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| For since in life no hope of long abode I have, But now am come unto the brink of my appointed grave, And that my death draws near, whose stripe I may not shun, But shall be called to make account of all that I have done, Now ought I from henceforth more deeply print in mind The judgment of the Lord, than when youth’s folly made me blind, When love and fond desire were boiling in my breast, Whence hope and dread by striving thoughts had banished friendly rest. | 161. The friar tells Juliet why he wants to help her.
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| Know therefore, daughter, that with other gifts which I Have well attainéd to, by grace and favour of the sky, Long since I did find out, and yet the way I know Of certain roots and savoury herbs to make a kind of dough, Which bakéd hard, and beat into a powder fine, And drunk with conduit water, or with any kind of wine, It doth in half an hour astone the taker so, And mast’reth all his senses, that he feeleth weal nor woe: And so it burieth up the sprite and living breath, That even the skilful leech would say, that he is slain by death. One virtue more it hath, as marvellous as this; The taker, by receiving it, at all not grievéd is; But painless as a man that thinketh nought at all, Into a sweet and quiet sleep immediately doth fall; From which, according to the quantity he taketh, Longer or shorter is the time before the sleeper waketh; And thence, th’effect once wrought, again it doth restore Him that received unto the state wherein he was before. | 162. The friar describes the wonderful effects of the sleeping potion he is about to give to Juliet.
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| Wherefore, mark well the end of this my tale begun, And thereby learn what is by thee hereafter to be done. Cast off from thee at once the weed of womanish dread, With manly courage arm thyself from heel unto the head; For only on the fear or boldness of thy breast The happy hap or ill mishap of thy affair doth rest. Receive this vial small and keep it as thine eye; And on thy marriage day, before the sun do clear the sky, Fill it with water full up to the very brim, Then drink it off, and thou shalt feel throughout each vein and limb A pleasant slumber slide, and quite dispread at length On all thy parts, from every part reave all thy kindly strength; Withouten moving thus thy idle parts shall rest, No pulse shall go, ne heart once beat within thy hollow breast, But thou shalt lie as she that dieth in a trance: Thy kinsmen and thy trusty friends shall wail the sudden chance; Thy corpse then will they bring to grave in this churchyard, Where thy forefathers long ago a costly tomb prepared, Both for themselves and eke for those that should come after, Both deep it is, and long and large, where thou shalt rest, my daughter, Till I to Mantua send for Romeus, thy knight; Out of the tomb both he and I will take thee forth that night. And when out of thy sleep thou shalt awake again, Then may’st thou go with him from hence; and, healéd of thy pain, In Mantua lead with him unknown a pleasant life; And yet perhaps in time to come, when cease shall all the strife, And that the peace is made ’twixt Romeus and his foes, Myself may find so fit a time these secrets to disclose, Both to my praise, and to thy tender parents’ joy, That dangerless, without reproach, thou shalt thy love enjoy.” | 163. The friar urges her to take manly courage and drink the potion. Then he illustrates the plan in details.
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| When of his skilful tale the friar had made an end, To which our Juliet well her ear and wits did bend, That she hath heard it all and hath forgotten nought, Her fainting heart was comforted with hope and pleasant thought, And then to him she said: “Doubt not but that I will With stout and unappalléd heart your happy hest fulfil. Yea, if I wist it were a venomous deadly drink, Rather would I that through my throat the certain bane should sink, Than I, not drinking it, into his hands should fall, That hath no part of me as yet, ne ought to have at all. Much more I ought with bold and with a willing heart To greatest danger yield myself, and to the deadly smart, To come to him on whom my life doth wholly stay, That is my only heart’s delight, and so he shall be aye.” | 164. Juliet agrees: she would rather take the poison than be married to Paris.
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| “Then go,” quoth he, “my child, I pray that God on high Direct thy foot, and by thy hand upon the way thee guy. God grant he so confirm in thee thy present will, That no inconstant toy thee let thy promise to fulfil.” | 165. The friar prays God to make her constant in this deed.
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| A thousand thanks and more our Juliet gave the friar, And homeward to her father’s house joyful she doth retire; And as with stately gait she passéd through the street, She saw her mother in the door, that with her there would meet, In mind to ask if she her purpose yet did hold, In mind also, apart ’twixt them, her duty to have told; Wherefore with pleasant face, and with unwonted cheer, As soon as she was unto her approachéd somewhat near, Before the mother spake, thus did she first begin: “Madam, at Saint Francis’ church have I this morning bin, Where I did make abode a longer while, percase, Than duty would; yet have I not been absent from this place So long a while, without a great and just cause why; This fruit have I receivéd there, my heart, erst like to die, Is now revived again, and my afflicted breast, Releaséd from affliction, restoréd is to rest. For lo, my troubled ghost, alas, too sore diseased, By ghostly counsel and advice hath Friar Laurence eased; To whom I did at large discourse my former life, And in confession did I tell of all our passéd strife; Of County Paris’ suit, and how my lord, my sire, By my ungrate and stubborn strife I stirréd unto ire; But lo, the holy friar hath by his ghostly lore Made me another woman now than I had been before. By strength of arguments he chargéd so my mind, That, though I sought, no sure defence my searching thought could find. So forced I was at length to yield up witless will, And promised to be ordered by the friar’s praiséd skill. Wherefore, albeit I had rashly, long before, The bed and rites of marriage for many years forswore, Yet mother, now behold your daughter at your will, Ready, if you command her aught, your pleasure to fulfil. Wherefore in humble wise, dear madam, I you pray, To go unto my lord and sire, withouten long delay; Of him first pardon crave of faults already past, And show him, if it pleaseth you, his child is now at last Obedient to his lust and to his skilful hest, And that I will, God lending life, on Wednesday next be prest To wait on him and you, unto th’appointed place, Where I will, in your hearing, and before my father’s face, Unto the County give my faith and whole assent, To take him for my lord and spouse; thus fully am I bent; And that out of your mind I may remove all doubt, Unto my closet fare I now, to search and to choose out The bravest garments and the richest jewels there, Which, better him to please, I mind on Wednesday next to wear; For if I did excel the famous Grecian rape, Yet might attire help to amend my beauty and my shape.” | 166. Juliet thanks the friar, goes back home, tells her mother about her changed mind, and asks her to inform her father.
