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Enter Capulet.

Cap. For fhame, bring Juliet forth. Her Lord is


Nurfe. She's dead, deceas'd, fhe's dead. Alack the


Cap. Ha! let me fee her. Out, alas! fhe's cold; Her blood is fettled, and her joints are stiff; Life and these lips have long been separated; Death lies on her, like an. untimely frost Upon the sweetest flow'r of all the field. Accurfed time! unfortunate old man! Nurfe. O lamentable day!

La. Cap. O woeful Time!

Cap. Death, that hath ta'en her hence to make me wail,

Ties up my Tongue, and will not let me speak.

Enter Friar Lawrence, and Paris with Muficians.

Fri. Come, is the bride ready to go to church?
Cap. Ready to go, but never to return.
O fon, the night before thy wedding-day

Hath Death lain with thy wife. See, there fhe lies,
Flow'r as fhe was, deflowered now by him.

Death is my fon-in-law.

Par. Have I thought long to fee this morning's face, And doth it give me fuch a fight as this!

La. Cap. Accurs'd, unhappy, wretched, hateful day! Moft miferable hour, that Time e'er faw

In lafting labour of his pilgrimage!

But one, poor one, one poor and loving child,
But one thing to rejoice and folace in,

And cruel death hath catch'd it from my fight.

H 4



Nurfe. O woe! oh woful, woful, woful, day! Moft lamentable day! moft woful day!

That ever, ever, I did yet behold.

Oh day! oh day! oh day! oh hateful day!
Never was feen fo black a day as this.

Oh woful day, oh woful day!

Par. Beguil'd, divorced, wronged, fpighted, flain, Most deteftable Death, by thee beguil'd,

By cruel, cruel thee quite overthrown:

O Love, O Life,-not Life, but Love in Death!
Cap. Defpis'd, diftreffed, hated, martyr'd, kill'd,
Uncomfortable Time! why cam'st thou now
To murder, murder our Solemnity?:

O Child! O Child! My Soul, and not my Child!
Dead art thou! dead; alack! my Child is dead;
And, with my Child, my Joys are buried.


Fri. Peace, ho, for Shame! Confufion's Cure lives not

In these Confufions: Heaven and yourself

Had part in this fair Maid; now Heav'n hath all
And all the better is it for the Maid.

Your part in her you could not keep from Death;
But Heav'n keeps his part in eternal Life.

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The moft, you fought, was her Promotion;
For 'twas your Heaven, fhe fhould be advanc'd:
And weep you now, feeing she is advanc'd,
Above the Clouds, as high as Heav'n himself?
Oh, in this Love you love your Child fo ill,
That you run mad, feeing, that fhe is well.
She's not well married, that lives married long;
But she's best married, that dies married young,
Dry up your Tears, and stick your Rosemary
On this fair Coarfe; and, as the Custom is,
And in her beft Array, bear her to Church.
'For tho' fond Nature bids us all lament,
Yet Nature's Tears are Reafon's Merriment.
Cap. All Things, that we ordained feftival,
Turn from their Office to black Funeral;
Our Inftruments to melancholy Bells,
Our wedding Chear to a fad Funeral Feast;
Our folemn Hymns to fullen Dirges change,
Our bridal Flow'rs ferve for a buried Coarfe;
And all things change them to the contrary.
Fri. Sir, go you in, and, Madam, go with him;
And go, Sir Paris; ev'ry one prepare

To follow this fair Coarfe unto her Grave.
The Heav'ns do low'r upon you, for fome Ill;
Move them no more, by croffing their high Will.
[Exeunt Capulet, Lady Capulet, Paris, and Friar.

3 For the fome Nature bids us all lament,] Some Nature? Sure, it is the general rule of Nature, or the could not bid us all lament. I have ventured to fub

ftitute an epithet, which, I fufpect, was loft in the idle, corrupted word, Some: and which admirably quadrates with the verfe fucceeding this.



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Manent Muficians, and Nurse.

Muf. 'Faith, we may put up our pipes and be gone. Nurfe. Honeft good fellows, ah, put up, put up; For, well you know, this is a pitiful cafe.

[Exit Nurfe. Muf. Ay, by my troth, the cafe may be amended.

Enter Peter.

Pet. Muficians, oh muficians, heart's eafe, heart's ease:

Oh, an you will have me live, why, play beart's cafe. Muf. Why, heart's ease?

Pet. O muficians, because my heart itself plays, beart itself is full of woe. 40, play me fome merry dump, to comfort me!


Muf. Not a dump we, 'tis no time to play now.
Pet. You will not then?

Muf. No.

Pet. I will then give it you foundly.

Muf. What will you give us?

Pet. No mony, on my faith, but the gleek. I will give you the Minstrel.

Muf. Then will I give you the Serving Creature. Pet. Then will I lay the Serving Creature's Dagger on your Pate. I will carry no Crotchets. I'll re you, I'll fa you, do you note me?

Muf. An you re us, and fa us, you note us.

2 Muf. Pray you, put up your dagger, and put out your wit.

4 O, play me fome merry dump, to comfort me !] This is not in the

folio, but the answer plainly requires it.


Pet. Then have at you with my wit: I will dry-
beat you with an iron Wit, and put up my iron dag-
-answer me like men:

When griping grief the heart doth wound,
Then mufick with her filver found-

Why, filver found! why, mufick with her filver found?
What fay you, Simon Catling?

1 Muf. Marry, Sir, because filver hath a sweet found.

Pet. Prateft! What fay you, Hugh Rebeck?

2 Muf. I fay, filver found, because musicians found for filver.

Pet. Prateft too! What say you, Samuel SoundBoard?

3 Muf. 'Faith, I know not what to say.

Pet. O, I cry you mercy, you are the finger, I will
Jay for you. It is mufick with her filver found, be-
caufe musicians have no gold for founding.
Then musick with her filver found

With Speedy help doth lend redress.

[Exit finging.

Muf. What a peftilent knave is this fame?

2 Muf. Hang him.-Jack, come, we'll in here, tarry for the mourners, and ftay dinner.




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