Act 4

Scene V

Juliet’s chamber.

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