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And there she shall at friar Laurence' cell
Be shriv’d, and married. Here is for thy pains.

Nurse. No, truly, sir; not a penny.
Rom. Go to; I say, you shall.
Nurse. This afternoon, sir ? well, she shall be there.

Rom. And stay, good nurse, behind the abbey-wall:
Within this hour my man shall be with thee;
And bring thee cords made like a tackled stair;
Which to the high top-gallant of my joy
Must be my convoy in the secret night.
Farewell !-Be trusty, and I'll quit thy pains.
Farewell !—Commend me to thy mistress.
Nurse. Now God in heaven bless thee !-Hark you,

sir. Rom. What say'st thou, my dear nurse?

Nurse. Is your man secret? Did you ne'er hear sayTwo may keep counsel, putting one away?

Rom. I warrant thee; my man's as true as steel.

Nurse. Well, sir; my mistress is the sweetest ladyLord, lord !—when 'twas a little prating thing,–0,there's a nobleman in town, one Paris, that would fain lay knife aboard; but she, good soul, had as lieve see a toad, a very toad, as see him. I anger her sometimes, and tell her that Paris is the properer man; but, I'll warrant you, when I say so, she looks as pale as any clout in the varsal world. Doth not rosemary and Romeo begin both with a letter?

Rom. Ay, nurse; what of that? both with an R.

Nurse. Ah, inocker ! that's the dog's name. R. is for the dog. No; I know it begins with some other letter: and she hath the prettiest sententious of it, of you and rosemary, that it would do you good to hear it. Rom. Commend me to thy lady.

[Exit. Nurse. Ay, a thousand times.—Peter ! Pet. Anon? Nurse. Peter, Take my fan, and go before. [Exeunt.

SCENE V.-Capulet's Garden.

Enter Juliet. Jul. The clock struck nine, when I did send the nurse; In half an hour she promis'd to return. Perchance, she cannot meet him :-that's not so.-O, she is lame ! love's heralds should be thoughts, Which ten times faster glide than the sun's beams, Driving back shadows over lowring hills : Therefore do nimble-pinion'd doves draw love, And therefore hath the wind-swift Cupid wings. Now is the sun upon the highmost hill Of this day's journey; and from nine till twelve Is three long hours,—yet she is not come. Had she affections, and warm youthful blood, She'd be as swift in motion as a ball ; My words would bandy her to my sweet love, And his to me: But old folks, many feign as they were dead; Unwieldy, slow, heavy and pale as lead.

Enter Nurse and Peter.
O God, she comes !0 honey nurse, what news ?
Hast thou met with him? Send thy man away.

Nurse. Peter, stay at the gate. [Exit Peter


Jul. Now, good sweet nurse,–0 lord ! why look'st

thou sad?
Though news be sad, yet tell them merrily;
If good, thou sham'st the music of sweet news
By playing it to me with so sour a face.

Nurse. I am aweary, give me leave awhile;
Fye, how my bones ache! What a jaunt have I had !

Jul. I would, thou hadst my bones, and I thy news: Nay, come, I pray thee, speak ;-good, good nurse,

Nurse. Jesu, What haste ? can you not stay awhile?
Do you not see, that I am out of breath ?
Jul, How art thou out of breath, when thou hast

To say to me, that thou art out of breath ?
The excuse, that thou dost make in this delay,
Is longer than the tale thou dost excuse.
Is thy news good, or bad ? answer to that;
Say either, and I'll stay the circumstance:
Let me be satisfied, Is't good or bad ?

Nurse. Well, you have made a simple choice; you know not how to choose a man: Romeo! no, not he; though his face be better than any man's, yet his leg excels all men's; and for a hand, and a foot, and a body,-though they be not to be talked on, yet they are past compare: He is not the flower of courtesy,—but, I'll warrant him, as gentle as a lamb.--Go thy ways, wench; serve God.—What, have you dined at home?

Jul. No, no: But all this did I know before; What says he of our marriage? what of that?

Nurse. Lord, how my head akes ! what a head have I! It beats as it would fall in twenty pieces.

My back o' t’other side,-0, my back, my back !
Beshrew your heart, for sending me about,
To catch my death with jaunting up and down!

Jul. I'faith, I am sorry, that thou art not well: Sweet, sweet, sweet nurse, tell me, what says my love?

Nurse. Your love says like an honest gentleman,
And a courteous, and a kind, and a handsome,
And, I warrant, a virtuous :- Where is your mother?

Jul. Where is my mother ?—why, she is within ;
Where should she be? How oddly thou reply'st!
Your love says like an honest gentleman,
Where is your mother?

Nurse. 0, God's lady dear!
Are you so hot ? Marry, come up, I trow;
Is this the poultice for my aking bones ?
Henceforward do your messages yourself.

Jul. Here's such a coil ;--Come, what says Romeo ?
Nurse. Have you got leave to go to shrift to-day?
Jul. I have.

Nurse. Then hie you hence to friar Laurence' cell, There stays a husband to make you a wife: Now comes the wanton blood up in your cheeks, They'll be in scarlet straight at any news. Hie you to church; I must another way, To fetch a ladder, by the which your love Must climb a bird's nest soon, when it is dark : I am the drudge, and toil in your delight; But you shall bear the burden soon at night. Go, I'll to dinner; hie you to the cell. Jul. Hie to high fortune!--honest nurse, farewell.


SCENE VI.-Friar Laurence's Cell.

Enter Friar LAURENCE and Romeo. Fri. So smile the heavens upon this holy act, That after-hours with sorrow chide us not!

Rom. Amen, amen! but come what sorrow can,,
It cannot countervail the exchange of joy,
That one short minute gives me in her sight:
Do thou but close our hands with holy words,
Then love-devouring death do what he dare,
It is enough I may but call her mine.

Fri. These violent delights have violent ends,
And in their triumph die, like fire and powder,
Which, as they kiss, consume: The sweetest honey
Is loathsome in his own deliciousness,
And in the taste confounds the appetite:
Therefore love moderately; long love doth so;
Too swift arrives as tardy as too slow.

Here comes the lady :-0, so light a foot
Will ne'er wear out the everlasting flint:
A lover may bestride the gossomers,
That idle in the wanton summer air,
And yet not fall; so light is vanity.

Jul. Good even to my ghostly confessor.
Fri. Romeo shall thank thee, daughter, for us both.
Jul. As much to him, else are his thanks too much.

Rom. Ah, Juliet, if the measure of thy joy
Be heap'd like mine, and that thy skill be more

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