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| The simple mother was rapt into great delight; Not half a word could she bring forth, but in this joyful plight With nimble foot she ran, and with unwonted pace, Unto her pensive husband, and to him with pleasant face She told what she had heard, and praiseth much the friar, And joyful tears ran down the cheeks of this gray-bearded sire. With hands and eyes heaved up he thanks God in his heart, And then he saith: “This is not, wife, the friar’s first desart; Oft hath he showed to us great friendship heretofore, By helping us at needful times with wisdom’s precious lore. In all our commonweal scarce one is to be found But is, for some good turn, unto this holy father bound. Oh that the third part of my goods – I do not feign – But twenty of his passéd years might purchase him again! So much in recompense of friendship would I give, So much, in faith, his extreme age my friendly heart doth grieve.” | 167. Lady Capulet rejoices and informs her husband, who greatly praises the friar.
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| These said, the glad old man from home go’th straight abroad And to the stately palace hieth where Paris made abode; Whom he desires to be on Wednesday next his guest, At Freetown, where he minds to make for him a costly feast. But lo, the earl saith, such feasting were but lost, And counsels him till marriage-time to spare so great a cost, For then he knoweth well the charges will be great; The whilst, his heart desireth still her sight, and not his meat. He craves of Capulet that he may straight go see Fair Juliet; whereto he doth right willingly agree. | 168. Capulet informs Paris and invites him to Freetown to celebrate, but Paris suggests to cancel the feast and only asks to see Juliet.
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| The mother, warned before, her daughter doth prepare; She warneth and she chargeth her that in no wise she spare Her courteous speech, her pleasant looks, and comely grace, But liberally to give them forth when Paris comes in place: Which she as cunningly could set forth to the show, As cunning craftsmen to the sale That ere the County did out of her sight depart, So secretly unwares to him she stole away his heart, That of his life and death the wily wench had power. And now his longing heart thinks long for their appointed hour, And with importune suit the parents doth he pray The wedlock knot to knit soon up, and haste the marriage day. | 169. Juliet’s mother recommends that she puts up her best manners to impress Paris and win his heart. He is so seduced that he wants to haste the wedding.
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| The wooer hath passed forth the first day in this sort, And many other more than this, in pleasure and disport. At length the wishéd time of long hopéd delight, As Paris thought, drew near; but near approachéd heavy plight. Against the bridal day the parents did prepare Such rich attire, such furniture, such store of dainty fare, That they which did behold the same the night before Did think and say, a man could scarcely wish for any more. Nothing did seem too dear; the dearest things were bought; And, as the written story saith, indeed there wanted nought That ’longed to his degree, and honour of his stock; | 170. Time passes and the appointed day approaches. The richest garments are bought to Juliet. The narrator refers to the written source of his tale as proof of its verity.
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| But Juliet, the whilst, her thoughts within her breast did lock; Even from the trusty nurse, whose secretness was tried, The secret counsel of her heart the nurse-child seeks to hide. For sith, to mock her dame, she did not stick to lie, She thought no sin with show of truth to blear her nurse’s eye. In chamber secretly the tale she ’gan renew, That at the door she told her dame, as though it had been true. The flat’ring nurse did praise the friar for his skill, And said that she had done right well by wit to order will. She setteth forth at large the father’s furious rage, And eke she praiseth much to her the second marriage; And County Paris now she praiseth ten times more, By wrong, than she herself, by right, had Romeus praised before. Paris shall dwell there still, Romeus shall not return; What shall it boot her life to languish still and mourn? The pleasures past before she must account as gain; But if he do return, what then? For one she shall have twain. The one shall use her as his lawful wedded wife, In wanton love with equal joy the other lead his life; And best shall she be sped of any townish dame, Of husband and of paramour to find her change of game. These words and like the nurse did speak, in hope to please, But greatly did these wicked words the lady’s mind disease; | 171. Juliet is secret also with the nurse, who starts praising Paris even more than Romeus before him.
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| But aye she hid her wrath, and seeméd well content, When daily did the naughty nurse new arguments invent. | 172. Juliet feigns to be content with the nurse’s advice.
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| But when the bride perceived her hour approachéd near, She sought, the best she could, to feign, and tempered so her cheer, That by her outward look no living wight could guess Her inward woe; and yet anew renewed is her distress. Unto her chamber doth the pensive wight repair, And in her hand a percher light the nurse bears up the stair. In Juliet’s chamber was her wonted use to lie; Wherefore her mistress, dreading that she should her work descry, As soon as she began her pallet to unfold, Thinking to lie that night where she was wont to lie of old, Doth gently pray her seek her lodging somewhere else; And, lest she, crafty, should suspect, a ready reason tells. | 173. Juliet goes to her chamber and devises an excuse to send the nurse away.
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| “Dear friend,” quoth she, “you know tomorrow is the day Of new contract; wherefore, this night, my purpose is to pray Unto the heavenly minds that dwell above the skies, And order all the course of things as they can best devise, That they so smile upon the doings of tomorrow, That all the remnant of my life may be exempt from sorrow; Wherefore, I pray you, leave me here alone this night, But see that you tomorrow come before the dawning light, For you must curl my hair, and set on my attire.” | 174. Juliet wants to be left alone to pray as it is the night before her wedding.
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| And easily the loving nurse did yield to her desire, For she within her head did cast before no doubt; She little knew the close attempt her nurse-child went about. | 175. The nurse leaves Juliet alone.
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| The nurse departed once, the chamber door shut close, Assuréd that no living wight her doing might disclose, She pouréd forth into the vial of the friar Water, out of a silver ewer that on the board stood by her. The sleepy mixture made, fair Juliet doth it hide Under her bolster soft, and so unto her bed she hied: Where divers novel thoughts arise within her head, And she is so environed about with deadly dread, That what before she had resolved undoubtedly That same she calleth into doubt; and lying doubtfully, Whilst honest love did strive with dread of deadly pain, With hands y-wrung, and weeping eyes, thus ’gan she to complain: | 176. Juliet prepares to drink the potion but begins to have doubts.
