Whereby your bright renoune all whole yclipsed is,
And I unhappy, husbandles, of cumfort robde and blisse.
But if you did so much the blood of Capels thyrst,
Why have you often spared myne? myne might have quencht it fyrst.
Synce that so many times and in so secret place,
Where you were wont with vele of love to hyde your hatreds face,
My doutful lyfe hath hapt by fatall dome to stand
In mercy of your cruel hart, and of your bloudy hand.
What! seemde the conquest which you got of me so small?
What! seemde it not enough that I, poor wretch, was made your
thrall?
But that you must increase it with that kinsmans blood,
Which for his woorth and love to me, most in my favour stood?
Well, goe hencefoorth els where, and seeke an other whyle
Some other as unhappy as 1, by flattery to begyle.
And, where I comme, see that you shonne to shew your face,
For your excuse within my hart shall finde no resting place.
And I that now, too late, my former fault repent,
Will so the rest of wery life with many teares lament,
That soon my joyceles corps shall yeld up banishd breath,
And where on earth it restles lived, in earth seeke rest by death.
These sayd, her tender hart, by payne oppressed sore,
Restraynd her tears, and forced her tong to kepe her talke in store;
And then as still she was, as if in sownd she lay,
And then againe, wroth with herselfe, with feble voyce gan say: "Ah cruell murdering tong, murdrer of others fame,
How durst thou once attempt to tooch the honor of his name?
Whose dedly foes do yeld him dew and erned prayse;
For though his freedom be bereft, his honour not decayes.
Why blamst thou Romeus for slaying of Tybalt,
Since he is gyltles quite of all, and Tibalt beares the falt?
Whether shall he, alas! poore banishd man, now flye?
What place of succour shall he seeke beneth the starry skye?
Since she pursueth hym, and him defames by wrong,
That in distres should be his fort, and onely rampier strong.
Receve the recompence, O Romeus, of thy wife,
Who, for she was unkind her selfe, doth offer up her life,
In flames of yre, in sighes, in sorow and in ruth,
So to revenge the crime she did commit against thy truth."
These said, she could no more; her senses all gan fayle,
And dedly panges began straightway her tender hart assayle;
Her limmes she stretched forth, she drew no more her breath:
Who had been there might well have seen the signes of present
The nurce that knew no cause why she absented her,
Did doute lest that somme sodayn greefe too much tormented her.
Eche where but where she was, the carefull beldam sought,
Last, of the chamber where she lay she happly her bethought:
Where she with piteous eye her nurce-child did beholde,
Her limmes stretched out, her utward parts as any marble colde:
The nurce supposde that she had payde to death her det,
And then, as she had lost her wittes, she cryde to Juliet:
Ah! my dere hart, quoth she, how greveth me thy death!
Alas! what cause hast thou thus sone to yeld up living breath?
But while she handled her, and chafed every part,
She knew there was some sparke of life by beating of her hart,
So that a thousand times she cald upon her name;
There is no way to helpe a traunce but she hath tride the same: She openeth wyde her mouth, she stoppeth close her nose,
She bendeth downe her brest, she wringeth her fingers and her
And on her bosome cold she layeth clothes hot;
A warmed and a holesome juyce she powreth down her throte. At length doth Juliet heave faintly up her eyes,
And then she stretcheth forth her arme, and then her nurce she
But when she was awakde from her unkindly traunce,
"Why dost thou trouble me, quoth she, what drave thee, with
To come to see my sprite forsake my bretheles corse?
Go hence, and let me dye, if thou have on my smart remorse.
For who would see her frend to live in dedly payne?
Alas! I see my greefe begonne for ever will remayne.
Or who would seeke to live, all pleasure being past?
My myrth is donne, my moorning mone for ay is like to last.
Wherefore since that there is none other remedy,
Comme gentle death, and ryve my heart at once, and let me dye."
The nurce with trickling teares, to witnes inward smart,
With holow sigh fetchd from the depth of her appauled hart,
Thus spake to Juliet, y-clad with ougly care:
"Good lady myne, I do not know what makes you thus to fare; Ne yet the cause of your unmeasurde heaviness.
But of this one I you assure, for care and sorowes stresse,
This hower large and more I thought, so God me save,
That my dead corps should wayte on yours to your untimely grave."
