THE TRAGICAL History of Romeus and juliet, written first in Italian by Bandell, and now in English by Ar. Br.  
In aedibus Richardi Tottelli. Cum Privilegio.   

To the Reader.  
THe God of all glory created universally all creatures, to set forth his praise, both those which we esteem profitable in use and pleasure, and also those, which we account noisome, and loathsome. But principally he hath appointed man, the chiefest instrument of his honour, not only, for ministering matter thereof in man himself: but aswell in gathering out of other, the occasions of publishing God's goodness, wisdom, & power. And in like sort, every doing of man hath by God's dispensation some thing, whereby God may, and aught to be honoured. So the good doyrges of the good, & the evil acts of the wicked, the happy success of the blessed, and the woeful procedings of the miserable, do in divers sort sound one praise of God. And as each flower yieldeth honey to the be: so every example ministereth good lessons, to the well disposed mind. The glorious triumph of the continent man upon the lusts of wanton flesh, encourageth men to honest restraint of wild affections the shameful and wretched ends of such, as have yielded their liberty thrall to fowl desires, teach men to withhold themselves from the headlong fall of lose dishonesty. So, to like effect, by sundry means, the good man's example biddeth men to be good, and the evil man's mischief; warneth men not to be evil. To this good end, serve all ill ends, of ill beginnings. And to this end (good Reader) is this tragical matter written, to describe unto thee a couple of unfortunate lovers, thralling themselves to unhonest desire, neglecting the authority and advise of parents and friends, conferring their principal counsels with drunken gossips, and superstitious friars (the naturally fit instruments of unchastity) attempting all adventures of peril, for thattaining of their wished lust, using auricular confession (the key of whoredom, and treason) for furtherance of their purpose, abusing the honourable name of lawful marriage, to cloak the shame of stolen contracts, finally, by all means of unhonest life, hasting to most unhappy death. This precedent (good Reader) shallbe to thee, as the slaves of Lacedaemon, oppressed with excess of drink, deformed and altered from likeness of men, both in mind, and use of body, were to the free borne children, so showed to them by their parents, to th'intent to raise in them an hateful loathing of so filthy beastliness. Hereunto if you apply it, ye shall deliver my doing from offence, and profit yourselves. Though I saw the same argument lately set forth on stage with more commendation, than I can look   

The Argument.  
Love hath inflamed twain by sudden sight.  
And both do grant the thing that both desire.  
They wed in shrift by counsel of a friar.  
Young Romeus climes fair Iuliets bower by night.  
Three months he doth enjoy his chief delight.  
By Tybalts rage, provoked unto ire,  
He payeth death to Tybalt for his hire.  
A banished man he escapes by secret flight.  
New marriage is offered to his wife.  
She drinks a drink that seems to 〈◊〉 her breath.  
They bury her, that sleeping yet hath life.  
Her husband heart the tidings of her death.  
He drinks his bane. And she with Romeus knife,  
When she awakes, herself (alas) she slayeth.   

¶ Romeus and juliet.  
THere is beyond the Alps,  
a town of ancient same,  
Whose bright renown yet shineth clear,  
Verona men it name.  
built in an happy time,  
bylt on a fertile soil:  
maintained by the heavenly fates,  
and by the townish toil.  
The fruitful hills above,  
the pleasant vales below,  
The silver stream with channel deep,  
that through the town doth flow:  
The store of springs that serve  
for use, and eke for ease:  
And other more commodities  
which profit may and please.  
Eke many certain signs  
of things betide of old,  
To fill the hungry eyes of those  
that curiously behold:  
Do make this town to be  
preferred above the rest  
Of Lombard towns, or at the least  
compared with the best.  
In which while Escalus,  
as prince alone did reign,  
To reach reward unto the good,  
to pay the lewd with pain.  
Alas (I rue to think)  
an heavy hap befell:  
Which Boccace scant (not my rude tongue)  
were able forth to tell.  
Within my trembling hand,  
my pen doth shake for fear:  
And on my cold amazed head,  
upright doth stand my hear.  
But sith she doth command,  
whose hest I must obey,  
In morning verse, a woeful chance  
to tell I will assay.  
Help learned Pallas, help,  
ye muses with your art,  
Help all ye damned fiends to tell,  
of joys returned to smart.  
Help eke ye sisters three,  
my skilless pen tindyte:  
For you it caused which I (alas)  
unable am to write.  
There were two ancient stocks,  
which Fortune high did place  
Above the rest, indewd with wealth,  
and nobler of their race.  
Loved of the common sort,  
loved of the Prince alike:  
And like unhappy were they both,  
when Fortune list to strike.  
Whose praise with equal blast,  
fame in her trumpet blew:  
The one was cliped Capelet,  
and tother Montagew.  
A wont use it is,  
that men of likely sort  
(I wots not by what fury forsd)  
envy each others port.  
So these, whose equal state  
bred envy pale of hue,  
And then of grudging envies root,  
black hate and rancour grew.  
As of a little spark,  
oft riseth mighty fire,  
So of a kindled spark of grudge,  
in flames flash out their ire.  
And then their deadly food,  
first hatched of trifling strife:  
Did bathe in blood of smarting wounds,  
it reaved breath and life.  
No legend lie I tell,  
scarce yet their eyes be dry:  
That did behold the grisly sight,  
with wet and weeping eye.  
But when the prudent prince,  
who there the sceptre held  
So great a new disorder in  
his common weal beheld:  
By gentle mean he sought,  
their choler to assuage:  
And by persuasion to appease,  
their blameful furious rage.  
But both his words and time,  
the prince hath spent in vain:  
So rooted was the inward hate,  
he lost his busy pain.  
When friendly sage advise,  
ne gentle words avail:  
By thundering threats, and princely power  
their courage 'gan he qua●le.  
In hope that when he had  
the wasting flame suppressed,  
In time he should quite quench the sparks  
that boornd within their breast.  