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| “What, is there any one, beneath the heavens high, So much unfortunate as I? so much past hope as I? What, am I not myself, of all that yet were born, The deepest drenchéd in despair, and most in Fortune’s scorn? For lo, the world for me hath nothing else to find, Beside mishap and wretchedness and anguish of the mind; Since that the cruel cause of my unhappiness Hath put me to this sudden plunge, and brought to such distress, As, to the end I may my name and conscience save, I must devour the mixéd drink that by me here I have, Whose working and whose force as yet I do not know.” And of this piteous plaint began another doubt to grow: | 177. Juliet laments her lot.
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| “What do I know,” quoth she, “if that this powder shall Sooner or later than it should, or else, not work at all? And then my craft descried as open as the day, The people’s tale and laughing-stock shall I remain for aye.” | 178. Juliet fears that the potion will not work timely or at all.
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| “And what know I,” quoth she, “if serpents odious, And other beasts and worms that are of nature venomous, That wonted are to lurk in dark caves underground, And commonly, as I have heard, in dead men’s tombs are found, Shall harm me, yea or nay, where I shall lie as dead? Or how shall I that always have in so fresh air been bred, Endure the loathsome stink of such an heapéd store Of carcasses not yet consumed, and bones that long before Intombéd were, where I my sleeping-place shall have, Where all my ancestors do rest, my kindred’s common grave? Shall not the friar and my Romeus, when they come, Find me, if I awake before, y-stifled in the tomb?” | 179. She fears serpents or odious beasts should appear in the tomb, or that she might be stifled by the foul odour of the corpses.
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| And whilst she in these thoughts doth dwell somewhat too long, The force of her imagining anon did wax so strong, That she surmised she saw, out of the hollow vault, A grisly thing to look upon, the carcass of Tybalt; Right in the selfsame sort that she few days before Had seen him in his blood imbrued, to death eke wounded sore. And then when she again within herself had weighed That quick she should be buried there, and by his side be laid, All comfortless, for she shall living fere have none, But many a rotten carcass, and full many a naked bone; Her dainty tender parts ’gan shiver all for dread, Her golden hairs did stand upright upon her chillish head. Then presséd with the fear that she there livéd in, A sweat as cold as mountain ice pierced through her slender skin, That with the moisture hath wet every part of hers: And more besides, she vainly thinks, whilst vainly thus she fears, A thousand bodies dead have compassed her about, And lest they will dismember her she greatly stands in doubt. | 180. She thinks she sees the carcass of Tybalt and the corpses of her forefathers. (She is said to have golden hair)
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| But when she felt her strength began to wear away, By little and little, and in her heart her fear increaséd aye, Dreading that weakness might, or foolish cowardice, Hinder the execution of the purposed enterprise, As she had frantic been, in haste the glass she caught, And up she drank the mixture quite, withouten farther thought. Then on her breast she crossed her arms long and small, And so, her senses failing her, into a trance did fall. | 181. She eventually drinks the potion and faints.
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| And when that Phoebus bright heaved up his seemly head, And from the East in open skies his glist’ring rays dispread, The nurse unshut the door, for she the key did keep, And doubting she had slept too long, she thought to break her sleep; First softly did she call, then louder thus did cry: “Lady, you sleep too long; the earl will raise you by and by.” But, wellaway, in vain unto the deaf she calls, She thinks to speak to Juliet, but speaketh to the walls. If all the dreadful noise that might on earth be found, Or on the roaring seas, or if the dreadful thunder’s sound Had blown into her ears, I think they could not make The sleeping wight before the time by any means awake; So were the sprites of life shut up, and senses thralled; Wherewith the seely careful nurse was wondrously appalled. She thought to daw her now as she had done of old, But lo, she found her parts were stiff and more than marble cold; Neither at mouth nor nose found she recourse of breath; Two certain arguments were these of her untimely death. | 182. At dawn the nurse goes to wake Juliet up.
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| Wherefore, as one distraught, she to her mother ran, With scratchéd face, and hair betorn, but no word speak she can, At last, with much ado, “Dead,” quoth she, “is my child!” | 183. The nurse discovers Juliet apparently dead and goes screaming to tell her mother.
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| “Now, out, alas!” the mother cried, and as a tiger wild, Whose whelps, whilst she is gone out of her den to prey, The hunter greedy of his game doth kill or carry away; So raging forth she ran unto her Juliet’s bed, And there she found her darling and her only comfort dead. Then shrieked she out as loud as serve her would her breath, And then, that pity was to hear, thus cried she out on Death: “Ah cruel Death,” quoth she, “that thus against all right, Hast ended my felicity, and robbed my heart’s delight, Do now thy worst to me, once wreak thy wrath for all, Even in despite I cry to thee, thy vengeance let thou fall. Whereto stay I, alas, since Juliet is gone? Whereto live I, since she is dead, except to wail and moan? Alack, dear child, my tears for thee shall never cease; Even as my days of life increase, so shall my plaint increase: Such store of sorrow shall afflict my tender heart, That deadly pangs, when they assail shall not augment my smart.” Then ’gan she so to sob, it seemed her heart would brast; | 184. Lady Capulet despairs.
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| And while she crieth thus, behold, the father at the last, The County Paris, and of gentlemen a rout, And ladies of Verona town and country round about, Both kindreds and allies thither apace have pressed, For by their presence there they sought to honour so the feast; But when the heavy news the bidden guests did hear, So much they mourned, that who had seen their count’nance and their cheer, Might easily have judged by that that they had seen, That day the day of wrath and eke of pity to have been. | 185. Capulet, Paris, and guests arrive at the feast and instead of celebrating they mourn.
