, to pleasure in my pain, And triumph in my harm, as in the greatest hopéd gain. And thou, the instrument of Fortune’s cruel will, Without whose aid she can no way her tyrannous lust fulfil, Art not a whit ashamed, as far as I can see, To cast me off, when thou hast culled the better part of me. Whereby, alas, too soon, I, seely wretch, do prove, That all the ancient sacred laws of friendship and of love Are quelled and quenchéd quite, since he, on whom alway My chief hope and my steady trust was wonted still to stay, For whom I am become unto myself a foe, Disdaineth me, his steadfast friend, and scorns my friendship so. Nay, Romeus, nay, thou may’st of two things choose the one, Either to see thy castaway, as soon as thou art gone, Headlong to throw herself down from the window’s height, And so to break her slender neck with all the body’s weight, Or suffer her to be companion of thy pain, Whereso thou go, Fortune thee guide, till thou return again. So wholly into thine transforméd is my heart, That even as oft as I do think that thou and I shall part, So oft, methinks, my life withdraws itself away, Which I retain to no end else but to the end I may, In spite of all thy foes, thy present parts enjoy, And in distress to bear with thee the half of thine annoy. Wherefore, in humble sort, Romeus, I make request, If ever tender pity yet were lodged in gentle breast, Oh, let it now have place to rest within thy heart; Receive me as thy servant, and Thy absence is my death, thy sight shall give me life; But if perhaps thou stand in dread to lead me as a wife, Art thou all counsel-less? Canst thou no shift devise? What letteth but in other weed I may myself disguise? What, shall I be the first? Hath none done so ere this, To ’scape the bondage of their friends? Thyself can answer, yes. Or dost thou stand in doubt that I thy wife ne can By service pleasure thee as much as may thy hiréd man? Or is my loyalty of both accompted less? Perhaps thou fear’st lest I for gain forsake thee in distress. What, hath my beauty now no power at all on you, Whose brightness, force, and praise, sometime up to the skies you blew? My tears, my friendship and my pleasures done of old, Shall they be quite forgot indeed?” | 129. Juliet interrupts him and blames Fortune and Romeus for leaving her in Verona: she either will die without him, or will be his companion in exile.
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| When Romeus did behold The wildness of her look, her colour pale and dead, The worst of all that might betide to her, he ’gan to dread; And once again he did in arms his Juliet take, And kissed her with a loving kiss, and thus to her he spake: “Ah, Juliet,” quoth he, “the mistress of my heart, For whom, even now, thy servant doth abide in deadly smart, Even for the happy days which thou desir’st to see, And for the fervent friendship’s sake that thou dost owe to me, At once these fancies vain out of thy mind root out, Except, perhaps, unto thy blame, thou fondly go about To hasten forth my death, and to thine own to run, Which Nature’s law and wisdom’s lore teach every wight to shun. For, but thou change thy mind, I do foretell the end, Thou shalt undo thyself for aye, and me thy trusty friend. For why, thy absence known, thy father will be wroth, And in his rage so narrowly he will pursue us both, That we shall try in vain to ’scape away by flight, And vainly seek a lurking place to hide us from his sight. Then we, found out and caught, quite void of strong defence, Shall cruelly be punished for thy departure hence; I as a ravisher, thou as a careless child, I as a man who doth defile, thou as a maid defiled; Thinking to lead in ease a long-contented life, Shall short our days by shameful death: but if, my loving wife, Thou banish from thy mind two foes that counsel hath, That wont to hinder sound advice, rash hastiness and wrath; If thou be bent t’obey the lore of reason’s skill And wisely by her princely power suppress rebelling will, If thou our safety seek, more than thine own delight, Since surety stands in parting, and thy pleasures grow of sight, Forbear the cause of joy, and suffer for a while, So shall I safely live abroad, and safe turn from exile, So shall no slander’s blot thy spotless life distain, So shall thy kinsmen be unstirred, and I exempt from pain. And think thou not, that aye the cause of care shall last; These stormy broils shall overblow, much like a winter’s blast. For Fortune changeth more than fickle fantasy; In nothing Fortune constant is save in unconstancy. Her hasty running wheel is of a restless course, That turns the climbers headlong down, from better to the worse, And those that are beneath she heaveth up again: So we shall rise to pleasure’s mount, out of the pit of pain. Ere four months overpass, such order will I take, And by my letters and my friends such means I mind to make, That of my wand’ring race ended shall be the toil, And I called home with honour great unto my native soil. But if I be condemned to wander still in thrall, I will return to you, mine own, befall what may befall. And then by strength of friends, and with a mighty hand, From Verona will I carry thee into a foreign land, Not in man’s weed disguised, or as one scarcely known, But as my wife and only fere, in garment of thine own. Wherefore repress at once the passions of thy heart, And where there is no cause of grief, cause hope to heal thy smart. For of this one thing thou may’st well assuréd be, That nothing else but only death shall sunder me from thee.” | 130. Romeus urges Juliet to remain behind to avoid being prosecuted and condemned. He promises that he will either return for good after four months, or will escape with her abroad.