Now whilst these kindreds do  
remain in this estate,  
And each with outward friendly show  
doth hide his inward hate:  
One Romeus, who was  
of race a Montague,  
Upon whose tender chin, as yet,  
no manlike beard there grew.  
Whose beauty and whose shape  
so far the rest did stain:  
That from the chief of Veron youth  
he greatest fame did gain.  
Hath found a mayte so fair  
(he found so foul his hap)  
Whose beauty, shape, and comely grace,  
did so his heart entrap,  
That from his own affairs,  
his thought she did remove:  
Only he sought to honour her,  
to serve her, and to love.  
To her he writeth oft,  
oft messengers are sent:  
At length (in hope of better speed)  
himself the lover went:  
Present to plead for grace,  
which absent was not found:  
And to discover to her eye  
his new received wound.  
But she that from her youth  
was fostered evermore  
With virtues food, and taught in school  
of wisdoms skilful lore:  
By answer did cut of  
thaffections of his love,  
That he no more occasion had  
so vain a suit to move.  
So stern she was of cheer,  
(for all the pain he took)  
That in reward of toil, she would  
not give a friendly look.  
And yet how much she did  
with constant mind retire:  
So much the more his fervent mind  
was pricked fourth by desire.  
But when he many months,  
hopeless of his recure,  
Had served her, who forced not  
what pains he did endure:  
At length he thought to leave  
Verona, and to prove,  
If change of place might change away  
his ill bestowed love.  
And speaking to himself,  
thus 'gan he make his moan:  
What booteth me to love and serve  
a fell unthankful one,  
Sith that my humble ●ute  
and labour so weed in vain,  
Can reap none other fruit at all  
but scorn and proud disdain:  
What way she seeks to go,  
the same I seek to run:  
But she the path wherein I tread,  
with speedy flight doth shun.  
I can not live, except  
that near to her I be:  
She is ay best content when she  
is farthest of from me.  
Wherefore henceforth I will  
far from her take my flight:  
Perhaps mine eye once banished  
by absence from her sight:  
This fire of mine, that by  
her pleasant eyen is fed:  
Shall little and little wear away,  
and quite at last be ded.  
But whilst he did decree  
this purpose still to keep:  
A contrary repugnant thought  
sank in his breast so deep:  
That doubtful is he now,  
which of the twain is best:  
In sighs, in tears, in plaint, in care,  
in sorrow and unrest.  
He moves the day, he wakes  
the long and weary night,  
So deep hath love with piercing hand,  
ygraud her beauty bright.  
Within his breast, and hath  
so mastered quite his heart:  
That he of force must yield as thrall,  
no way is left to start.  
He can not stay his step,  
but forth still must he run,  
He languisheth and melts away,  
as snow against the son.  
His kindred and allies,  
do wonder what he ails,  
And each of them in friendly wise,  
his heavy hap bewails.  
But one among the rest,  
the trustiest of his fears.  
far more than he with counsel filled,  
and riper of his years.  
'Gan sharply him rebuke,  
such love to him he bore:  
That he was fellow of his smart,  
and partner of his care.  
What meanest thou Romeus  
(quoth he) what doting rage  
Doth make thee thus consume away,  
the best part of thine age,  
In seeking her that scorns,  
and hides her from thy sight:  
Not forcing all thy great expense,  
ne yet thy honour bright.  
Thy tears, thy wretched life,  
ne thine unspotted truth:  
Which are of force (I ween) to move  
the hardest heart to ruth.  
Now for our friendships sake,  
and for thy health I pray:  
That thou henceforth become thine own,  
O give no more away.  
Unto a thankeles wight,  
thy precious free estate:  
In that thou lovest such a one,  
thou seemest thyself to hate.  
For she doth love else where,  
(and then thy time is lost)  
Or else (what booteth thee to sue)  
loves court she hath forsworn.  
Both young thou art of years,  
and high in Fortune's grace:  
What man is better shaped than thou?  
who hath a sweeter face?  
By painful studies mean,  
great learning hast thou won:  
Thy parents have none other heir,  
thou art their only son.  
What greater grief (trowst thou?)  
what woeful deadly smart  
Should so be able to distrain  
thy silly father's heart?  
As in his age to see  
thee plunged deep in vice:  
When greatest hope he hath to hear  
thy virtues fame arise.  
What shall thy kinsmen think,  
thou cause of all their ruth?  
Thy deadly foes do laugh to scorn  
thy ill employed youth.  
Wherefore my counsel is,  
that thou henceforth begin  
To know and fly the error which  
to long thou livedst in.  
Remove the veal of love,  
that keeps thine eyes so blind:  
That thou ne canst the ready path  
of thy forefathers find.  
But if unto thy will  
so much in thrall thou art:  
Yet in some other place bestow  
thy witless wandering heart.  
Choose out some worthy dame,  
her honour thou and serve,  
Who will give ear to thy complaint  
and pity ere thou starve.  
But sow no more thy pains  
in such a barren soil:  
As yields in harvest time no crop  
in recompense of toil.  
Ere long the townish dames  
together will resort:  
Some one of beauty, favour, shape,  
and of so lovely port:  
With so fast fixed eye,  
perhaps thou mayst behold:  
That thou shalt quite forget thy love,  
and passions passed of old.  
The young man's lystning ear  
received the wholesome sound,  
And reasons truth yplanted so,  
within his head had ground:  
That now with healthy cool  
ytempred is the heat:  
And piecemeal wears away the grief  
that erst his heart did fret.  
To his approved friend,  
a solemn oath he plight:  
At every feast ykept by day,  
and banquet made by night:  
At pardons in the church,  
at games in open street:  
And every where he would resort  
where Ladies wont to meet.  
Eke should his savage heart  
like all indifferently:  
For he would view and judge them all  
with unallured eye.  
How happy had he been.  
had he not been forsworn:  
But twice as happy had he been  
had he been never borne.  
For ere the Moon could thrice  
her wasted horns renew,  
False Fortune cast for him poor wretch,  
a mischief new to brew.  
The weary winter nights  
restore the Christmas games:  
And now the season doth invite  
to banquet townish dames.  