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| But more than all the rest the father’s heart was so Smit with the heavy news, and so shut up with sudden woe, That he ne had the power his daughter to be-weep, Ne yet to speak, but long is forced his tears and plaint to keep. In all the haste he hath for skilful leeches sent; And, hearing of her passéd life, they judge with one assent The cause of this her death was inward care and thought; And then with double force again the doubled sorrows wrought. | 186. Juliet’s father laments more than anyone else. Doctors are sent for and it is determined that she died of inner care.
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| If ever there hath been a lamentable day, A day ruthful, unfortunate and fatal, then I say, The same was it in which through Verona town was spread The woeful news how Juliet was stervéd in her bed. For so she was bemoaned both of the young and old, That it might seem to him that would the common plaint behold, That all the commonwealth did stand in jeopardy; So universal was the plaint, so piteous was the cry. For lo, beside her shape and native beauty’s hue, With which, like as she grew in age, her virtues’ praises grew, She was also so wise, so lowly, and so mild, That even from the hoary head unto the witless child, She wan the hearts of all, so that there was not one, Ne great, ne small, but did that day her wretched state bemoan. | 187. General lamentation of the town over Juliet’s beautiful body.
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| Whilst Juliet slept, and whilst the other weepen thus, Our Friar Laurence hath by this sent one to Romeus, A friar of his house, there never was a better, He trusted him even as himself, to whom he gave a letter, In which he written had of everything at length, That passed ’twixt Juliet and him, and of the powder’s strength; The next night after that, he willeth him to come To help to take his Juliet out of the hollow tomb, For by that time the drink, he saith, will cease to work, And for one night his wife and he within his cell shall lurk; Then shall he carry her to Mantua away – Till fickle Fortune favour him, disguised in man’s array. This letter closed he sends to Romeus by his brother; He chargeth him that in no case he give it any other. | 188. In the meantime the friar has sent another friar to Romeus with a letter containing instructions.
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| Apace our Friar John to Mantua him hies; And, for because in Italy it is a wonted guise That friars in the town should seldom walk alone, But of their convent aye should be accompanied with one Of his profession, straight a house he findeth out, In mind to take some friar with him, to walk the town about. But entered once he might not issue out again, For that a brother of the house, a day before or twain, Died of the plague – a sickness which they greatly fear and hate – So were the brethren charged to keep within their convent gate, Barred of their fellowship that in the town do wonne; The townfolk eke commanded are the friar’s house to shonne Till they that had the care of health their freedom should renew; Whereof, as you shall shortly hear, a mischief great there grew. The friar by this restraint, beset with dread and sorrow, Not knowing what the letters held, deferred until the morrow; And then he thought in time to send to Romeus. | 189. Friar John is stopped in Mantua because of a brother who had died of plague.
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| But whilst at Mantua where he was, these doings framéd thus, The town of Juliet’s birth was wholly busiéd About her obsequies, to see their darling buriéd. Now is the parents’ mirth quite changéd into moan, And now to sorrow is returned the joy of every one; And now the wedding weeds for mourning weeds they change, And Hymene into a dirge; alas, it seemeth strange: Instead of marriage gloves, now funeral gloves they have, And whom they should see marriéd, they follow to the grave. The feast that should have been of pleasure and of joy, Hath every dish and cup filled full of sorrow and annoy. | 190. In the meantime, in Verona the feast has been turned into a funeral.
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| Now throughout Italy this common use they have, That all the best of every stock are earthéd in one grave: For every household, if it be of any fame, Doth build a tomb, or dig a vault, that bears the household’s name; Wherein, if any of that kindred hap to die, They are bestowed; else in the same no other corpse may lie. | 191. Italian funerary customs.
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| The Capulets her corpse in such a one did lay, Where Tybalt, slain of Romeus, was laid the other day. | 192. Juliet is laid in the Capulet tomb where Tybalt was buried.
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| Another use there is, that whosoever dies, Borne to their church with open face upon the bier he lies, In wonted weed attired, not wrapped in winding sheet. | 193. The Italian custom of bearing the corpse with open face in the funeral procession.
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| So, as by chance he walked abroad, our Romeus’ man did meet His master’s wife; the sight with sorrow straight did wound His honest heart; with tears he saw her lodged underground. | 194. Romeus’ man happens to see Juliet in the funeral procession.
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| And, for he had been sent to Verone for a spy, The doings of the Capulets by wisdom to descry, | 195. The narrator repeats that Romeus’ man had been sent back to Verona.
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| And for he knew her death did touch his master most, Alas, too soon, with heavy news he hied away in post; And in his house he found his master Romeus, Where he, besprent with many tears, began to speak him thus: “Sire, unto you of late is chanced so great a harm, That sure, except with constancy you seek yourself to arm, I fear that straight you will breathe out your latter breath, And I, most wretched wight, shall be th’occasion of your death. Know, sir, that yesterday, my lady and your wife, I wot not by what sudden grief, hath made exchange of life And for because on earth she found nought but unrest, In heaven hath she sought to find a place of quiet rest And with these weeping eyes myself have seen her laid Within the tomb of Capulets”: and herewithal he stayed. | 196. Romeus’ man hurries back to Mantua and informs his master.
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| This sudden message’ sound, sent forth with sighs and tears, Our Romeus received too soon with open list’ning ears And thereby hath sunk in such sorrow in his heart, That lo, his sprite annoyéd sore with torment and with smart, Was like to break out of his prison house perforce, And that he might fly after hers, would leave the massy corpse. But earnest love that will not fail him till his end, This fond and sudden fantasy into his head did send: That if near unto her he offered up his breath, That then a hundred thousand parts more glorious were his death. Eke should his painful heart a great deal more be eased, And more also, he vainly thought, his lady better pleased. | 197. At the news Romeus decides to die and to rest with Juliet.
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| Wherefore when he his face hath washed with water clean, Lest that the stains of driéd tears might on his cheeks be seen, And so his sorrow should of everyone be spied, Which he with all his care did seek from everyone to hide, Straight, weary of the house, he walketh forth abroad: His servant, at the master’s hest, in chamber still abode; And then from street to street he wand’reth up and down, To see if he in any place may find, in all the town, A salve meet for his sore, an oil fit for his wound; And seeking long – alack, too soon! – the thing he sought, he found. An apothecary sat unbusied at his door, Whom by his heavy countenance he guessed to be poor. And in his shop he saw his boxes were but few, And in his window, of his wares, there was so small a shew; Wherefore our Romeus assuredly hath thought, What by no friendship could be got, with money should be bought; | 198. Romeus roams about town and finally finds a poor apothecary.