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| The reasons that he made did seem of so great weight, And had with her such force, that she to him ’gan answer straight: “Dear sir, nought else wish I but to obey your will; But sure whereso you go, your heart with me shall tarry still, As sign and certain pledge, till here I shall you see, Of all the power that over you yourself did grant to me; And in his stead take mine, the gage of my good will: One promise crave I at your hand, that grant me to fulfil; Fail not to let me have, at Friar Laurence’ hand, The tidings of your health, and how your doubtful case shall stand. And all the weary while that you shall spend abroad, Cause me from time to time to know the place of your abode.” | 131. Juliet agrees but wants to be kept informed by Friar Laurence.
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| His eyes did gush out tears, a sigh brake from his breast, When he did grant and with an oath did vow to keep the hest. Thus these two lovers pass away the weary night, In pain and plaint, not, as they wont, in pleasure and delight. | 132. The lovers agree and spend the night in pain and plaint.
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| But now (somewhat too soon) in farthest east arose Fair Lucifer, the golden star that lady Venus chose; Whose course appointed is with speedy race to run, A messenger of dawning day and of the rising sun. Then fresh Aurora with her pale and silver glade Did clear the skies, and from the earth had chaséd ugly shade. When thou ne lookest wide, ne closely dost thou wink When Phoebus from our hemisphere in western wave doth sink, What colour then the heavens do show unto thine eyes, The same, or like, saw Romeus in farthest eastern skies. As yet he saw no day, ne could he call it night With equal force decreasing dark fought with increasing light. Then Romeus in arms his lady ’gan to fold, With friendly kiss, and ruthfully she ’gan her knight behold. With solemn oath they both their sorrowful leave do take; They swear no stormy troubles shall their steady friendship shake. | 133. At dawn the two lovers sadly part.
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| Then careful Romeus again to cell returns, And in her chamber secretly our joyless Juliet mourns. Now hugy clouds of care, of sorrow, and of dread, The clearness of their gladsome hearts hath wholly overspread. When golden-crested Phoebus boasteth him in sky, And under earth, to ’scape revenge, his deadly foe doth fly Then hath these lovers’ day an end, their night begun, For each of them to other is as to the world the sun, The dawning they shall see, ne summer any more, But blackfaced night with winter rough, ah, beaten over sore. | 134. Romeus goes to the friar’s cell, Juliet to her room. The narrator depicts their days of sorrow deprived of each other’s sun.
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| The weary watch discharged did hie them home to sleep, The warders and the scouts were charged their place and course to keep, And Verona gates awide the porters had set open, When Romeus had of his affairs with Friar Laurence spoken. Warely he walked forth, unknown of friend or foe, Clad like a merchant venturer, from top even to the toe. He spurred apace, and came, without stop or stay, To Mantua gates, where lighted down, he sent his man away With words of comfort to his old afflicted sire; | 135. After the discharging of the guards at Verona gates, Romeus goes away disguised as a merchant and once in Mantua sends back his man.