And first in Capulets house,  
the chief of all the kin:  
Sparth for no cost, the wont use  
of banquets to begin.  
No Lady fair or fowl,  
was in Verona town:  
No knight or gentleman  
of high or low renown:  
But Capilet himself  
hath bid unto his feast:  
Or by his name in paper sent,  
appointed as a jest.  
Young damsels thither flock,  
of bachelors a rout:  
Not so much for the banquets sake,  
as beauties to search out.  
But not a Montagew  
would enter at his gate:  
For as you heard, the Capilets,  
and they were at debate.  
Save Romeus, and he.  
in mask with hidden face:  
The supper done, with other five  
did press into the place.  
When they had maskd a while,  
with dames in courtly wise:  
All did unmask, the rest did show  
them to their lady's eyes.  
But bashful Romeus,  
with shamefast face forsook  
The open press, and him withdrew  
into the chambers nook.  
But brighter than the sun,  
the waxed torches shone:  
That maugre what he could, he was  
espied of every one.  
But of the women chief,  
their gazing eyes that threw  
To wonder at his sightly shape  
and beauties spotless hew.  
With which the heavens him had  
and nature so bedecked:  
That Ladies thought the fairest dames  
were fowl in his respect.  
And in their head beside,  
an other wonder rose,  
How he durst put himself in throng  
among so many foes.  
Of courage stout they thought  
his coming to proceed:  
And women love an hardy heart  
as I in stories read.  
The Capilets disdain  
the presence of their foe:  
Yet they suppress their stirred ire,  
the cause I do not know.  
Perhaps toffend their gests  
the courteous knights are loath,  
Perhaps they stay from sharp revenge,  
dreading the Prince's wrath.  
Perhaps for that they shamed  
to exercise their rage:  
Within their house, 'gainst one alone  
and him of tender age.  
They use no taunting talk,  
ne harm him by their deed:  
They neither say, what mak'st thou here,  
ne yet they say God speed.  
So that he freely might  
the Lady's view at ease:  
And they also beholding him,  
their change of fancies please.  
Which nature had him taught  
to do with such a grace,  
That there was none but joyed at  
his being there in place.  
With upright beam he weighed  
the beauty of each dame,  
And judged who best, and who next her,  
was wrought in nature's frame.  
At length he saw a maid,  
right fair of perfect shape:  
Which Theseus, or Paris would  
have chosen to their rape.  
Whom erst he never saw,  
of all she pleased him most:  
Within himself he said to her,  
thou justly mayst thee boast.  
Of perfect shapes renown,  
and Beauties sounding praise:  
Whose like ne hath, ne shallbe seen,  
ne liveth in our days.  
And whilst he fixed on her  
his part all pierced eye,  
His former love, for which of ●ate  
he ready was to die.  
Is now as quite forgot,  
as it had never been:  
The proverb saith unminded oft  
are they that are unseen.  
And as out of a plank  
a nail a nail doth drive:  
So novel love out of the mind  
the ancient loved doth rive.  
This sudden kindled fire  
in time is wox so great:  
That only death, and both their bloods  
might quench the fiery heat.  
When Romeus saw himself  
in this new tempest tossed:  
Where both was hope of pleasant port,  
and danger to be lost:  
He doubtful, skasely knew  
what countenance to keep  
In Lethies flood his wont flames  
were quenched and drenched deep.  
Yea he forgets himself,  
ne is the wretch so bold  
To ask her name, that without force  
hath him in bondage fold.  
Ne how tunloose his bonds  
doth the poor fool devise,  
But only seeketh by her sight  
to feed his hungry eyes.  
Through them he swalloweth down  
loves sweet empoysonde bait,  
How ●encly are the ware●es wrapped  
by those that lie in wait?  
〈◊〉 is the poison spread  
throughout his bones and veins:  
That in a while (alas the while)  
it hasteth deadly pains.  
Whilst juliet (for so  
this gentle damsel hight)  
From side to side on every one  
did cast about her sight:  
At last her flowing eyes  
were anchored fast on him,  
Who for her sake did banish health  
and freedom from each limb.  
He in her sight did seem  
to pass the rest as far  
As Phoebus' shining beams do pass  
the brightness of a star.  
In wait lay warlike love  
with golden bow and shaft,  
And to his ear with steady hand  
the bowstring up he raft.  
Till now she had escaped  
his sharp inflaming dart:  
Till now he listed not assault  
her young and tender heart.  
His whetted arrow loosed,  
so touched her to the quick:  
That through the eye it struck the heart,  
and there the head did stick.  
It booted not to strive,  
for why, she wanted strength:  
The weaker aye unto the strong  
of force must yield at length.  
The pomps now of the feast  
her heart begins to despise:  
And only joyeth when her eyen  
meet with her lovers eyes.  
When their new smitten hearts  
had fed on loving gleams:  
Whilst passing too and fro▪ their eyes  
ymingled were their beams▪  
Each of these lovers 'gan  
by others looks to know:  
That friendship in their breast had root,  
and both would have it grow.  
When thus in both their hearts  
had Cupid made his breach:  
And each of them had sought the mean  
to end the war by speech.  
Dame Fortune did assent  
their purpose to advance:  
With torch in hand a comely knight  
did fetch her forth to dance.  
She quit herself so well,  
and with so trim a grace:  
That she the chief praise won that night  
from all Verona race.  
The whilst our Romeus,  
a place had warily won:  
nigh to the seat where she must sit,  
the dance once being done.  
Fair juliet turned to,  
her chair with pleasant cheer:  
And glad she was her Romeus  
approached was so near.  
At th'one side of her chair▪  
her lover Romeo:  
And on the other side there sat  
one called Mercutio.  
A courtier that each where  
was highly had in price:  
For he was coorteous of his speech,  
and pleasant of devise.  
Even as a Lion would  
among the lambs be bold:  
Such was among the bashful maids,  
Mercutio to behold.  
With friendly gripe he seized  
fair Iuliets snoweth hand:  
A gift he had that nature gave  
him in his swathing band.  