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| For needy lack is like the poor man to compel To sell that which the city’s law forbiddeth him to sell. | 199. The law forbids to sell poison.
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| Then by the hand he drew the needy man apart, And with the sight of glittering gold inflaméd hath his heart: “Take fifty crowns of gold,” quoth he, “I give them thee, So that, before I part from hence, thou straight deliver me Some poison strong, that may in less than half an hour Kill him whose wretched hap shall be the potion to devour.” The wretch by covetise is won, and doth assent To sell the thing, whose sale ere long, too late, he doth repent. | 200. Romeus offers fifty crowns to the apothecary to buy the poison. The apothecary accepts the money and sells it to him.
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| In haste he poison sought, and closely he it bound, And then began with whispering voice thus in his ear to round: “Fair sir,” quoth he, “be sure this is the speeding gear, And more there is than you shall need; for half of that is there Will serve, I undertake, in less than half an hour To kill the strongest man alive; such is the poison’s power.” | 201. The apothecary describes the speediness of the poison.
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| Then Romeus, somewhat eased of one part of his care, Within his bosom putteth up his dear unthrifty ware. Returning home again, he sent his man away To Verona town, and chargeth him that he, without delay, Provide both instruments to open wide the tomb, And lights to show him Juliet; and stay till he shall come Near to the place whereas his loving wife doth rest, And chargeth him not to bewray the dolours of his breast. Peter, these heard, his leave doth of his master take; Betime he comes to town, such haste the painful man did make: And then with busy care he seeketh to fulfil, But doth disclose unto no wight his woeful master’s will. | 202. Romeus sends Peter to Verona and tells him to wait for him near where Juliet has been buried, with instruments to open the tomb. Peter carries out his task in secrecy.
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| Would God, he had herein broken his master’s hest! Would God, that to the friar he had discloséd all his breast! But Romeus the while with many a deadly thought Provokéd much, hath caused ink and paper to be brought, And in few lines he did of all his love discourse, How by the friar’s help, and by the knowledge of the nurse, The wedlock knot was knit, and by what mean that night And many mo he did enjoy his happy heart’s delight; Where he the poison bought, and how his life should end; And so his wailful tragedy the wretched man hath penned. The letters closed and sealed, directed to his sire, He locketh in his purse, and then a post-horse doth he hire. | 203. Romeus writes a letter to his father where he tells the whole story, and hires a horse to go to Verona.
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| When he approachéd near, he warely lighted down, And even with the shade of night he entered Verona town Where he hath found his man, waiting when he should come, With lantern, and with instruments to open Juliet’s tomb. “Help, Peter, help,” quoth he, “help to remove the stone, And straight when I am gone from thee, my Juliet to bemoan, See that thou get thee hence, and on the pain of death I charge thee that thou come not near while I abide beneath, Ne seek thou not to let thy master’s enterprise, Which he hath fully purposed to do, in any wise. Take there a letter, which, as soon as he shall rise, Present it in the morning to my loving father’s eyes; Which unto him, perhaps, far pleasanter shall seem, Than either I do mind to say, or thy gross head can deem.” | 204. Romeus arrives at Verona at night and finds his man waiting for him at the monument, with the instruments. He bids him to go away and to bring the letter to his father.
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| Now Peter, that knew not the purpose of his heart, Obediently a little way withdrew himself apart; | 205. Peter obediently withdraws.
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| And then our Romeus (the vault-stone set upright), Descended down, and in his hand he bare the candle light. And then with piteous eye the body of his wife He ’gan behold, who surely was the organ of his life; For whom unhappy now he is, but erst was blissed, He watered her with tears, and then a hundred times her kissed; And in his folded arms But no way could his greedy eyes be filléd with her sight: His fearful hands he laid upon her stomach cold, And them on divers parts beside the woeful wight did hold. | 206. Romeus descends into the tomb, sees Juliet and cries over her.
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| But when he could not find the signs of life he sought, Out of his curséd box he drew the poison that he bought; Whereof he greedily devoured the greater part, And then he cried, with deadly sigh fetched from his mourning heart: “O Juliet, of whom the world unworthy was, From which, for world’s unworthiness thy worthy ghost did pass, What death more pleasant could my heart wish to abide Than that which here it suffreth now, so near thy friendly side? Or else so glorious tomb how could my youth have craved, As in one self-same vault with thee What epitaph more worth, or half so excellent, To consecrate my memory, could any man invent, As this our mutual and our piteous sacrifice Of life, set light for love?” But while he talketh in this wise, And thought as yet awhile his dolours to enforce, His tender heart began to faint, pressed with the venom’s force; Which little and little ’gan to overcome his heart, | 207. Romeus drinks the poison and talks about their sacrifice for love in the same tomb as their best epitaph.
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| And whilst his busy eyne he threw about to every part, He saw, hard by the corpse of sleeping Juliet, Bold Tybalt’s carcase dead, which was not all consuméd yet To whom, as having life, in this sort speaketh he: “Ah, cousin dear, Tybalt, whereso thy restless sprite now be With stretchéd hands to thee for mercy now I cry, For that before thy kindly hour I forcéd thee to die. But if with quenchéd life not quenchéd be thine ire, But with revenging lust as yet thy heart be set on fire, What more amends, or cruel wreak desirest thou To see on me, than this which here is showed forth to thee now? Who reft by force of arms from thee thy living breath, The same with his own hand, thou seest, doth poison himself to death. And for he caused thee in tomb too soon to lie, Too soon also, younger than thou, himself he layeth by.” | 208. Romeus sees Tybalt’s body and asks for forgiveness.