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| And straight, in mind to sojourn there, a lodging doth he hire, And with the nobler sort he doth himself acquaint, And of his open wrong received the duke doth hear his plaint. He practiseth by friends for pardon of exile; The whilst he seeketh every way his sorrows to beguile. But who forgets the coal that burneth in his breast? Alas, his cares deny his heart the sweet desiréd rest; No time finds he of mirth, he finds no place of joy, But everything occasion gives of sorrow and annoy. For when in turning skies the heaven’s lamps are light, And from the other hemisphere fair Phoebus chaseth night, When every man and beast hath rest from painful toil, Then in the breast of Romeus his passions ’gin to boil. Then doth he wet with tears the couch whereon he lies, And then his sighs the chamber fill, and out aloud he cries Against the restless stars in rolling skies that range, Against the fatal sisters three, and Fortune full of change. Each night a thousand times he calleth for the day, He thinketh Titan’s restless steeds of restiness do stay; Or that at length they have some baiting place found out, Or, guided ill, have lost their way and wandered far about. While thus in idle thoughts the weary time he spendeth, The night hath end, but not with night the plaint of night he endeth. Is he accompanied? Is he in place alone? In company he wails his harm, apart he maketh moan: For if his feres rejoice, what cause hath he to joy, That wanteth still his chief delight, while they their loves enjoy? But if with heavy cheer they show their inward grief, He waileth most his wretchedness that is of wretches chief. When he doth hear abroad the praise of ladies blown, Within his thought he scorneth them, and doth prefer his own. When pleasant songs he hears, while others do rejoice, The melody of music doth stir up his mourning voice. But if in secret place he walk somewhere alone, The place itself and secretness redoubleth all his moan. Then speaks he to the beasts, to feathered fowls and trees, Unto the earth, the clouds, and to whatso beside he sees. To them he shew’th his smart, as though they reason had. Each thing may cause his heaviness, but nought may make him glad. And, weary of the day, again he calleth night, The sun he curseth, and the hour when first his eyes saw light. And as the night and day their course do interchange, So doth our Romeus’ nightly cares for cares of day exchange. | 136. Romeus finds a lodging in Mantua, makes noble acquaintances and complains about the wrong he received with the duke. Yet time passes and nothing makes him rejoice.
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| In absence of her knight the lady no way could Keep truce between her griefs and her, though ne’er so fain she would; And though with greater pain she cloakéd sorrow’s smart, Yet did her paléd face disclose the passions of her heart. Her sighing every hour, her weeping everywhere, Her reckless heed of meat, of sleep, and wearing of her gear, The careful mother marks; then of her health afraid, Because the griefs increaséd still, thus to her child she said: “Dear daughter, if you should long languish in this sort, I stand in doubt that oversoon your sorrows will make short Your loving father’s life and mine, that love you more Than our own proper breath and life. Bridle henceforth therefore Your grief and pain, yourself on joy your thought to set, For time it is that now you should our Tybalt’s death forget. Of whom since God hath claimed the life that was but lent, He is in bliss, ne is there cause why you should thus lament. You cannot call him back with tears and shriekings shrill: It is a fault thus still to grudge at God’s appointed will.” | 137. Juliet pines away, and her mother urges her to give up suffering for Tybalt’s death.
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| The seely soul had now no longer power to feign, No longer could she hide her harm, but answered thus again, With heavy broken sighs, with visage pale and dead: “Madam, the last of Tybalt’s tears a great while since I shed. Whose spring hath been ere this so laded out by me, That empty quite and moistureless I guess it now to be. So that my painéd heart by conduits of the eyne No more henceforth, as wont it was, shall gush forth dropping brine.” | 138. Juliet can no longer hide her pain but denies that it is due to Tybalt’s death.
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| The woeful mother knew not what her daughter meant, And loth to vex her child by words, her peace she warely hent. But when from hour to hour, from morrow to the morrow, Still more and more she saw increased her daughter’s wonted sorrow, All means she sought of her and household folk to know The certain root whereon her grief and bootless moan doth grow. But lo, she hath in vain her time and labour lore, Wherefore without all measure is her heart tormented sore. And sith herself could not find out the cause of care, She thought it good to tell the sire how ill his child did fare. | 139. Juliet’s mother does not understand her behaviour and decides to talk it over with her husband.