That frozen mountain ice  
was never half so cold  
As were his hands, though near so near  
the fire he did them hold.  
As soon as had the knight  
the virgins right hand reached:  
Within his trembling hand her left  
hath loving Romeus caught.  
For he witted well himself  
for her abode most pain:  
And well he witted she loved him best,  
unless she list to feign.  
Then she with tender hand  
his tender palm hath priest:  
What joy trow you was graffed so  
in Romeus cloven breast?  
The soodain sweet delight  
hath stopped quite his tongue:  
Ne can he claim of her his right,  
ne crave redress of wrong.  
But she espied strait way  
by changing o● his hew  
From pale to red, from red to pale,  
and so from pale anew:  
That vehment love was cause,  
why so his tongue did stay:  
And so much more she longed to hear  
what love could teach him say.  
When she had longed long,  
and he long held his peace,  
And her desire of hearing him,  
by silence did increase.  
At last with trembling voice  
and shamefast cheer, the maid  
Unto her Romeus turned herself,  
and thus to him she said.  
O blessed be the time  
of thy arrival here:  
But ere she could speak forth the rest,  
to her love drew so near:  
And so within her mouth,  
her tongue he glued fast,  
That no one word could scape her more,  
than what already past.  
In great contented ease  
the young man strait is rapt,  
What chance (ꝙ he) unware to me  
O lady mine is happed?  
That gives you worthy cause,  
my coming here to bliss:  
Fair juliet was come again  
unto herself by this.  
first ruthfully she looked,  
then said with smiling cheer:  
Marvel no whit my hearts delight,  
my only knight and fere.  
Mercutious icy hand  
had all to frozen mine  
And of thy goodness thou again  
hast warmed it with thine.  
Whereto with stayed brow,  
gan Romeus to reply  
If so the gods have granted me,  
such favour from the sky,  
That by my being here,  
some service I have done  
That pleaseth you I am as glad,  
as I a realm had won,  
O well bestowed tyme.  
that hath the happy hire,  
Which I would wish if I might have,  
my wished hearts desire.  
For I of God would crave,  
as prise of pains forpast.  
To serve, obey and honour you,  
so long as life shall last.  
As proof shall teach you plain,  
if that you like to try  
His faltles truth, that nill for aught,  
unto his lady lie.  
But if my tooched hand,  
have warmed yours some deal  
Assure yourself the heat is cold,  
which in your hand you feel.  
Compared to such quick sparks  
and glowing furious gleade  
As from your beauties pleasant ●yne,  
love caused to proceed.  
Which have so set on fire,  
each feeling part of mine.  
That lo, my mind doth melt away:  
my utwerd parts do pine.  
And but you help all whole,  
to ashes shall I toorne:  
Wherefore (alas) have ruth on him,  
whom you do force to boorne.  
Even with his ended tale,  
the torches dance had end,  
And juliet of force must part  
from her new chosen friend.  
His hand she clasped hard,  
and all her parts did shake:  
When lay sureles with whispering voice  
thus did she answer make.  
You are no more your own  
(dear friend) than I am yours  
(My honour saved) priest tobay  
your will, while life endures▪  
Lo here the lucky lot  
that sild true lovers find:  
Each takes away the others heart,  
and leaves the own behind.  
A happy life is love  
if God grant from above,  
That heart with heart by even weight  
do make exchange of love.  
But Romeus gone from her,  
his heart for care is cold:  
He hath forgot to ask her name  
that hath his heart in hold.  
With forged careless cheer,  
of one he seeks to know,  
Both how she hight, and whence she came,  
that him enchanted so.  
So hath he learned her name,  
and knoweth she is no jest.  
Her father was a Capilet,  
and master of the feast.  
Thus hath his foe in choice  
to give him life or death:  
That scarcely can his woeful breast  
keep in the lively breath.  
Wherefore with piteous plaint  
fierce Fortune doth he blame:  
That in his ruth and wretched plight  
doth seek her laughing game.  
And he reproveth love,  
chief cause of his unrest:  
Who ease and freedom hath exiled  
out of his youthful breast.  
Twice hath he made him serve,  
hopeless of his reward:  
Of both the ills to choose the less,  
I ween the choice were hard▪  
first to a ruthless one  
he made him sue for grace:  
And now with spur he forceth him  
to run an endless race.  
Amid these stormy seas  
one anchor doth him hold,  
He serveth not a cruel one,  
as he had done of old.  
And therefore is content,  
and chooseth still to serve:  
Though hap should swear that guerdonles  
the wretched wight should starve.  
The lot of Tantalus  
is Romeus like to thine  
For want of food amid his food,  
the miser still doth pine.  
As careful was the maid  
what way were best devise  
To learn his name, that entertained  
her in so gentle wise.  
Of whom her heart received  
so deep, so wide a wound,  
An ancient dame she called to her,  
and in her ear 'gan round.  
This old dame in her youth,  
had nursed her with her milk,  
With slender needle taught her sow,  
and how to spin with silk,  
What twain are those (quoth she)  
which press unto the door,  
Whose pages in their hand do bear,  
two toorches light before.  
And then as each of them  
had of his household name,  
So she him named yet once again  
the young and wily dame.  
And tell me who is he  
with visor in his hand  
That yonder doth in masking weed  
beside the window stand.  
His name is Romeus  
(said she) a Montegewe.  
Whose fathers pride first stirred the strife  
which both your households rue.  
The word of Montegew,  
her joys did overthrow,  
And strait in stead of happy hope,  
despair began to grow.  
What hap have I quoth she,  
to love my father's foe?  
What, am I weary of my weal?  
what, do I wish my woe?  
But though her grievous pains  
distraind her tender heart,  
Yet with an outward show of joy  
she cloaked inward smart.  
And of the court-like dames  
her leave so courtly took,  
That none did guess the sudden change  
by changing of her look.  
Then at her mother's hest  
to chamber she●her hide  
So well she feigned, mother ne nurse.  
the hidden harm descried.  