"Alas, my tender nurce, and trusty frende, (quoth she)
Art thou so blinde that with thine eye thou canst not easely see
The lawfull cause I have to sorow and to moorne,
Since those the which I hyld most deere, I have at once forlorne."
Her nurce then aunswered thus-" Methinkes it fits you yll
To fall in these extremities that you may gyltles spill.
For when the stormes of care and troubles do aryse,
Then is the time for men to know the foolish from the wise.
You are accounted wise, a foole am I your nurce;
But I see not how in like case I could behave me wurse.
Tybalt your frend is ded; what, weene you by your teares
To call him backe againe? thinke vou that he your crying heares?
You shall perceive the falt, if it be justly tryde,
Of his so sodayn death was in his rashnes and his pryde.
Would you that Romeus him selfe had wronged so,
To suffer him selfe causeles to be outraged of his foe,
To whom in no respect he ought a place to geve?
Let it suffice to thee, fayre dame, that Romeus doth live,
And that there is good hope that he, within a while,
With greater glory shall be calde home from his hard exile.
How well y-born he is, thyselfe I know canst tell,
By kindred strong, and well alyed, of all beloved well.
With patience arme thyselfe, for though that Fortunes cryme,
Without your falt, to both your greefes, depart you for a time,
I dare say, for amendes of all your present payne,
She will restore your owne to you, within a month or twayne,
With such contented ease as never erst you had;
Wherefore rejoyce a while in hope, and be no more so sad.
And that I may discharge your hart of heavy care,
A certaine way I have found out, my paynes ne will I spare,
To learne his present state, and what in time to comme
He mindes to doe; which knowne by me, you shall know all and
But that I dread the whilst your sorowes will you quell,
Straight would I hye where he doth lurke, to fryer Lawrence cell.
But if you gyn eft sones, as erst you did, to moorne,
Whereto goe 1? you will be ded, before I thence retoorne.
So I shall spend in waste my time and busy payne,
So unto you, your life once lost, good aunswere comes in vayne ;
So shall I ridde my selfe with this sharpe pointed knyfe,
So shall you cause your parents deere wax wery of theyr life;
So shall your Romeus, despising lively breath,
With hasty foote, before his time, ronne to untimely death.
Where, if you can a while by reason rage suppresse,
I hope at my retorne to bring the salve of your distresse.
Now choose to have me here a partner of your payne,
Or promise me to feede on hope til! I retorne agayne."
Her mistres sendes her forth, and makes a grave behest
With reasons rayne to rule the thoughts that rage within her
When hugy heapes of harmes are heaped before her eyes,
Then vanish they by hope of scape; and thus the lady lyes
Twixt well-assured trust, and doutfull lewd dyspayre:
Now blacke and ougly be her thoughts; now seeme they white
As oft in summer tide blacke cloudes do dimme the sonne,
And straight againe in clearest skye his restles steedes do ronne ;
So Juliets wandring mind y-clouded is with woe,
And by and by her hasty thought the woes doth overgoe.
But now is tyme to tell, whilst she was tossed thus,
What windes did drive or haven did hold her lover Romeus.
When he had slayne his foe that gan this dedly strife,
And saw the furious fray had ende by ending Tybalts life,
He fled the sharpe revenge of those that yet did live,
And douting much what penal doome the troubled prince might
He sought somewhere unseene to lurke a littel space,
And trusty Lawrence secret cell he thought the surest place.
In doutfull happe aye best a trusty frend is tryde;
The frendly frier in this distresse doth graunt his frend to hyde.
A secret place he hath, well seeled round about,
The mouth of which so close is shut, that none may finde it out;
But roome there is to walke, and place to sit and rest,
Beside a bed to sleape upon, full soft, and trimly drest.
The flowre is planked so, with mattes it is so warme,
That neither winde nor smoky damps have powre him ought to harme.
Where he was wont in youth his fayre frends to bestowe,
There now he hydeth Romeus, whilst forth he goth to knowe
Both what is said and donne, and what appoynted payne
Is published by trumpets sound; then home he hyes agayne.
By this unto his cell the nurce with spedy pace
Was comme the nerest way; she sought no ydel resting place.
The fryer sent home the newes of Romeus certain helth,
And promise made (what so befell) he should that night by stelth
Comme to his wonted place, that they in nedefull wise
Of theyr affayres in time to comme might thoroughly devise.