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| And when she saw her time, thus to her fere she said: “Sir, if you mark our daughter well, the countenance of the maid, And how she fareth since that Tybalt unto death, Before his time, forced by his foe, did yield his living breath, Her face shall seem so changed, her doings eke so strange, That you will greatly wonder at so great and sudden change. Not only she forbears her meat, her drink, and sleep, But now she tendeth nothing else but to lament and weep. No greater joy hath she, nothing contents her heart So much as in the chamber close to shut herself apart; Where she doth so torment her poor afflicted mind, That much in danger stands her life, except some help we find. But, out, alas, I see not how it may be found, Unless that first we might find whence her sorrows thus abound. For though with busy care I have employed my wit, And used all the ways I knew to learn the truth of it, Neither extremity ne gentle means could boot; She hideth close within her breast her secret sorrow’s root. This was my first conceit, that all her ruth arose Out of her cousin Tybalt’s death, late slain of deadly foes; But now my heart doth hold a new repugnant thought; Some greater thing, not Tybalt’s death, this change in her hath wrought. Herself assuréd me that many days ago She shed the last of Tybalt’s tears; which word amazed me so That I then could not guess what thing else might her grieve; But now at length I have bethought me; and I do believe The only crop and root of all my daughter’s pain Is grudging envy’s faint disease: perhaps she doth disdain To see in wedlock yoke the most part of her feres, Whilst only she unmarried doth lose so many years. And more perchance she thinks you mind to keep her so; Wherefore despairing doth she wear herself away with woe. Therefore, dear sir, in time take on your daughter ruth; For why, a brickle thing is glass, and frail is frailless youth. Join her at once to some in link of marriage, That may be meet for our degree, and much about her age: So shall you banish care out of your daughter’s breast, So we her parents, in our age, shall live in quiet rest.” | 140. Juliet’s mother urges her husband to find out the true cause of Juliet’s pain and suggests that they find a good party for her, assuming that she is envious of her mates who are already married.
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| Whereto ’gan easily her husband to agree, And to the mother’s skilful talk thus straightway answered he: “Oft have I thought, dear wife, of all these things ere this, But evermore my mind me gave, it should not be amiss By farther leisure had a husband to provide; Scarce saw she yet full sixteen years: too young to be a bride! But since her state doth stand on terms so perilous, And that a maiden daughter is a treasure dangerous, With so great speed I will endeavour to procure A husband for our daughter young, her sickness faint to cure, That you shall rest content, so warely will I choose, And she recover soon enough the time she seems to lose. The whilst seek you to learn, if she in any part Already hath, unware to us, fixéd her friendly heart; Lest we have more respect to honour and to wealth, Than to our daughter’s quiet life, and to her happy health; Whom I do hold as dear as th’apple of mine eye, And rather wish in poor estate and daughterless to die, Than leave my goods and her y-thralled to such a one, Whose churlish dealing, I once dead, should be her cause of moan.” | 141. Capulet replies that although she is only 16, he has long thought about this matter and will find a prompt solution to cure her.
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| This pleasant answer heard, the lady parts again, And Capulet, the maiden’s sire, within a day or twain, Conferreth with his friends for marriage of his daughter, And many gentlemen there were with busy care that sought her; Both for the maiden was well shapéd, young, and fair, As also well brought up, and wise; her father’s only heir. | 142. Capulet starts searching for a good party.
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| Among the rest was one inflamed with her desire, Who County Paris clepéd was; an earl he had to sire. Of all the suitors him the father liketh best, And easily unto the earl he maketh his behest, Both of his own good will, and of his friendly aid, To win his wife unto his will, and to persuade the maid. The wife did joy to hear the joyful husband say How happy hap, how meet a match, he had found out that day; | 143. Among the suitors, Capulet likes Count Paris best and tells his wife.
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| Ne did she seek to hide her joys within her heart, But straight she hieth to Juliet; to her she tells, apart, What happy talk, by mean of her, was past no rather Between the wooing Paris and her careful, loving father. The person of the man, the features of his face, His youthful years, his fairness, and his port, and seemly grace, With curious words she paints before her daughter’s eyes, And then with store of virtue’s praise she heaves him to the skies. She vaunts his race, and gifts that Fortune did him give, Whereby, she saith, both she and hers in great delight shall live. | 144. Lady Capulet informs Juliet and praises the beauty of Paris.