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| These said, when he ’gan feel the poison’s force prevail, And little and little mastered life for aye began to fail, Kneeling upon his knees, he said with voice full low: “Lord Christ, that so to ransom me descendedst long ago Out of thy father’s bosom, and in the Virgin’s womb Didst put on flesh, oh, let my plaint out of this hollow tomb, Pierce through the air, and grant my suit may favour find; Take pity on my sinful and my poor afflicted mind. For well enough I know, this body is but clay, Nought but a mass of sin, too frail, and subject to decay.” | 209. Romeus invokes Christ’s pity.
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| Then pressed with extreme grief he threw with so great force His overpresséd parts upon his lady’s wailéd corpse, That now his weakened heart, weakened with torments past, Unable to abide this pang, the sharpest and the last, Remainéd quite deprived of sense and kindly strength, And so the long imprisoned soul hath freedom won at length Ah cruel death, too soon, too soon was this divorce, ’Twixt youthful Romeus’ heavenly sprite, and his fair earthy corpse. | 210. Romeus dies upon Juliet’s body.
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| The friar that knew what time the powder had been taken, Knew eke the very instant when the sleeper should awaken; But wondering that he could no kind of answer hear Of letters which to Romeus his fellow friar did bear, Out of Saint Francis’ church himself alone did fare, And for the opening of the tomb meet instruments he bare. Approaching nigh the place and seeing there the light, Great horror felt he in his heart, by strange and sudden sight; | 211. Without news from Romeus, the friar goes to the monument to meet Juliet when she wakes up.
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| Till Peter, Romeus’ man, his coward heart made bold, When of his master’s being there the certain news he told: “There hath he been,” quoth he, “this half hour at the least And in this time, I dare well say, his plaint hath still increast.” | 212. Peter tells the friar that Romeus is within the tomb.
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| Then both they entered in, where they, alas, did find The breathless corpse of Romeus, forsaken of the mind: Where they have made such moan, as they may best conceive, That have with perfect friendship loved, whose friend fierce death did reave. | 213. They enter the monument, find Romeus dead and start crying.
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| But whilst with piteous plaint they Romeus’ fate beweep, An hour too late fair Juliet awakéd out of sleep; And much amazed to see in tomb so great a light, She wist not if she saw a dream, or sprite that walked by night. But coming to herself she knew them, and said thus: “What, friar Laurence, is it you? Where is my Romeus?” | 214. Juliet wakes up and asks the friar where Romeus is.
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| And then the ancient friar, that greatly stood in fear, Lest, if they lingered over long they should be taken there, In few plain words the whole that was betid, he told, And with his finger showed his corpse out-stretchéd, stiff, and cold; And then persuaded her with patience to abide This sudden great mischance, and saith, that he will soon provide In some religious house for her a quiet place, Where she may spend the rest of life, and where in time, percase, She may with wisdom’s mean measure her mourning breast, And unto her tormented soul call back exiléd rest. | 215. The friar tells her what has happened and tries to convince her to go away and spend her life in a convent.
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| But lo, as soon as she had cast her ruthful eye On Romeus’ face, that pale and wan fast by her side did lie, Straightway she did unstop the conduits of her tears, And out they gush; with cruel hand she tare her golden hairs. But when she neither could her swelling sorrow ’suage Ne yet her tender heart abide her sickness’ furious rage, Fall’n on his corpse she lay, long panting on his face, And then with all her force and strength the dead corpse did embrace. As though with sighs, with sobs, with force, and busy pain She would him raise, and him restore from death to life again: A thousand times she kissed his mouth, as cold as stone, And it unkissed again as oft; then ’gan she thus to moan: “Ah, pleasant prop of all my thoughts, ah, only ground Of all the sweet delights that yet in all my life I found, Did such assuréd trust within thy heart repose, That in this place and at this time, thy churchyard thou hast chose Betwixt the arms of me, thy perfect-loving make And thus by means of me to end thy life, and for my sake? Even in the flow’ring of thy youth, when unto thee Thy life most dear, as to the most, and pleasant ought to be, How could this tender corpse withstand the cruel fight Of furious Death, that wonts to fray the stoutest with his sight? How could thy dainty youth agree with willing heart, In this so foul-infected place to dwell, where now thou art? Where spiteful Fortune hath appointed thee to be The dainty food of greedy worms, unworthy, sure, of thee. Alas, alas, alas, what needed now anew My wonted sorrows, doubled twice, again thus to renew? Which both the time and eke my patient long abode Should now at length have quenchéd quite, and under foot have trode? Ah, wretch and caitiff that I am, even when I thought To find my painful passion’s salve, I missed the thing I sought; And to my mortal harm the fatal knife I ground, That gave to me so deep, so wide, so cruel deadly wound! Ah thou, most fortunate and most unhappy tomb! For thou shalt bear, from age to age, witness in time to come Of the most perfect league betwixt a pair of lovers, That were the most unfortunate and fortunate of others, Receive the latter sigh, receive the latter pang, Of the most cruel of cruel slaves that wrath and death aye wrang.” | 216. Juliet sees Romeus’ dead body, kisses him and despairs.
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| And when our Juliet would continue still her moan, The friar and the servant fled, and left her there alone; For they a sudden noise fast by the place did hear, And lest they might be taken there, greatly they stood in fear. | 217. The friar and Peter hear a noise and go away.
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| When Juliet saw herself left in the vault alone, That freely she might work her will, for let or stay was none, Then once for all she took the cause of all her harms, The body dead of Romeus, and clasped it in her arms; Then she with earnest kiss sufficiently did prove, That more than by the fear of death, she was attaint by love; And then past deadly fear, for life ne had she care, With hasty hand she did draw out the dagger that he ware. “O welcome Death,” quoth she, “end of unhappiness, That also art beginning of assuréd happiness, Fear not to dart me now, thy stripe no longer stay, Prolong no longer now my life, I hate this long delay; For straight my parting sprite, out of this carcase fled, At ease shall find my Romeus’ sprite among so many dead. And thou my loving lord, Romeus, my trusty fere, If knowledge yet do rest in thee, if thou these words dost hear, Receive thou her whom thou didst love so lawfully, That caused, alas, thy violent death, although unwillingly; And therefore willingly offers to thee her ghost, To th’end that no wight else but thou might have just cause to boast Th’enjoying of my love, which aye I have reserved Free from the rest, bound unto thee, that hast it well deserved; That so our parted sprites from light that we see here, In place of endless light and bliss may ever live y-fere.” These said, her ruthless hand through-girt her valiant heart: Ah, ladies, help with tears to wail the lady’s deadly smart! She groans, she stretcheth out her limbs, she shuts her eyes, And from her corpse the sprite doth fly; what should I say, she dies. | 218. Juliet stabs herself with Romeus’ dagger and dies. The narrator addresses his female readers and comments on his own story- telling.