But when she should have slept  
as wont she was, in bed,  
Not half a wink of quiet sleep  
could harbour in her head▪  
For lo, an hugy heap  
of divers thoughts arise  
That rest have banished from her heart,  
and slumber from her eyes.  
And now from side to side  
she tosseth and she turns,  
And now for fear she shevereth,  
and now for love she burns.  
And now she likes her choice,  
and now her choice she blames,  
And now each hour within her head,  
a thousand fancies frames  
Sometime in mind to stop,  
amid her course begun  
Sometime she vows what so betide,  
that tempted race to run.  
Thus dangers dread and love,  
within the maiden fought,  
The fight was fierce continuing long  
by their contrary thought.  
In turning maze of love  
she wandereth too and fro,  
Then standeth doubtful what to do,  
last overpressed with woe.  
How so her fancies cease,  
her tears did never blyn,  
With heavy cheer and wringed hands,  
thus doth her plaint begin.  
Ah silly fool quoth she)  
ycought in soottill snare:  
Ah wretched wench bewrapt in woe,  
an caitiff clad with care.  
Whence come these wandering thoughts  
to thy unconstant breast?  
By straying thus from raisins lore,  
that reave thy wont rest.  
What if his subtle brain,  
to fain have taught his tongue?  
And so the snake that lurks in grass,  
thy tender heart hath stung?  
What if with friendly speech  
the traitor lie in wait?  
As oft the poisoned hook is hid,  
wrapped in the pleasant bait?  
Oft under cloak of truth,  
hath falsehood served her lust:  
And toornd their honour into shame,  
that did so slightly trust.  
What, was not Dido so,  
a crowned Queen: defamed?  
And eke for such an heinous crime,  
have men not Theseus blamed?  
A thousand stories more,  
to teach me to beware:  
In Boccace, and in Ovid's books  
too plainly written are.  
Perhaps the great revenge  
he cannot work by strength:  
By subtle sleight (my honour stained)  
he hopes to work at length.  
So shall I seek to find  
my father's foe his game:  
So I befylde, report shall take  
her trump of black defame.  
Whence she with puffed cheek  
shall blow a blast so shrill  
Of my dispraise, that with the noise  
Verona shall she still.  
Then I a laughing stock  
through all the town become:  
Shall hide myself, but not my shame,  
within an hollow tomb.  
Strait underneath her foot,  
she treadeth in the dust  
Her troublesome thought as wholly vain,  
ybred of fond distrust.  
No no by God above,  
I wots it well quoth she,  
Although I rashly spoke before,  
in no wise can it be.  
That where such perfect shape,  
with pleasant beauty rests:  
There crooked craft and treason black,  
should be appointed gests.  
Sage writers say, the thoughts  
are dwelling in the eyen:  
Then sure I am as Cupid reigns  
that Romeus is mine.  
The tongue the messenger,  
eke call they of the mind:  
So that I see he loveth me,  
shall I then be unkind?  
His faces rosy hue,  
I saw full oft to seek:  
And strait again it flashed forth,  
and spread in either cheek.  
His fired heavenly ●yne,  
that through me quite did pierce  
His thoughts unto my heart, my thought  
they seemed to rehearse.  
What meant his faltering tongue,  
in telling of his tale:  
The trembling of his joints and eke  
his cooler waxed pale?  
And whilst I take with him,  
himself he hath exiled,  
Out of himself (as seemed me)  
ne was I sure beguiled.  
Those arguments of love,  
craft wrote not in his face  
But nature's hand when all deceit▪  
was banished out of place  
What other certain signs  
seek I of his good will?  
These do suffice, and steadfast I  
will love and serve him still.  
Till Atropos shall cut,  
my fatal thread of life,  
So that he mind to make of me  
his lawful wedded wife.  
For so perchance this new  
alliance may procure  
Unto our houses such a peace  
as ever shall endure  
Oh how we can persuade,  
ourself to what we like  
And how we can dissuade our mind,  
if ought our mind mislike.  
Weak arguments are strong,  
our fancies straight to frame,  
To pleasing things, and eke to shun,  
if we mislike the same.  
The maid had scarcely yet  
ended the weary war,  
Kept in her heart by striving thoughts  
when every shining star  
Had paid his borrowed light,  
and Phoebus spread in skies  
His golden rays, which seemed to say:  
now time it is to rise.  
And Romeus had by this  
forsaken his weary bed:  
Where restless he a thousand thoughts  
had forged in his head.  
And while with lingering step  
by Iuliets house he passed:  
And upward to her windows high  
his greedy eyes did cast:  
His love that looked for him,  
there 'gan he strait espy,  
With pleasant cheer each greeted is,  
she followeth with her eye  
His parting steps, and he  
oft looketh back again:  
But not so oft as he desires,  
warily he doth refrain.  
What life were like to love,  
if dread of jeopardy,  
Ysowred not the sweet, if love  
were free from jealousy.  
But she more sure within,  
unseen of any wight,  
When so he comes, looks after him,  
till he be out of sight.  
In often passing so,  
his busy eyes he threw,  
That every pane and tooting hole  
the wily lover knew.  
In happy hour he doth  
a garden plot espy:  
From which except he warily walk,  
men may his love descry.  
For lo, it fronted full,  
upon her leaning place:  
Where she is wont to show her heart  
by cheerful friendly face.  
And lest the arbours might  
their secret love bewray:  
He doth keep back his forward foot  
from passing there by day.  
But when on earth the night  
her mantle black hath spread:  
Well armed he walketh forth alone,  
ne dreadful foes doth dread.  
Whom maketh love not bold,  
nay whom makes he not blind?  
He reaveth dangers dread oft times  
out of the loves mind.  
By night he passeth here,  
a week or two in vain:  
And for the missing of his mark.  
his grief hath him nigh slain.  
And juliet that now  
both lack her heart's relief:  
Her Romeus pleasant eyen (I mean)  
is almost dead for grief.  
Each day she changeth hours,  
(for lovers keep an hour)  
When they are sure to see their love  
in passing by their hour.  
