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Death, lie thou there, by a dead man interr'd.
[Laying Paris in the Monument. How oft when men are at the point of death, Have they been merry ? which their keepers call A lightning before death: 0, how may I Call this a lightning o?—0, my love! my wife ! Death, that hath suck'd the honey of thy breath, Hath had no power yet upon thy beauty: Thou art not conquer'd; beauty's ensign yet Is crimson in thy lips, and in thy cheeks, And death's pale flag is not advanced there. — Tybalt, liest thou there in thy bloody sheet? 3 O, what more favour can I do to thee, Than with that hand that cut thy youth in twain, To sunder his that was thine enemy? 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 will still stay with thee; And never from this palace of dim night Depart again ; here, here will I remain With worms that are thy chamber-maids; 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,
by a dead man interr'd.] Romeo being now determined to put an end to his life, considers himself as already dead.
I Call this a lightning?] Romeo had, just before, been in high spirits, a symptom, which he observes, was sometimes called a lightning before death: but how, says he, (for no situation can exempt Shakspeare's characters from the vice of punning) can I term this sad and gloomy prospect a lightning?
A dateless bargain to engrossing death!' -
Enter, at the other end of the Churchyard, Friar Lau
RENCE, with a Lantern, Crow, and Spade. Fri. Saint Francis be my speed ! how oft to-night Have my old feet stumbled at graves ?3 — Who's there? Who is it that consorts, so late, the dead? 4 Bal. Here's one, a friend, and one that knows you
well. Fri. Bliss be upon you ! Tell me, good my friend, What torch is yond', that vainly lends his light To grubs and eyeless sculls ? as I discern, It burneth in the Capels' monument. Bal. It doth so, holy sir; and there's my master,
Who is it?
Full half an hour.
I dare not, sir:
Fri. Stay then, I'll go alone: - Fear comes upon me; O, much I fear some ill unlucky thing.
One that you
A dateless bargain to engrossing death!] Engrossing seems to be used here in its clerical sense.
2 Come, bitter conduct,] Conduct for conductor.
s Have my old feet stumbled at graves ?] This accident was reckoned ominous. 4 Who is it, &c.] To consort, is to keep company with.
Bal. As I did sleep under this yew-tree here,
Romeo ? [Advances.
swords To lie discolour'd by this place of peace ?
[Enters the Monument. Romeo! 0, pale ! - Who else ? what, Paris too? And steep'd in blood ? - Ah, what an unkind hour Is guilty of this lamentable chance ! The lady stirs.
[JULIET wakes and stirs. 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. 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 stay no longer.
5 I dreamt my master and another fought,] This is one of the touches of nature that would have escaped the hand of any painter less attentive to it than Shakspeare. What happens to a person while he is under the manifest influence of fear, will seem to him, when he is recovered from it, like a dream. Homer, book 8th, represents Rhesus dying fast asleep, and as it were beholding his enemy in a dream plunging a sword into his bosom. Eustathius and Dacier both applaud this image as very natural; for a man in such a condition, says Mr. Pope, awakes no further than to see confusedly what environs him, and to think it not a reality, but a vision,
Jul. Go, get thee hence, for I will not away.
[Kisses him. Thy lips are warm !
i Watch. [within.] Lead, boy: - Which way? Jul. Yea, noise ? - then I'll be brief. - happy
dagger! [Snatching Romeo's Dagger. This is thy sheath ; [stabs herself.] there rust, and let
[Falls on ROMEO's Body, and dies.
Enter Watch, with the Page of Paris. Page. This is the place; there, where the torch doth
burn. 1 Watch. The ground is bloody; Search about the
churchyard : Go, some of you, who e'er you find, attach.
[Exeunt some. Pitiful sight! here lies the county slain ; And Juliet bleeding; warm, and newly dead, Who here hath lain these two days buried. Go, tell the prince, - run to the Capulets, Raise up the Montagues, - some others search;
[Exeunt other Watchmen. We see the ground whereon these woes do lie; But the true ground of all these piteous woes, We cannot without circumstance descry.
Enter some of the Watch, with BALTHASAR. 9 Watch. Here's Romeo's man, we found him in the
churchyard. 1 Watch. Hold him in safety, till the prince come hither.
Enter another Watchman, with Friar LAURENCE. 3 Watch. Here is a friar, that trembles, sighs, and
weeps : We took this mattock and this spade from him, As he was coming from this churchyard side.
1 Watch. A great suspicion; Stay the friar too.
Enter the Prince and Attendants.
Prince. What misadventure is so early up, That calls our person from our morning's rest?
Enter CAPULET, Lady Capulet, and Others. Cap. What should it be, that they so shriek abroad?
La. Cap. The people in the street cry - Romeo, Some - Juliet, and some - Paris; and all run, With open outcry, toward our monument.
Prince. What fear is this, which startles in our ears?
1 Watch. Sovereign, here lies the county Paris slain; And Romeo dead; and Juliet, dead before, Warm and new kill'd.
Prince. Search, seek, and know how this foul murder
1 Watch. Here is a friar, and slaughter'd Romeo's
6 This dagger hath mista’en,
for, lo! his house Is empty on the back of Montague, And it mis-sheathed in my daughter's bosom.] Shakspeare quaintly