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| The watchmen of the town the whilst are passéd by, And through the gates the candle-light within the tomb they spy; Whereby they did suppose enchanters to be come, That with prepared instruments had opened wide the tomb, In purpose to abuse the bodies of the dead, Which by their science’ aid abused, do stand them oft instead. Their curious hearts desire the truth hereof to know; Then they by certain steps descend, where they do find below, In claspéd arms y-wrapt, the husband and the wife, In whom as yet they seemed to see some certain marks of life. But when more curiously with leisure they did view, The certainty of both their deaths assuredly they knew: Then here and there so long with careful eye they sought, That at the length hidden they found the murd’rers; so they thought. In dungeon deep that night they lodged them underground; | 219. The watchmen of the town enter the monument and find the corpses, which they lodge underground. They apprehend the friar and Peter.
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| The next day do they tell the prince the mischief that they found. The news was by and by throughout the town dispread, Both of the taking of the friar, and of the two found dead. Thither might you have seen whole households forth to run, For to the tomb where they did hear this wonder strange was done, The great, the small, the rich, the poor, the young, the old, With hasty pace do run to see, but rue when they behold. | 220. The next day they inform the Prince, and all the townspeople run to the monument.
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| And that the murderers to all men might be known, Like as the murder’s bruit abroad through all the town was blown, The prince did straight ordain, the corpses that were found Should be set forth upon a stage high raiséd from the ground, Right in the selfsame form, showed forth to all men’s sight, That in the hollow vault they had been found that other night; And eke that Romeus’ man and Friar Laurence should Be openly examinéd; for else the people would Have murmuréd, or feigned there were some weighty cause Why openly they were not called, and so convict by laws. The holy friar now, and reverent by his age, In great reproach set to the show upon the open stage, A thing that ill beseem’d a man of silver hairs, His beard as white as milk he bathes with great fast-falling tears: Whom straight the dreadful judge commandeth to declare Both, how this murder had been done, and who the murd’rers are; For that he near the tomb was found at hours unfit, And had with him those iron tools for such a purpose fit. The friar was of lively sprite and free of speech, The judge’s words appalled him not, ne were his wits to seech, But with advised heed a while first did he stay, And then with bold assuréd voice aloud thus ’gan he say: | 221. The Prince orders that the corpses be exhibited upon a high stage, and that the two suspects be openly examined.
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| “My lords, there is not one among you, set together, So that, affection set aside, by wisdom he consider My former passéd life, and this my extreme age, And eke this heavy sight, the wreak of frantic Fortune’s rage, But that, amazéd much, doth wonder at this change, So great, so suddenly befall’n, unlooked for, and strange. For I, that in the space of sixty years and ten, Since first I did begin, too soon, to lead my life with men, And with the world’s vain things, myself I did acquaint, Was never yet, in open place, at any time attaint With any crime, in weight as heavy as a rush, Ne is there any stander-by can make me guilty blush, Although before the face of God, I do confess Myself to be the sinfull’st wretch of all this mighty press. When readiest I am and likeliest to make My great accompt, which no man else for me shall undertake; When worms, the earth, and death, do cite me every hour, T’appear before the judgment seat of everlasting power, And falling ripe, I step upon my grave’s brink, Even then, am I, most wretched wight, as each of you doth think, Through my most heinous deed, with headlong sway thrown down, In greatest danger of my life, and domage of renown. The spring, whence in your head this new conceit doth rise, And in your heart increaseth still your vain and wrong surmise, May be the hugeness of these tears of mine, percase, That so abundantly down fall by either side my face; As though the memory in Scriptures were not kept That Christ our Saviour himself for ruth and pity wept; And more, whoso will read, y-written shall he find, That tears are as true messengers of man’s unguilty mind. Or else, a liker proof, that I am in the crime, You say these present irons are, and the suspected time; As though all hours alike had not been made above. Did Christ not say, the day had twelve? whereby he sought to prove, That no respect of hours ought justly to be had, But at all times men have the choice of doing good or bad; Even as the sprite of God the hearts of men doth guide, Or as it leaveth them to stray from virtue’s path aside. As for the irons that were taken in my hand, As now I deem, I need not seek to make ye understand To what use iron first was made, when it began; How of itself it helpeth not, ne yet can help a man. The thing that hurteth is the malice of his will, That such indifferent things is wont to use and order ill. Thus much I thought to say, to cause you so to know That neither these my piteous tears, though ne’er so fast they flow, Ne yet these iron tools, nor the suspected time, Can justly prove the murder done, or damn me of the crime: No one of these hath power, ne power have all the three, To make me other than I am, how so I seem to be. But sure my conscience, if so my guilt deserve, For an appeacher, witness, and a hangman, eke should serve; For through mine age, whose hairs of long time since were hoar, And credit great that I was in, with you, in time tofore, And eke the sojourn short that I on earth must make, That every day and hour do look my journey hence to take, My conscience inwardly should more torment me thrice, Than all the outward deadly pain that all you could devise. But, God I praise, I feel no worm that gnaweth me, And from remorse’s pricking sting I joy that I am free: I mean, as touching this, wherewith you troubled are, Wherewith you should be troubled still, if I my speech should spare. But to the end I may set all your hearts at rest, And pluck out all the scruples that are rooted in your breast, Which might perhaps henceforth, increasing more and more, Within your conscience also increase your cureless sore, I swear by yonder heavens, whither I hope to climb, And for a witness of my words my heart attesteth Him, Whose mighty hand doth wield them in their violent sway, And on the rolling stormy seas the heavy earth doth stay, That I will make a short and eke a true discourse Of this most woeful tragedy, and show both th’end and source Of their unhappy death, which you perchance no less Will wonder