Impatient of her woe,  
she happed to lean one night  
Within her window, and anon  
the Moon did shine so bright.  
That she espied her love,  
her heart revived, sprang,  
And now for joy she claps her hands,  
which erst for woe she wrang.  
Eke Romeus when he saw  
his long desired sight:  
His morning cloak of moan cast of,  
hath clad him with delight.  
Yet dare I say, of both,  
that she rejoiced more:  
His care was great, hers twice as great,  
was all the time before:  
For whilst she knew not why  
he did himself absent:  
Ay doubting both his health and life,  
his death she did lament.  
For love is fearful oft,  
where is no cause of fear:  
And what love fears, that love laments,  
as though it chanced wear.  
Of greater cause always  
is greater work ybred:  
While he nought doubteth of her health,  
she dreads lest he be ded.  
When only absence is  
the cause of Romeus smart:  
By happy hope of sight again  
he feeds his fainting heart.  
What wonder then if he  
were wrapped in less annoy?  
What marvel if by sudden sight  
she fed of greater joy?  
His smaller grief or joy,  
no smaller love do prove:  
He for she passed him in both,  
did she him pass in love.  
But each of them alike  
did burn in equal flame:  
The welbeloving knight, and eke  
the well-beloved dame.  
How whilst with bitter tears  
her eyes as fountains run:  
With whispering voice ybroke with sobs,  
thus is her tale begun.  
Oh Romeus (of your life)  
to lavas sure yond are:  
That in this place, and at this time  
to hazard it you dare.  
What if your deadly foes  
my kinsmen, saw you here?  
Like lions wild, your tender parts  
asunder would they tear.  
In ruth and in disdain,  
I weary of my life:  
With cruel hand my morning heart  
would pierce with bloody knife.  
For you mine own once dead,  
what joy should I have hear?  
And eke my honour stained which I  
then life do hold more dear.  
Fair lady mine dame juliet  
my life (quoth he)  
Even from my birth committed was  
to fatal sisters three.  
They may in spite of foes,  
draw forth my lively thread:  
And they also, who so saith nay,  
a sunder may it shreed.  
But who to reave my life,  
his rage and force would bend:  
Perhaps should try unto his pain  
how I it could defend.  
Ne yet I love it so,  
but always for your sake,  
A sacrifice to death I would  
my wounded corpse betake.  
If my mishap were such,  
that here before your sight,  
I should restore again to death,  
of life my borowde light:  
This one thing and no more  
my parting spirit would rue:  
That part he should, before that you  
by certain trial knew  
The love I own to you,  
the thrall I languish in:  
And how I dread to lose the gain  
which I do hope to win.  
And how I wish for life,  
not for my proper ease:  
But that in it, you might I love,  
you honour, serve and please.  
Till deadly pangs the spirit  
out of the corpse shall send:  
And thereupon he swore an oath,  
and so his tale had end.  
Now love and pity boil,  
in Iuliets ruthful breast,  
In window on her leaning arm,  
her weary head doth rest.  
Her bosom bathed in tears,  
to witness inward pain:  
With dreary cheer to Romeus,  
thus answered she again.  
Ah my dear Romeus,  
keep in these words (quoth she)  
For lo, the thought of such mischance,  
already maketh me  
For pity and for dread,  
well-nigh to yield up breath:  
In even balance poised are  
my life and eke my death.  
For so my heart is knit,  
yea, made one self with yours:  
That sure there is no grief so small,  
by which your mind endures.  
But as you suffer pain,  
so I do bear in part:  
(Although it lessens not your grief)  
the half of all your smart.  
But these things overpast,  
if of your health and mine  
You have respect, or pity ought  
my teary weeping eyen:  
In few unfeigned words,  
your hidden mind unfold,  
That as I see your pleasant face,  
your heart I may behold.  
For if you do intend  
my honour to defile:  
In error shall you wander still  
as you have done this while,  
But if your thought be chaste,  
and have on virtue ground,  
If wedlock be the end and mark  
which your desire hath found:  
Obedience set aside,  
unto my parent's dew:  
The quarrel eke that long ago  
between our households grew:  
Both me and mine I will  
all whole to you betake:  
And following you where so you go,  
my father's house forsake.  
But if by wanton love,  
and by unlawful suit.  
You think in ripest years to pluck  
my maydenhods' dainty fruit:  
You are beguiled, and now  
your juliet you be seeks  
To cease your suit, and suffer her  
to live among her likes.  
Then Romeus, whose thought  
was free from fowl desire:  
And to the top of virtues height,  
did worthily aspire:  
Was filled with greater joy  
than can my pen express:  
Or till they have enjoyed the like  
the hearers heart can guess.  
And then with joined hands  
heaved up into the skies:  
He thanks the Gods, and from the heavens  
for vengeance down he cries.  
If he have other thought,  
but as his lady spoke:  
And then his look he toornd to her,  
and thus did answer make.  
Since Lady that you like  
to honour me so much,  
As to accept me for your spouse,  
I yield myself for such.  
In true witness whereof,  
because I must departed,  
Till that my deed do prove my word,  
I leave in pawn my heart.  
To morrow eke betimes.  
before the sun arise:  
To friar Laurence will I wend,  
to learn his sage advise.  
He is my ghostly sire,  
and oft he hath me taught  
What I should do in things of weight,  
when I his aid have sought.  
And at this self same hour,  
I plight you here my faith:  
I will be here (if you think good)  
to tell you what he saith.  
She was contented well,  
else favour found he none,  
That night at lady Iuliets hand,  
save pleasant words alone.  
This barefoot friar girt,  
with cord his grayish weed,  
For he of Francis order was,  
a friar as I reed,  
Not as the most was he,  
a gross unlearned fool:  
But doctor of divinity  
proceeded he in school.  
The secrets eke he knew,  
in natures works that loorke:  
By magiks' art most men supposed  
that he could wonders work.  
Ne doth it ill beseem  
divines those skills to know:  
If on no harmful deed they do  
such skilfulness bestow.  
