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So thrive my soulJul. A thousand times good night!

[Exit above, Rom. A thousand times the worse, to want thy light. Love goes toward love, as schoolboys from their books, But love from love, toward school with heavy looks.


Re-enter Juliet, above.

My dear?

Jul. Hist! Romeo, hist! O, for a falconer's voice,
To lure this tassel-gentle back again!
Bondage is hoarse, and may not speak aloud;
Else would I tear the cave where Echo lies,
And make her airy tongue more hoarse than mine,
With repetition of my Romeo's name.

Rom. It is my soul that calls upon my name:
How silver-sweet sound lovers' tongues by night,
Like softest music to attending ears!

Jul. Romeo!

At what o'clock to-morrow
Shall I send to thee?

At the hour of nine.
Jul. I will not fail: 'tis twenty years till then.
I have forgot why I did call thee back.

Rom. Let me stand here till thou remember it.

Jul. I shall forget, to have thee still stand there, Remembering how I love thy company.

Rom. And I'll still stay, to have thee still forget,
Forgetting any other home but this.

Jul. 'Tis almost morning; I would have thee gone:
And yet no further than a wanton's bird;
Who lets it hop a little from her hand,
Like a poor prisoner in his twisted gyves,


And with a silk thread plucks it back again,
So loving-jealous of his liberty.

Rom. I would I were thy bird.

Sweet, so would I:
Yet I should kill thee with much cherishing.
Good night, good night! parting is such sweet sorrow,
That I shall say good night till it be morrow.

[Exit above. Rom. Sleep dwell upon thine eyes, peace in thy breast! Would I were sleep and peace, so sweet to rest!


Much has happened in the brief interval since the preceding scene. With the connivance and aid of the Nurse the lovers have been secretly married in Friar Laurence's cell; a street fight has taken place in which Tybalt, a cousin of Juliet's, has killed Mercutio, and then been killed in his turn by Romeo; Romeo has in consequence been doomed to banishment, or, if daybreak finds him in Verona, to death. The place is again Capulet's orchard. Romeo has come to take his last farewellof Juliet, and is now about to depart for Mantua. The two are seen together at the window of Juliet's chamber.

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Jul. Wilt thou be gone? it is not yet near day:
It was the nightingale, and not the lark,
That pierced the fearful hollow of thine ear;
Nightly she sings on yon pomegranate-tree:
Believe me, love, it was the nightingale,

Rom. It was the lark, the herald of the morn,
No nightingale: look, love, what envious streaks
Do lace the severing clouds in yonder east:
Night's candles are burnt out, and jocund day

Stands tiptoe on the misty mountain tops.
I must be gone and live, or stay and die.

Jul. Yon light is not daylight, I know it, I:
It is some meteor that the sun exhales,
To be to thee this night a torch-bearer,
And light thee on thy way to Mantua:
Therefore stay yet; thou need’st not be gone.

Rom. Let me be ta’en, let me be put to death;
I am content, so thou wilt have it so.
I'll say yon gray is not the morning's eye,
'Tis but the pale reflex of Cynthia's brow;
Nor that is not the lark, whose notes do beat
The vaulty heaven so high above our heads:
I have more care to stay than will to go:
Come, death, and welcome! Juliet wills it so.
How is't, my

soul? let's talk; it is not day.
Jul. It is, it is: hie hence, be gone, away!
It is the lark that sings so out of tune,
Straining harsh discords and unpleasing sharps.
Some say the lark makes sweet division;
This doth not so, for she divideth us:


the lark and loathed toad change eyes; O, now I would they had changed voices too! Since arm from arm that voice doth us affray, Hunting thee hence with hunt’s-up to the day.

now be gone; more light and light it grows. Rom. More light and light; more dark and dark our woes!

Enter Nurse, to the chamber.

Nurse. Madam!
Jul. Nurse?

Division: music
Hunt's-up: “the hunt is up-a song to awaken the huntsmen

Nurse. Your lady mother is coming to your chamber: The day is broke; be wary, look about.

Exit. Jul. Then, window, let day in, and let life out. Rom. Farewell, farewell! one kiss, and I'll descend.

[He goeth down.
Jul. Art thou gone so? love, lord, ay, husband, friend!
I must hear from thee every day in the hour,
For in a minute there are many days:
O, by this count I shall be much in years
Ere I again behold my Romeo!

Rom. Farewell!
I will omit no opportunity
That may convey my greetings, love, to thee.

Jul. O, think'st thou we shall ever meet again?

Rom. I doubt it not; and all these woes shall serve
For sweet discourses in our time to come.

Jul. O God, I have an ill-divining soul!
Methinks I see thee, now thou art below,
As one dead in the bottom of a tomb:
Either my eyesight fails, or thou look'st pale.

Rom. And trust me, love, in my eye so do you:
Dry sorrow drinks our blood. Adieu, adieu



The place is now a churchyard, before a tomb belonging to the Capulets. The misgivings expressed by Juliet in the preceding scene are about to be justified. In order to escape a forced marriage with a young nobleman named Paris, Juliet has entered into a scheme proposed by Friar Laurence. She has drunk a potion whose effect is to make her appear for the time as if dead, and has been buried in the

family vault beside the body of Tybalt, where she
is now lying, still asleep. It was planned that when
the time for her waking arrived the Friar should
come, with Romeo, and rescue her from the tomb.
Romeo, meanwhile, has been told that she is dead,
and by mischance hearing nothing of the Friar's plan
has come to her tomb resolved to kill himself with
poison. Here he has encountered Paris, who came
to mourn for Juliet, and Romeo, being forced to
fight, has killed his rival. Paris, dying, has asked
Romeo to bury him in the tomb with Juliet. Romeo
consents, as is indicated in the first line of the passage,
in which he addresses the corpse of Paris.

I'll bury thee in a triumphant grave;
A grave? O, no! a lantern, slaughtered youth,
For here lies Juliet, and her beauty makes
This vault a feasting presence full of light.
Death, lie thou there, by a dead man interred.

[Laying Paris in the tomb.
How oft when men are at the point of death
Have they been merry! which their keepers call
A lightning before death: O, how may I

Call this a lightning? O my love! my wife!
Death, that hath sucked the honey of thy breath,
Hath had no power yet upon thy beauty:
Thou art not conquered; beauty's ensign yet
Is crimson in thy lips and in thy cheeks,
And death's pale fag is not advanced there.
Tybalt, liest thou there in thy bloody sheet?
O, what more favor can I do to thee,
Than with that hand that cut thy youth in twain
To sunder his that was thine enemy?
Lantern: a windowed tower

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