The nurce departed once, the chamber doore shut close, Water, out of a silver ewer, that on the boorde stoode by her. That same she calleth into doute: and lying doutefully What, is there any one, beneth the heavens hye, So much unfortunate as I so much past hope as I? What, am I not my selfe, of all that yet were borne, The depest drenched in dispayre, and most in Fortunes skorne ? Beside mishap and wretchednes and anguish of the mynde; Hath put me to this sodayne plonge, and brought to such distres. I must devowre the mixed drinke that by me here I have, aye. And other beastes and wormes that are of nature venomous, And whilst she in these thoughts doth dweli somwhat too long, Had seene him in his blood embrewed, to death eke wounded sore. And then when she agayne within her selfe had wayde That quicke she should be buried there, and by his side he layde, All comfortles, for she shall living feere have none, But many a rotten carkas, and full many a naked bone; Her daynty tender partes gan shever all for dred, Her golden heares did stande upright upon her chillish hed. A sweate as colde as mountayne yse pearst through her slender skin, That with the moysture hath wet every part of hers: And more besides, she vainely thinkes, whilst vainly thus she feares, A thousand bodies dead have compast her about, And lest they will dismember her she greatly standes in doute. By little and little, and in her heart her feare encreased ay, As she had frantike been, in hast the glasse she cought, And so, her senses fayling her, into a traunce did fall. And when that Phoebus bright heaved up his seemely hed, And from the East in open skies his glistring rayes dispred, The nurce unshut the doore, for she the key did keepe, And douting she had slept to long, she thought to breake her slepe; Fyrst softly dyd she call, then lowder thus did crye, "Lady, you slepe to long, the earle will rayse you by and by." But wele away, in vayne unto the deafe she calles, She thinkes to speake to Juliet, but speaketh to the walles. But loe, she found her parts were stiffe and more than marble colde; Neither at mouth nor nose found she recourse of breth; Two certaine argumentes were these of her untimely death. With scratched face, and heare betorne, but no word speake she can, At last with much adoe, " Dead (quoth she) is my childe;" And there she found her derling and her onely comfort ded. Do now thy worst to me, once wreake thy wrath for all, Whereto live I since she is dead, except to wayle and mone? Alacke, dere chylde, my teares for thee shall never cease; Even as my dayes of lyfe increase, so shall my plaint increase: Such store of sorow shall afflict my tender hart, That dedly panges, when they assayle, shall not augment my. smart." Then gan she so to sobbe, it seemde her hart would brast; And ladies of Verona towne and country round about, Both kindreds and alies thether apace have preast, For by theyr presence there they sought to honor so the feast; But when the heavy news the byden geastes did heare, So much they mournd, that who had seene theyr count'nance and theyr cheere, Might easely have judgde by that that they had seene, But more then all the rest the fathers hart was so Smit with the heavy newes, and so shut up with sodayn woe, Ne yet to speake, but long is forsd his teares and plaint to kepe. And, hearing of her passed life, they judge with one assent And then with double force againe the doubled sorowes wrought. A day, ruthfull, unfortunate and fatall, then I say, The same was it in which through Veron town was spred The wofull newes how Juliet was sterved in her bed. For so she was bemonde both of the young and olde, That it might seeme to him that would the common plaint behold, So universal was the plaint, so piteous was the crye. With which, like as she grew in age, her vertues prayses grew, That, even from the hory head unto the witles chylde, She wan the hartes of all, so that there was not one, Ne great, ne small, but did that day her wretched state bemone. Whilst Juliet slept, and whilst the other wepen thus, Our fryer Lawrence hath by this sent one to Romeus, A frier of his house, (there never was a better, He trusted him even as himselfe) to whom he gave a letter, That past twixt Juliet and him, and of the powders strength; Then shall he cary her to Mantua away, (Till fickell Fortune favour him,) disguysde in mans aray. And, for because in Italy it is a wonted gyse That friers in the towne should seldome walke alone, But of theyr covent aye should be accompanide with one Of his profession, straight a house he fyndeth out, In mynd to take some fryer with him, to walke the towne about. But entred once, he might not issue out agayne, For that a brother of the house a day before or twayne Dyed of the plague, a sicknes which they greatly feare and hate: Not knowing what the letters held, differed untill the morowe; But whilst at Mantua, where he was, these doinges framed thus, The towne of Juliets byrth was wholly busied About her obsequies, to see theyr darling buried. Now is the parentes myrth quite chaunged into mone, And now the wedding weades for mourning weades they chaungé, That all the best of every stocke are earthed in one grave; Doth bylde a tombe, or digge a vault, that bears the houshouldes name; Wherein, if any of that kyndred hap to dye, They are bestowde; els in the same no other corps may lye. The Capilets her corps in such a one did lay, Where Tybalt slaine of Romeus was layde the other day. An other use there is, that whosoever dyes, Borne to their church with open face upon the beere he lyes, In wonted weede attyrde, not wrapt in winding sheet. So, as by chaunce he walked abrode, our Romeus man did meete His masters wife; the sight with sorowe straight did wounde His honest heart; with teares he saw her lodged under ground. And, for he had been sent to Verone for a spye, The doinges of the Capilets by wisdom to descrye, And, for he knew her death dyd tooch his maister most, And in his house he found his maister Romeus, Where he, besprent with many teares, began to speake him thus: "Syr, unto you of late is chaunced so great a harme, That sure, except with constancy you seeke yourselfe to arme, I wot not by what sodain greefe, hath made exchaunge of life; That loe, his sprite annoyed sore with torment and with smart, And that he might flye after hers, would leave the massy corce: This fond and sodain fantasy into his head dyd sende; That then an hundred thousand parts more glorious were his death: Eke should his painfull hart a great deale more be eased, seene, And so his sorow should of every one be spyde, Which he with all his care did seeke from every one to hyde, His servant, at the masters hest, in chaumber still abode: To see if he in any place may fynde, in all the towne, A salve meet for his sore, an oyle fit for his wounde; And seeking long, alac too soone! the thing he sought, he founde. An apothecary sate unbusied at his doore, Whom by his heavy countenance he gessed to be poore. And in his shop he saw his boxes were but few, And in his window of his wares there was so small a shew; Wherefore our Romeus assuredly hath thought, What by no friendship could be got, with money could be bought; For nedy lacke is like the poor man to compell To sell that which the cities lawe forbiddeth him to sell. Then by the hand he drew the nedy man apart, And with the sight of glittering gold inflamed hath his hart: "Take fiftie crownes of gold (quoth he) I geve them thee, So that, before I part from hence, thou straight deliver me Somme poyson strong, that may in lesse than halfe an howre Kill him whose wretched hap shall be the potion to devowre." VOL. XII. ૨૧ |