For justly of no art  
can men condemn the use:  
But right and reason's lore cry out  
against the lewd abuse.  
The bounty of the friar  
and wisdom hath so won  
The towns folks hearts, that well-nigh all  
to friar Laurence ton.  
To shrive themself the old,  
the young, the great and small:  
Of all he is beloved well,  
and honoured much of all.  
And for he did the rest  
in wisdom far exceed:  
The prince by him (his counsel craved)  
was holp at time of need.  
Betwixt the Capilets  
and him great friendship grew:  
A secret and assured friend  
unto the Montegue.  
Loved of this young man more  
than any other gest,  
The friar eke of Verone youth,  
aye liked Romeus best.  
For whom he ever hath  
in time of his distress:  
(As erst you heard) by skilful lore,  
found out his harms redress.  
To him is Romeus gone,  
ne stayeth he till the morrow:  
To him he painteth all his case,  
his passed joy and sorrow.  
How he hath her espied  
with other dames in dance,  
And how that first to talk with her,  
himself he did advance.  
Their talk and change of looks  
he 'gan to him declare:  
And how so fast by faith and troth  
they both ycoupled are.  
That neither hope of life,  
nor dread of cruel death,  
Shall make him false his faith to her  
while life shall lend him breath.  
And then with weeping eyes  
he prays his ghostly sire  
To further and accomplish all  
their honest hearts desire.  
A thousand doubts and more  
in thold man's head arose:  
A thousand dangers like to come,  
the old man doth disclose.  
And from the spousal rites  
he readeth him refrain:  
Perhaps he shallbe bet advised  
within a week or twain.  
advise is banished quite  
from those that follow love,  
Except advise to what they like  
their bending mind do move.  
As well the father might  
have counselled him to stay  
That from a mountains top thrown down,  
is falling half the way:  
As warn his friend to stop,  
amid his race begun,  
Whom Cupid with his smarting whip  
enforceth forth to run.  
Part won by earnest suit,  
the friar doth grant at last:  
And part, because he thinks the storms  
so lately overpast,  
Of both the households wrath:  
this marriage might appease,  
So that they should not rage's again,  
but quite for ever cease.  
The respite of a day,  
he asketh to devise:  
What way were best unknown to end  
so great an enterprise.  
The wounded man that now  
doth deadly pains endure:  
Scarce patient tarrieth whilst his leech  
doth make the salve to cure.  
So Romeus hardly grants  
a short day and a night,  
Yet needs he must, else must he want  
his only heart's delight.  
You see that Romeus  
no time or pain doth spare:  
Think that the whilst fair juliet  
is not devoid of care.  
Young Romeus poureth forth  
his hap and his mishap,  
Into the friars breast, but where  
shall juliet unwrap  
The secrets of her heart?  
to whom shall she unfold,  
Her hidden burning love, and eke  
her thought and cares so cold.  
The nurse of whom I spoke  
within her chamber lay:  
Upon the maid she waiteth still,  
to her she doth bewray  
Her new received wound,  
and then her aid doth crave:  
In her she saith it lies to spill,  
in her her life to save.  
Not easily she made  
the froward nurse to bow:  
But won at length, with promised hire  
she made a solemn vow.  
To do what she commands,  
as handmaid of her hest:  
Her mistress secrets hide she will,  
within her covert breast.  
To Romeus she goes  
of him she doth desire,  
To know the mean of marriage  
by council of the friar.  
On Saturday quoth he,  
if juliet come to shrift,  
She shallbe shrived and married,  
how like you noorse this drist?  
Now by my truth (quoth she)  
gods blessing have your heart:  
For yet in all my life I have  
not heard of such a part.  
Lord how you young men can  
such crafty wiles devise,  
If that you love the daughter well  
to blear the mother's eyes.  
An easy thing it is,  
with cloak of holiness,  
To mock the silly mother that  
suspecteth nothing less  
But that it pleased you  
to tell me of the case.  
For all my many years perhaps,  
I should have found it scarce.  
Now for the rest let me  
and juliet alone:  
To get her leave, some feat excuse  
I will devise anon.  
For that her golden locks  
by sloth have been unkempt:  
Or for unwares some wanton dream  
the youthful damsel dreamed,  
Or for in thoughts of love  
her idle time she spent:  
Or otherwise within her heart  
deserved to be shent.  
I know her mother will  
in no case say her nay:  
I warrant you she shall not fail  
to come on Saturday.  
And then she swears to him,  
the mother loves her well:  
And how she gave her suck in youth  
she leaveth not to tell.  
A pretty babe (quoth she)  
it was when it was young:  
Lord how it could full prettily  
have prated with it tongue.  
A thousand times and more  
I said her on my lap,  
And clapped her on the buttock soft  
and kissed where I did clap.  
And gladder than was I  
of such a kiss forsooth:  
Then I had been to have a kiss  
of some old lechers mouth.  
And thus of Iuliets youth  
began this prating noorse,  
And of her present state to make  
a tedious long discoorse.  
For though he pleasure took  
in hearing of his love:  
The message answer seemed him  
to be of more behove.  
But when these Beldames sit  
at ease upon their tail:  
The day and eke the candle light  
before their talk shall fail.  
And part they say is true,  
and part they do devise:  
Yet boldly do they that of both  
when no man checks their lies.  
Then he vi crowns of gold  
out of his pocket drew:  
And gave them her, a slight reward  
(quoth he) and so adieu.  
In seven years twice told  
she had not bowed so low,  
Her crooked knees, as now they bow,  
she swears she will bestow.  
Her crafty wit, her time,  
and all her busy pain,  
To help him to his hoped bliss,  
and cowering down again:  
She takes her leave, and home  
she hies with speedy pace:  
The chamber door she shuts, and then  
she saith with smile face.  
Good news for thee my girl,  
good tidings I thee bring:  
Leave of thy wonted song of care  
and now of pleasure sing.  
For thou mayst hold thyself  
the happiest under son:  
That in so little while, so well  
so worthy a knight hast won.  