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| When Juliet conceived her parents’ whole intent, Whereto both love and reason’s right forbade her to assent, Within herself she thought, rather than be forsworn, With horses wild her tender parts asunder should be torn. Not now, with bashful brow, in wonted wise, she spoke, But with unwonted boldness straight into these words she broke: “Madam, I marvel much that you so lavish are Of me your child, your jewel once, your only joy and care, As thus to yield me up at pleasure of another, Before you know if I do like or else mislike my lover. Do what you list, but yet of this assure you still, If you do as you say you will, I yield not there until. For had I choice of twain, far rather would I choose My part of all your goods and eke my breath and life to lose, Than grant that he possess of me the smallest part; First, weary of my painful life, my cares shall kill my heart, Else will I pierce my breast with sharp and bloody knife; And you, my mother, shall become the murd’ress of my life, In giving me to him whom I ne can, ne may, Ne ought, to love: wherefore on knees, dear mother, I you pray, To let me live henceforth, as I have lived tofore; Cease all your troubles for my sake, and care for me no more; But suffer Fortune fierce to work on me her will, In her it lieth to do me boot, in her it lieth to spill. For whilst you for the best desire to place me so, You haste away my ling’ring death, and double all my woe. | 145. Juliet firmly rejects her mother’s proposal.
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| So deep this answer made the sorrows down to sink Into the mother’s breast, that she ne knoweth what to think Of these her daughter’s words, but all appalled she stands, And up unto the heavens she throws her wond’ring head and hands. And, nigh beside herself, her husband hath she sought; She tells him all; she doth forget ne yet she hideth aught. | 146. Lady Capulet is taken aback and wishes her husband had been with her. She informs him.
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| The testy old man, wroth, disdainful without measure, Sends forth his folk in haste for her, and bids them take no leisure: Ne on her tears or plaint at all to have remorse, But, if they cannot with her will, to bring the maid perforce. The message heard, they part, to fetch that they must fet, And willingly with them walks forth obedient Juliet. | 147. Capulet summons Juliet.
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| Arrivéd in the place, when she her father saw, Of whom, as much as duty would, the daughter stood in awe, The servants sent away, (the mother thought it meet) The woeful daughter all bewept fell grovelling at his feet, Which she doth wash with tears as she thus grovelling lies. So fast, and eke so plenteously distil they from her eyes: When she to call for grace her mouth doth think to open, Muet she is, for sighs and sobs her fearful talk have broken. | 148. Once in front of her father Juliet despairs and cannot speak for sobs and sighs.
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| The sire, whose swelling wrath her tears could not assuage, With fiery eyne, and scarlet cheeks, thus spoke her in his rage, Whilst ruthfully stood by the maiden’s mother mild: “Listen,” quoth he, “unthankful and thou disobedient child, Hast thou so soon let slip out of thy mind the word That thou so oftentimes hast heard rehearséd at my board? And eke what power upon their seed the fathers had by law? Whom they not only might pledge, alienate, and sell, Whenso they stood in need, but more, if children did rebel, The parents had the power of life and sudden death. What if those good men should again receive the living breath, In how strait bonds would they thy stubborn body bind? What weapons would they seek for thee? what torments would they find? To chasten, if they saw, the lewdness of thy life, Thy great unthankfulness to me, and shameful sturdy strife? Such care thy mother had, so dear thou wert to me, That I with long and earnest suit provided have for thee One of the greatest lords that wons about this town, And for his many virtues’ sake a man of great renown. Of whom both thou and I unworthy are too much, So rich ere long he shall be left, his father’s wealth is such, Such is the nobleness and honour of the race, From whence his father came: and yet, thou playest in this case The dainty fool, and stubborn girl; for want of skill Thou dost refuse thy offered weal, and disobey my will. Even by His strength I swear, that first did give me life, And gave me in my youth the strength to get thee on my wife, Unless by Wednesday next thou bend as I am bent, And at our castle called Freetown thou freely do assent To County Paris’ suit, and promise to agree To whatsoever then shall pass ’twixt him, my wife, and me, Not only will I give all that I have away From thee, to those that shall me love, me honour, and obey, But also to so close and to so hard a gaol I shall thee wed, for all thy life, that sure thou shalt not fail A thousand times a day to wish for sudden death, And curse the day and hour when first thy lungs did give thee breath. Advise thee well, and say that thou art warnéd now, And think not that I speak in sport, or mind to break my vow. For were it not that I to County Paris gave My faith, which I must keep unfalsed, my honour so to save, Ere thou go hence, myself would see thee chastened so, That thou should’st once for all be taught thy duty how to know; And what revenge of old the angry sires did find Against their children that rebelled and showed themselves unkind.” | 149. Capulet gets incensed and orders Juliet to marry Paris and go to their castle Freetown on Wednesday to assent. He reminds her of the power of Roman fathers over their children.
