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Friar. Romeo shall thank thee, daughter, for us both.
Juliet. As much to him, else are his thanks too much.
Romeo. Ah, Juliet, if the measure of thy joy

Be heap'd like mine, and that thy skill be more
To blazon it, then sweeten with thy breath
This neighbour air, and let rich musick's tongue
Unfold the imagin'd happiness that both
Receive in either by this dear encounter.

Juliet. Conceit, more rich in matter than in words,
Brags of his substance, not of ornament;

They are but beggars that can count their worth;
But my true love is grown to such excess,

I cannot sum up half my sum of wealth.

Friar. Come, come with me, and we will make short

work;

For, by your leaves, you shall not stay alone,

Till holy church incorporate two in one.

[Exeunt.

ACT III. SCENE II.

Juliet. Gallop apace, you fiery-footed steeds,
Towards Phoebus' mansion; such a waggoner
As Phaeton would whip you to the west,
And bring in cloudy night immediately.—
Spread thy close curtain, love-performing night!
That run-away's eyes may wink, and Romeo
Leap to these arms, untalk'd of and unseen!—
Lovers can see to do their amorous rites
By their own beauties: or, if Love be blind,
It best agrees with night.-Come, civil night,
Thou sober-suited matron, all in black,
And learn me how to lose a winning match

Play'd for a pair of stainless maidenhoods:

Hood my unmann'd blood bating in my cheeks
With thy black mantle; till strange love grown bold

Think true love acted, simple modesty.

Come, night! Come, Romeo! come, thou day in night! For thou wilt lie upon the wings of night

Whiter than new snow on a raven's back.

Come, gentle night; come, loving, black-brow'd night,
Give me my Romeo: and, when he shall die,
Take him and cut him out in little stars,

And he will make the face of heaven so fine
That all the world will be in love with night,
And pay no worship to the garish sun.
O, I have bought the mansion of a love,
But not possess'd it; and, though I am sold,
Not yet enjoy'd. So tedious is this day,
As is the night before some festival

To an impatient child, that hath new robes

And may not wear them. O, here comes my nurse,
And she brings news; and every tongue, that speaks

But Romeo's name, speaks heavenly eloquence.—

Now, nurse, what news? What, hast thou there the cords That Romeo bade thee fetch?

SCENE V.

Juliet. Wilt thou be gone? it is not yet near day :

It was the nightingale, and not the lark

That pierc'd the fearful hollow of thine ear;
Nightly she sings on yon pomegranate tree.
Believe me, love, it was the nightingale.

Romeo. 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.
Juliet. 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 to be gone.
Romeo. Let me be ta'en, let me be put to death;
I am content, so thou wilt have it so.

I'll say yon grey 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.

Juliet. 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.

Some say, the lark and loathed toad change eyes;
O, now I would they had chang'd voices too,
Since arm from arm that voice doth us affray,
Hunting thee hence with hunts-up to the day.
O, now be gone: more light and light it grows.
Romeo. More light and light?—more dark and dark

our woes.

*

Juliet. Then, window, let day in, and let life out.

Romeo. Farewell, farewell! one kiss, and I'll descend. [ROMEO descends.

Juliet. Art thou gone so, my love, my lord, my friend?

I must hear from thee every day i' 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.

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

Juliet. O, think'st thou, we shall ever meet again ? Romeo. I doubt it not; and all these woes shall serve

For sweet discourses in our time to come.

Juliet. O God! I have an ill-divining soul.1
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.
Romeo. And trust me, love, in my eye so do you:
Dry sorrow drinks our blood. Adieu-adieu !
Juliet. O fortune, fortune! all men call thee fickle:
If thou art fickle, what dost thou with him
That is renown'd for faith? Be fickle, fortune;
For then, I hope, thou wilt not keep him long,
But send him back.

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Juliet. O God! O nurse, how shall this be prevented?
My husband is on earth, my faith in heaven;
How shall that faith return again to earth,
Unless that husband send it me from heaven
By leaving earth? Comfort me, counsel me.
Alack, alack, that heaven should practise stratagems
Upon so soft a subject as myself!—

What say'st thou? hast thou not a word of joy?
Some comfort, nurse.

Nurse.

'Faith, here 'tis : Romeo

Is banished; and all the world to nothing,

That he dares ne'er come back to challenge you;
Or, if he do, it needs must be by stealth.

Then, since the case so stands as now it doth,
I think it best you married with the county.
O, he's a lovely gentleman!

Romeo's a dishclout to him; an eagle, madam,
Hath not so green, so quick, so fair an eye,
As Paris hath. Beshrew my very heart,
I think you are happy in this second match,
For it excels your first: or if it did not,
Your first is dead, or 'twere as good he were,
As living here and you no use of him.

Juliet. Speakest thou from thy heart?
Nurse.

Or else beshrew them both.

Juliet.

Nurse.

From my soul too;

Amen!

To what?

Juliet. Well, thou hast comforted me marvellous much. Go in, and tell my lady I am gone,

Having displeas'd my father, to Laurence' cell,

To make confession, and to be absolv'd.

Nurse. Marry, I will; and this is wisely done. [Exit. Juliet. Ancient damnation ! O most wicked fiend!

Is it more sin-to wish me thus forsworn,

Or to dispraise my lord with that same tongue
Which she hath prais'd him with above compare
So many thousand times ?-Go, counsellor ;
Thou and my bosom henceforth shall be twain.-
I'll to the friar, to know his remedy;

If all else fail, myself have power to die.

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