Romeo and Juliet by William Shakespeare
Act 4 - Scene 5
Juliet’s chamber.
Nurse : Mistress! what, mistress! Juliet! fast, I warrant her, she:
[p]Why,
lamb! why, lady! fie, you slug-a-bed!
[p]Why, love, I say! madam!
sweet-heart! why, bride!
[p]What, not a word? you take your
pennyworths now;
[p]Sleep for a week; for the next night, I
warrant,
[p]The County Paris hath set up his rest,
[p]That you shall
rest but little. God forgive me,
[p]Marry, and amen, how sound is she
asleep!
[p]I must needs wake her. Madam, madam, madam!
[p]Ay, let the
county take you in your bed;
[p]He'll fright you up, i' faith. Will it
not be?
[p][Undraws the curtains]
[p]What, dress'd! and in your
clothes! and down again!
[p]I must needs wake you; Lady! lady!
lady!
[p]Alas, alas! Help, help! my lady's dead!
[p]O, well-a-day,
that ever I was born!
[p]Some aqua vitae, ho! My lord! my lady!
Lady Capulet : What noise is here?
Nurse : O lamentable day!
Lady Capulet : What is the matter?
Nurse : Look, look! O heavy day!
Lady Capulet : O me, O me! My child, my only life,
[p]Revive, look up, or I will die
with thee!
[p]Help, help! Call help.
Capulet : For shame, bring Juliet forth; her lord is come.
Nurse : She's dead, deceased, she's dead; alack the day!
Lady Capulet : Alack the day, she's dead, she's dead, she's dead!
Capulet : Ha! let me see her: out, alas! she's cold:
[p]Her blood is settled,
and her joints are stiff;
[p]Life and these lips have long been
separated:
[p]Death lies on her like an untimely frost
[p]Upon the
sweetest flower of all the field.
Nurse : O lamentable day!
Lady Capulet : O woful time!
Capulet : Death, that hath ta'en her hence to make me wail,
[p]Ties up my
tongue, and will not let me speak.
Friar Laurence : Come, is the bride ready to go to church?
Capulet : Ready to go, but never to return.
[p]O son! the night before thy
wedding-day
[p]Hath Death lain with thy wife. There she
lies,
[p]Flower as she was, deflowered by him.
[p]Death is my
son-in-law, Death is my heir;
[p]My daughter he hath wedded: I will
die,
[p]And leave him all; life, living, all is Death's.
Paris : Have I thought long to see this morning's face,
[p]And doth it give me
such a sight as this?
Lady Capulet : Accursed, unhappy, wretched, hateful day!
[p]Most miserable hour that
e'er time saw
[p]In lasting labour of his pilgrimage!
[p]But one, poor
one, one poor and loving child,
[p]But one thing to rejoice and solace
in,
[p]And cruel death hath catch'd it from my sight!
Nurse : O woe! O woful, woful, woful day!
[p]Most lamentable day, most woful
day,
[p]That ever, ever, I did yet behold!
[p]O day! O day! O day! O
hateful day!
[p]Never was seen so black a day as this:
[p]O woful day,
O woful day!
Paris : Beguiled, divorced, wronged, spited, slain!
[p]Most detestable death,
by thee beguil'd,
[p]By cruel cruel thee quite overthrown!
[p]O love!
O life! not life, but love in death!
Capulet : Despised, distressed, hated, martyr'd, kill'd!
[p]Uncomfortable time,
why camest thou now
[p]To murder, murder our solemnity?
[p]O child! O
child! my soul, and not my child!
[p]Dead art thou! Alack! my child is
dead;
[p]And with my child my joys are buried.
Friar Laurence : Peace, ho, for shame! confusion's cure lives not
[p]In these
confusions. Heaven and yourself
[p]Had part in this fair maid; now
heaven hath all,
[p]And all the better is it for the maid:
[p]Your
part in her you could not keep from death,
[p]But heaven keeps his
part in eternal life.
[p]The most you sought was her promotion;
[p]For
'twas your heaven she should be advanced:
[p]And weep ye now, seeing
she is advanced
[p]Above the clouds, as high as heaven itself?
[p]O,
in this love, you love your child so ill,
[p]That you run mad, seeing
that she is well:
[p]She's not well married that lives married
long;
[p]But she's best married that dies married young.
[p]Dry up
your tears, and stick your rosemary
[p]On this fair corse; and, as the
custom is,
[p]In all her best array bear her to church:
[p]For though
fond nature bids us an lament,
[p]Yet nature's tears are reason's
merriment.
Capulet : All things that we ordained festival,
[p]Turn from their office to
black funeral;
[p]Our instruments to melancholy bells,
[p]Our wedding
cheer to a sad burial feast,
[p]Our solemn hymns to sullen dirges
change,
[p]Our bridal flowers serve for a buried corse,
[p]And all
things change them to the contrary.
Friar Laurence : Sir, go you in; and, madam, go with him;
[p]And go, Sir Paris; every
one prepare
[p]To follow this fair corse unto her grave:
[p]The
heavens do lour upon you for some ill;
[p]Move them no more by
crossing their high will.
First Musician : Faith, we may put up our pipes, and be gone.
Nurse : Honest goodfellows, ah, put up, put up;
[p]For, well you know, this is
a pitiful case.
First Musician : Ay, by my troth, the case may be amended.
Peter : Musicians, O, musicians, 'Heart's ease, Heart's
[p]ease:' O, an you
will have me live, play 'Heart's ease.'
First Musician : Why 'Heart's ease?'
Peter : O, musicians, because my heart itself plays 'My
[p]heart is full of
woe:' O, play me some merry dump,
[p]to comfort me.
First Musician : Not a dump we; 'tis no time to play now.
Peter : You will not, then?
First Musician : No.
Peter : I will then give it you soundly.
First Musician : What will you give us?
Peter : No money, on my faith, but the gleek;
[p]I will give you the
minstrel.
First Musician : Then I will give you the serving-creature.
Peter : Then will I lay the serving-creature's dagger on
[p]your pate. I will
carry no crotchets: I'll re you,
[p]I'll fa you; do you note me?
First Musician : An you re us and fa us, you note us.
Second Musician : Pray you, put up your dagger, and put out your wit.
Peter : Then have at you with my wit! I will dry-beat you
[p]with an iron wit,
and put up my iron dagger. Answer
[p]me like men:
[p]'When griping
grief the heart doth wound,
[p]And doleful dumps the mind
oppress,
[p]Then music with her silver sound'--
[p]why 'silver sound'?
why 'music with her silver
[p]sound'? What say you, Simon Catling?
First Musician : Marry, sir, because silver hath a sweet sound.
Peter : Pretty! What say you, Hugh Rebeck?
Second Musician : I say 'silver sound,' because musicians sound for silver.
Peter : Pretty too! What say you, James Soundpost?
Third Musician : Faith, I know not what to say.
Peter : O, I cry you mercy; you are the singer: I will say
[p]for you. It is
'music with her silver sound,'
[p]because musicians have no gold for
sounding:
[p]'Then music with her silver sound
[p]With speedy help
doth lend redress.'
First Musician : What a pestilent knave is this same!
Second Musician : Hang him, Jack! Come, we'll in here; tarry for the
[p]mourners, and
stay dinner.
Previous: Act 4 - Scene 4
Next: Act 5 - Scene 1