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| These said, the old man straight is gone in haste away, Ne for his daughter’s answer would the testy father stay. And after him his wife doth follow out of door, And there they leave their chidden child kneeling upon the floor: | 150. Capulet and his wife go away without waiting for Juliet to reply, who remains kneeling on the floor.
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1995
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| Then she that oft had seen the fury of her sire, Dreading what might come of his rage, nould farther stir his ire. Unto her chamber she withdrew herself apart, Where she was wonted to unload the sorrows of her heart. There did she not so much busy her eyes in sleeping, As overpressed with restless thoughts in piteous bootless weeping. The fast falling of tear make not her tears decrease, Ne, by the pouring forth of plaint, the cause of plaint doth cease. So that to th’end the moan and sorrow may decay, The best is that she seek some mean to take the cause away. | 151. Juliet retires to her room and cries.
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2005
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2025
| Her weary bed betime the woeful wight forsakes, And to Saint Francis’ church to mass her way devoutly takes. The friar forth is called; she prays him hear her shrift; Devotion is in so young years a rare and precious gift. When on her tender knees the dainty lady kneels, In mind to pour forth all the grief that inwardly she feels, With sighs and salted tears her shriving doth begin, For she of heapéd sorrows hath to speak, and not of sin. Her voice with piteous plaint was made already hoarse, And hasty sobs, when she would speak, brake off her words perforce. But as she may, piece-meal, she poureth in his lap The marriage news, a mischief new, preparéd by mishap, Her parents’ promise erst to County Paris past, Her father’s threats she telleth him, and thus concludes at last: “Once was I wedded well, ne will I wed again; For since I know I may not be the wedded wife of twain, For I am bound to have one God, one faith, one make, My purpose is as soon as I shall hence my journey take, With these two hands, which joined unto the heavens I stretch, The hasty death which I desire, unto myself to reach. This day, O Romeus, this day thy woeful wife Will bring the end of all her cares by ending careful life. So my departed sprite shall witness to the sky, And eke my blood unto the earth bear record, how that I Have kept my faith unbroken, steadfast unto my friend.” | 152. In the morning Juliet goes to Saint Francis’ church, informs the friar of the organized match with Paris and threatens self-slaughter.
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2030
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| When this her heavy tale was told, her vow eke at an end, Her gazing here and there, her fierce and staring look, Did witness that some lewd attempt her heart had undertook. Whereat the friar astound, and ghastfully afraid Lest she by deed perform her word, thus much to her he said: “Ah, Lady Juliet, what need the words you spoke? I pray you, grant me one request, for blesséd Mary’s sake. Measure somewhat your grief, hold here awhile your peace; Whilst I bethink me of your case, your plaint and sorrows cease. Such comfort will I give you, ere you part from hence, And for th’assaults of Fortune’s ire prepare so sure defence, So wholesome salve will I for your afflictions find, That you shall hence depart again with well contented mind.” | 153. The friar reassures Juliet and promises to help her against ill Fortune.
