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Forgive me, cousin! Ah, dear Juliet,
Why art thou yet so fair? shall I believe
That unsubstantial death is amorous,
And that the lean abhorred monster keeps
Thee here in dark to be his paramour?
For fear of that, I still will stay with thee:
And never from this palace of dim night
Depart again: here, here will I remain
With worms that are thy chambermaids; O, here
Will I set up my everlasting rest,
And shake the yoke of inauspicious stars
From this world-wearied flesh. Eyes, look your last!
Arms, take your last embrace! and, lips, O you
The doors of breath, seal with a righteous kiss
A dateless bargain to engrossing death!
Come, bitter conduct, come, unsavory guide!
Thou desperate pilot, now at once run on
The dashing rocks thy seasick weary bark!
Here's to my love! [Drinks.] Oh true apothecary!
Thy drugs are quick. Thus with a kiss I die.

[Dies.

Friar Laurence, learning that the letter in which he explained his plan to Romeo has miscarried, comes alone to the churchyard. As he now approaches the tomb, his fears already aroused, he sees signs of the recent combat.

Fri. L.

Romeo!

[Advances. Alack, alack, what blood is this, which stains The stony entrance of this sepulcher? What mean these masterless and gory swords

To lie discolored by this place of peace?

[Enters the tomb. Romco! O, pale! Who else! what, Paris too? And steeped in blood? Ah, what an unkind hour Is guilty of this lamentable chance! The lady stirs.

[Juliet wakes. Jul. O comfortable friar! where is

my

lord?
I do remember well where I should be,
And there I am. Where is

my
Romeo?

[Noise within.
Fri. L. I hear some noise. Lady, come from that nest
Of death, contagion, and unnatural sleep:
A greater power than we can contradict
Hath thwarted our intents. Come, come away.
Thy husband in thy bosom there lies dead;
And Paris too. Come, I'll dispose of thee
Among a sisterhood of holy nuns:
Stay not to question, for the watch is coming;
Come, go, good Juliet (Noise again), I dare no longer stay.
Jul. Go, get thee hence, for

[Exit Fri. L. What's here? a cup, closed in my true love's hand? Poison, I see, hath been his timeless end: O churl! drunk all, and left no friendly drop To help me after? I will kiss thy lips; Haply some poison yet doth hang on them, To make me die with a restorative.

[Kisses him. Thy lips are warm.

First Watch. [Within.] Lead, boy: which way?
Jul. Yea, noise? then I'll be brief. O happy dagger!

[Snatching Romeo's dagger. This is thy sheath (Stabs herself]; there rust, and let me die.

[Falls on Romeo's body, and dies. William Shakespeare

will not away.

51

SCENES FROM HENRY IV, PART I

I

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ENRY, surnamed Bolingbroke, obtained the

crown and became King Henry IV of England by deposing King Richard II. This he accomplished through the aid of the powerful family of the Percys, three members of which are now before us: the brothers Northumberland and Worcester, and Northumberland's son Hotspur, one of the dominant figures of the play. Of late the peace of the realm has again been broken. The Scotch Earl of Douglas has invaded England in the north, and Owen Glendower has headed an uprising in the west. Edmund Mortimer, Earl of March, a brother of Hotspur's wife, and rightful heir to the crown, has opposed Glendower, but unsuccessfully. His army has been defeated and he himself has been taken prisoner. Hotspur, on the other hand, has been victorious over the Scotch in the battle of Holmedon. The occasion of the conference now about to begin was the refusal of Hotspur to turn over his Scotch prisoners to the King. The King has sent for him, and in his palace in London opens the scene with complaint of the treatment he has received.

The deposed King Richard the Second was put to death with the connivance of the usur ping Bolingbroke. Of the Prince of Wales, concerning whom Hotspur speaks so contemptuously, more will be heard in subsequent scenes.

The stage direction reads: Enter the King, Northumberland, Worcester, Hotspur, Sir Walter Blunt, with others.

King. My blood hath been too cold and temperate, Unapt to stir at these indignities, And you have found me; for accordingly

You tread upon my patience: but be sure
I will from henceforth rather be myself,
Mighty and to be feared, than my condition;
Which hath been smooth as oil, soft as young down,
And therefore lost that title of respect
Which the proud soul ne'er pays but to the proud.

Wor. Our house, my sovereign liege, little deserves
The scourge of greatness to be used on it;
And that same greatness too which our own hands
Have holp to make so portly.

North. My lord,

King. Worcester, get thee gone; for I do see
Danger and disobedience in thine eye:
O, sir, your presence is too bold and peremptory,
And majesty might never yet endure
The moody frontier of a servant brow.
You have good leave to leave us: when we need
Your use and counsel, we shall send for you.

[Exit Wor.

[To North. You were about to speak. North.

Yea, my good lord.
Those prisoners in your highness' name demanded,
Which Harry Percy here at Holmedon took,
Were, as he says, not with such strength denied
As is delivered to your majesty:
Either envy, therefore, or misprision
Is guilty of this fault and not my son.

Hot. My liege, I did deny no prisoners.
But I remember, when the fight was done,
When I was dry with rage and extreme toil,
Breathless and faint, leaning upon my sword,
Condition: private disposition

Misprision: misunderstanding Holp: helped

Came there a certain lord, neat, and trimly dressed,
Fresh as a bridegroom; and his chin new reaped
Showed like a stubble-land at harvest-home;
He was perfumed like a milliner;
And twixt his finger and his thumb he held
A pouncet-box, which ever and anon
He gave his nose and took’t away again;
Who therewith angry, when it next came there,
Took it in snuff; and still he smiled and talked,
And as the soldiers bore dead bodies by,
He called them untaught knaves, unmannerly,
To bring a slovenly unhandsome corse
Betwixt the wind and his nobility.
With many holiday and lady terms
He questioned me; amongst the rest, demanded
My prisoners in your majesty's behalf.
I then, all smarting with my wounds being cold,
To be so pestered with a popinjay,
Out of my grief and my impatience,
Answered neglectingly I know not what,
He should, or he should not; for he made me mad
To see him shine so brisk and smell so sweet
And talk so like a waiting-gentlewoman
Of
guns

and drums and wounds, God save the mark!
And telling me the sovereign’st thing on earth
Was parmaceti for an inward bruise;
And that it was great pity, so it was,
This villainous saltpeter should be digged
Out of the bowels of the harmless earth,
Which many a good tall fellow had destroyed
So cowardly; and but for these vile guns,
He would himself have been a soldier.

Pouncet-box: perfume-box

Grief: pain

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