at than they, alas, poor lovers in distress, Tormented much in mind, not forcing lively breath, With strong and patient heart did yield themself to cruel death: Such was the mutual love wherein they burnéd both, And of their promised friendship’s faith so steady was the troth.” And then the ancient friar began to make discourse, Even from the first, of Romeus’ and Juliet’s amours; How first by sudden sight the one the other chose, And ’twixt themself did knit the knot which only death might loose; And how, within a while, with hotter love oppressed, Under confession’s cloak, to him themself they have addressed, And how with solemn oaths they have protested both, That they in heart are married by promise and by oath; And that except he grant the rites of church to give, They shall be forced by earnest love in sinful state to live: Which thing when he had weighed, and when he understood That the agreement ’twixt them twain was lawful, honest, good, And all things peiséd well, it seeméd meet to be, For like they were of nobleness, age, riches, and degree: Hoping that so, at length, ended might be the strife, Of Montagues and Capulets, that led in hate their life, Thinking to work a work well pleasing in God’s sight, In secret shrift he wedded them; and they the self-same night Made up the marriage in house of Capulet, As well doth know, if she be asked, the nurse of Juliet. He told how Romeus fled for reaving Tybalt’s life, And how, the whilst, Paris the earl was offered to his wife; And how the lady did so great a wrong disdain, And how to shrift unto his church she came to him again; And how she fell flat down before his feet aground, And how she sware, her hand and bloody knife should wound Her harmless heart, except that he some mean did find To disappoint the earl’s attempt; and spotless save her mind. Wherefore, he doth conclude, although that long before By thought of death and age he had refused for evermore The hidden arts which he delighted in, in youth, Yet won by her importun’ness, and by his inward ruth, And fearing lest she would her cruel vow discharge His closed conscience he had opened and set at large; And rather did he choose to suffer for one time His soul to be spotted somedeal with small and easy crime, Than that the lady should, weary of living breath, Murder herself, and danger much her seely soul by death: Wherefore his ancient arts again he puts in ure, A certain powder gave he her, that made her sleep so sure, That they her held for dead; and how that Friar John With letters sent to Romeus to Mantua is gone; Of whom he knoweth not as yet, what is become; And how that dead he found his friend within her kindred’s tomb. He thinks with poison strong, for care the young man starved, Supposing Juliet dead; and how that Juliet hath carved, With Romeus’ dagger drawn, her heart, and yielded breath, Desirous to accompany her lover after death; And how they could not save her, so they were afeard, And hid themself, dreading the noise of watchmen, that they heard. And for the proof of this his tale, he doth desire The judge to send forthwith to Mantua for the friar, To learn his cause of stay, and eke to read his letter; And, more beside, to th’end that they might judge his cause the better, He prayeth them depose the nurse of Juliet, And Romeus’ man whom at unwares beside the tomb he met. | 222. The friar clears himself and recapitulates the events.
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| Then Peter, not so much erst as he was, dismayed; “My lords,” quoth he, “too true is all that Friar Laurence said. And when my master went into my mistress’ grave, This letter that I offer you, unto me then he gave, Which he himself did write, as I do understand, And charged me to offer them unto his father’s hand.” The opened packet doth contain in it the same That erst the skilful friar said; and eke the wretch’s name That had at his request the deadly poison sold, The price of it, and why he bought, his letters plain have told. The case unfolded so and open now it lies, That they could wish no better proof, save seeing it with their eyes; So orderly all things were told and triéd out, That in the press there was not one that stood at all in doubt. | 223. Peter confirms the friar’s words and produces Romeus’ letter.
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| The wiser sort, to council called by Escalus, Have given advice, and Escalus sagely decreeth thus: The nurse of Juliet is banished in her age, Because that from the parents she did hide the marriage, Which might have wrought much good had it in time been known, Where now by her concealing it a mischief great is grown; And Peter, for he did obey his master’s hest, In wonted freedom had good leave to lead his life in rest, Th’apothecary high is hangéd by the throat, And for the pains he took with him the hangman had his coat. But now what shall betide of this grey-bearded sire? Of Friar Laurence thus arraigned, that good barefooted friar Because that many times he worthily did serve The commonwealth, and in his life was never found to swerve, He was dischargéd quite, and no mark of defame Did seem to blot or touch at all the honour of his name. | 224. The Prince’s sentence: the nurse is banished, Peter and the friar are acquitted, the apothecary is entenced to death.
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| But of himself he went into an hermitage, Two miles from Verona town, where he in prayers passed forth his age; Till that from earth to heaven his heavenly sprite did fly, Five years he lived an hermit and an hermit did he die. | 225. The friar goes nto a hermitage near Verona and dies after five years.
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| The strangeness of the chance, when triéd was the truth, The Montagues and Capulets hath moved so to ruth, That with their emptied tears their choler and their rage Was emptied quite; and they, whose wrath no wisdom could assuage, Nor threat’ning of the prince, ne mind of murders done, At length, so mighty Jove it would, by pity they are won. | 226. The feuding families reconcile.
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| And lest that length of time might from our minds remove The memory of so perfect, sound, and so approvéd love, The bodies dead, removed from vault where they did die, In stately tomb, on pillars great of marble, raise they high. On every side above were set, and eke beneath, Great store of cunning epitaphs, in honour of their death. And even at this day the tomb is to be seen; So that among the monuments that in Verona been, There is no monument more worthy of the sight, Than is the tomb of Juliet and Romeus her knight. | 227. The two lovers are placed into the same tomb on a stately marble pillar adorned with many epitaphs on every side.
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ℂ Imprinted at London in Fleet street within Temple bar, at the sign of the hand and star, by Richard Tottill the xix. day of November. An. do. 1562. |
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