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2045
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| His words have chaséd straight out of her heart despair, Her black and ugly dreadful thoughts by hope are waxen fair. So Friar Laurence now hath left her there alone, And he out of the church in haste is to his chamber gone; Where sundry thoughts within his careful head arise; The old man’s foresight divers doubts hath set before his eyes, His conscience one while condemns it for a sin To let her take Paris to spouse, since he himself had been The chiefest cause, that she unknown to father or mother, Not five months past, in that self-place was wedded to another. | 154. Juliet feels relieved and the friar retires to his chamber to think the matter out. He feels responsible for having married her not five months before.
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2055
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| Another while an hugy heap of dangers dread His restless thought hath heapéd up within his troubled head. Even of itself th’attempt he judgeth perilous; The execution eke he deems so much more dangerous, That to a woman’s grace he must himself commit, That young is, simple and unware, for weighty affairs unfit; For if she fail in aught, the matter publishéd, Both she and Romeus were undone, himself eke punishéd. | 155. The friar is troubled by fears for the lovers and himself in case Juliet fails to cope with such a weighty affair and it is published.
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2065
| When to and fro in mind he divers thoughts had cast, With tender pity and with ruth his heart was won at last; He thought he rather would in hazard set his fame, Than suffer such adultery. Resolving on the same, Out of his closet straight he took a little glass, And then with double haste returned where woeful Juliet was; Whom he hath found well-nigh in trance, scarce drawing breath, Attending still to hear the news of life or else of death. | 156. Eventually he decides that it is better to risk his own reputation than Juliet’s honesty. He takes a little glass, and goes back to Juliet.
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2070
| Of whom he did enquire of the appointed day: “On Wednesday next,” quoth Juliet, “so doth my father say, I must give my consent; but, as I do remember, The solemn day of marriage is the tenth day of September.” | 157. The friar asks Juliet when she must consent and learns that it is on Wednesday, while the marriage is set on September 10.
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2075
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| “Dear daughter,” quoth the friar, “of good cheer see thou be, For lo, Saint Francis of his grace hath showed a way to me, By which I may both thee and Romeus together Out of the bondage which you fear assurédly deliver. Even from the holy font thy husband have I known, And, since he grew in years, have kept his counsels as mine own. For from his youth he would unfold to me his heart, And often have I curéd him of anguish and of smart; I know that by desert his friendship I have won, And I him hold as dear as if he were my proper son. Wherefore my friendly heart cannot abide that he Should wrongfully in aught be harmed, if that it lay in me To right or to revenge the wrong by my advice, Or timely to prevent the same in any other wise. And sith thou art his wife, thee am I bound to love, For Romeus’ friendship’s sake, and seek thy anguish to remove, And dreadful torments, which thy heart besiegen round; | 158. The friar vows to help and stand loyal to both Romeus and Juliet.
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2090
| Wherefore, my daughter, give good ear unto my counsels sound. Forget not what I say, ne tell it any wight, Not to the nurse thou trustest so, as Romeus is thy knight; For on this thread doth hang thy death and eke thy life, My fame or shame, his weal or woe that chose thee to his wife. | 159. The friar bids Juliet to secrecy.
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| Thou art not ignorant, because of such renown As everywhere is spread of me, but chiefly in this town, That in my youthful days abroad I travelléd, Through every land found out by men, by men inhabited; So twenty years from home, in lands unknown a guest, I never gave my weary limbs long time of quiet rest, But in the desert woods, to beasts of cruel kind, Or on the seas to drenching waves, at pleasure of the wind, I have committed them, to ruth of rover’s hand, And to a thousand dangers more, by water and by land. But not in vain, my child, hath all my wand’ring been; Beside the great contentedness my sprite abideth in, That by the pleasant thought of passéd things doth grow, One private fruit more have I plucked, which thou shalt shortly know: What force the stones, the plants, and metals have to work, And divers other things that in the bowels of earth do lurk, With care I have sought out, with pain I did them prove; With them eke can I help myself at times of my behove, Although the science be against the laws of men, When sudden danger forceth me; but yet most chiefly when The work to do is least displeasing unto God, Not helping to do any sin | 160. The friar describes his past adventures when he learned about a “private fruit” which will serve Juliet’s purpose.
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