Those joyfull newes the nurce brought home with merry joy;
And now our Juliet joyes to thinke she shall her love enjoy.
The fryer shuts fast his doore, and then to him beneth,
That waytes to heare the doute full newes of life or else of death.
Thy hap (quoth he) is good, daunger of death is none,
But thou shalt live, and do full well, in spite of spitefull fone.
This only payne for thee was erst proclaymde aloude,
A banishd man,
thou mayst thee not within Verona shrowde.
These heavy tidinges heard, his golden lockes he tare,
And like a franticke man hath torne the garments that he ware.
And as the smitten deere in brakes his waltring found,
So waltreth he, and with his brest doth beate the troden grounde.
He riseth eft, and strikes his hed against the wals,
He falleth downe agayne, and lowde for hasty death he cals. "Come spedy death, quoth he, the readiest leache in love, Synce nought can els beneth the sunne the ground of greefe re
Of lothsome life breake downe the hated staggering stayes,
Destroy, destroy at once the life that fayntly yet decayes.
But you, fayre dame, in whom dame Nature did devise
With cunning hand to woorke that might seeme wondrous in our
For you, I pray the gods, your pleasures to increase,
And all mishap, with this my death, for evermore to cease.
And mighty Jove with speede of justice bring them lowe,
Whose lofty pryde, without our gylt, our blisse doth overblowe,
And Cupid graunt to those theyr spedy wrongs redresse,
That shall bewayle my cruell death and pity her distresse."
Therewith a cloude of sighes he breathd into the skies,
And two great streames of bitter teares ran from his swowlen
These thinges the auncient fryer with sorrow saw and heard,
Of such beginning eke the end the wiseman greatly feard.
But lo! he was so weake by reason of his age,
That he ne could by force represse the rigour of his rage.
His wise and friendly woordes he speaketh to the ayre,
For Romeus so vexed is with care, and with dispayre,
That no advice can perce his close forstopped eares,
So now the fryer doth take his part in shedding ruthfull teares.
With colour pale and wan, with arms full hard y-fold,
With wofull cheere his wayling frende he standeth to beholde. And then our Romeus with tender handes y-wrong,
With voyce with plaint made horce, with sobs, and with a faltring
Renewd with novel mone the dolors of his hart;
His outward dreery cheere bewrayde his store of inward smart,
Fyrst Nature did he blame, the author of his lyfe,
In which his joyes had been so scant, and sorowes ay so rife;
The time and place of byrth he feersly did reprove,
He cryed out with open mouth against the starres above:
The fatall sisters three, he said, had donne him wrong,
The threed that should not have been sponne, they had drawne forth too long.
He wished that he had before his time been borne,
Or that as soone as he wan light, his lyfe he had forlorne.
His nurce he cursed, and the hand that gave him pappe,
The midwife eke with tender grype that held him in her lappe;
And then did he complaine on Venus cruell sonne,
Who led him first unto the rockes which he should warely shonne:
By meane whereof he lost both lyfe and libertie,
And dyed a hundred times a day, and yet could never dye.
Loves troubles lasten long, the joyes he gives are short;
He forceth not a lovers payne, theyr ernest is his sport.
A thousand thinges and more I here let passe to write
Which unto love this wofull man dyd speake in great despite.
On Fortune eke he raylde, he calde her deafe, and blynde,
Unconstant, fond, deceitfull, rashe, unruthfull, and unkynd.
And to himselfe he layd a great part of the falt,
For that he slewe and was not slaine, in fighting with Tibalt.
He blamed all the world, and all he did defye,
But Juliet for whom he lived, for whom eke would he dye.
When after raging fits appeased was his rage,
And when his passions, powred forth, gan partly to asswage,
So wisely did the fryre unto his tale replye,
That he straight cared for his life, that erst had care to dye.
"Art thou (quoth he) a man? thy shape saith, so thou art;
Thy crying, and thy weeping eyes denote a womans hart.
For manly reason is quite from of thy mynd out-chased,
And in her stead affections lewd and fancies highly placed:
So that I stoode in doute, this howre at the least,
If thou a man or woman wert, or els a brutish beast.
A wise man in the midst of troubles and distres
Still standes not wayling present harme, but seckes his harmes redres.
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