The best yshapde is he,  
and hath the fairest face,  
Of all this town, and there is none  
hath half so good a grace.  
So gentle of his speech,  
and of his counsel wise:  
And still with many praises more  
she heaved him to the skies.  
Tell me else what (quoth she)  
this evermore I thought:  
But of our marriage say at once,  
what answer have you brought?  
Nay soft quoth she, I fear,  
your hurt by sudden joy:  
I list not play quoth juliet,  
although thou list to toy.  
How glad trow you was she,  
when she had heard her say:  
No farther of than Saturday,  
differred was the day.  
Again the ancient nurse  
doth speak of Romeus,  
And then (said she) he spoke to me,  
and then I spoke him thus.  
Nothing was done or said,  
that she hath left untold,  
Save only one, that she forgot  
the taking of the gold.  
There is no loss quoth she,  
(sweet wench) to loss of time:  
Ne in thine age shalt thou repent  
so much of any crime.  
For when I call to mind,  
my former passed youth:  
One thing there is which most of all  
doth cause my endless ruth.  
At sixteen years I first  
did choose my loving fear:  
And I was fully ripe before,  
(I dare well say) a year.  
The pleasure that I lost.  
that year so overpast:  
A thousand times I have be wept,  
and shall while life doth last.  
In faith it were a shame,  
yea sin it were iwis,  
When thou mayst live in happy joy  
to set light by thy bliss.  
She that this morning could  
her mistress mind dissuade,  
Is now become an Dratresse,  
her lady to persuade.  
If any man be here  
whom love hath clad with care:  
To him I speak, if thou wilt speed,  
thy purse thou must not spare.  
Two sorts of men there are,  
seld welcome in at door:  
The wealthy sparing niggard, and  
the suitor that is poor.  
For glittering gold is wont  
by kind to move the heart:  
And often times a slight reward  
doth cause a more desert.  
Ywritten have I red,  
I wots not in what book:  
There is no better way to fish,  
then with a golden hook.  
Of Romeus these two,  
do sit and chat a while,  
And to themself they laugh, how they  
the mother shall beguile.  
A feat excuse they find,  
but sure I know it not:  
And leave for her to go to shrift  
on Saturday she got.  
So well this juliet,  
this wily wench did know  
Her mother's angry hours, and eke  
the true bent of her bow.  
The Saturday betimes  
in sober weed yelad,  
She took her leave, and forth she went  
with visage grave and sad.  
With her the nurse is sent  
as bridle of her lust:  
With her the mother sends a maid,  
almost of equal trust.  
Betwixt her teeth the bit,  
the jennet now hath caught:  
So warily eke the virgin walks  
her maid perceiveth nought.  
She gazeth not in church,  
on young men of the town:  
Ne wandereth she from place to place,  
but strait she kneeleth down  
Upon an altar's step,  
where she devoutly prays:  
And there upon her tender knees  
the weary lady stays:  
Whilst she doth send her maid  
the certain truth to know,  
If friar Laurence leisure had,  
to hear her shrift, or no.  
Out of his shriving place  
he comes with pleasant cheer:  
The shamefast maid with bashful brow  
to himward draweth near.  
Some great offence (ꝙ he)  
you have committed late:  
Perhaps you have displeased your friend,  
by giving him a mate.  
Then turning to the nurse,  
and to the other maid:  
Go hear a mass or two quoth be,  
which strait way shallbe said.  
For her confession heard,  
I will unto you twain  
The charge that I received of you,  
restore to you again.  
What, was not juliet  
trow you right well apaid?  
That for this trusty friar hath changed  
her young mistrusting maid?  
I dare well say there is  
in all Verona none:  
But Romeus, with whom she would  
so gladly be alone.  
Thus to the friars cell,  
they both forth walked been:  
He shuts the door as soon as he  
and juliet were in.  
But Romeus her friend  
was entered in before:  
And there had waited for his love,  
two hours large and more.  
Each minute seemed an hour,  
and every hour a day:  
Twixt hope he lived and despair,  
of coming or of stay.  
Now wavering hope and fear,  
are quite fled out of sight.  
For what he hopde he hath at hand  
his pleasant chief delight.  
And joyful juliet  
is healed of all her smart:  
For now the rest of all her parts,  
have found her straying heart.  
Both their confessions first  
the friar hath heard them make:  
And then to her with louder voice  
thus friar Laurence spoke.  
Fair lady juliet  
my ghostly daughter dear:  
As far as I of Romeus learn  
who by you standeth here:  
Twixt you it is agreed  
that you shallbe his wife:  
And he your spouse in steady truth  
till death shall end your life.  
Are you both fully bend  
to keep this great behest?  
And both the lovers said it was  
their only heart's request.  
When he did see their minds  
in links of love so fast:  
When in the praise of wedlock's state  
some skilful talk was passed.  
When he had told at length  
the wife what was her due:  
His duty eke by ghostly talk  
the youthful husband knew.  
How that the wife in love  
must honour and obey:  
What love and honour he doth owe,  
and debt that he must pay.  
The words pronounced were  
which holy church of old  
Appointed hath for marriage:  
and she a ring of gold  
Received of Romeus:  
and then they both arose.  
To whom the friar then said, perchance  
a part you will disclose  
Betwixt yourself alone  
the bottom of your heart:  
Say on at once, for time it is  
that hence you should departed.  
Then Romeus said to her,  
(both loath to part so soon:)  
Fair lady send to me again  
your nurse this after noon.  
Of cord I will bespeak,  
a ladder by that time:  
By which, this night, while other sleep,  
I will your window clime.  
Then will we talk of love,  
and of our old despairs:  
And then with longer leisure had,  
dispose our great affairs.  
These said, they kiss, and then  
part to their father's house:  
The joyful bride unto her home,  
to his eke goth the spouse.  
Contented both, and yet  
both uncontented still:  
Till night and Venus' child, give leave  
the wedding to fulfil.  
The painful soldier sore  
ybet with weary war:  
The merchant eke that needful things  
doth dread to fetch from far:  
The ploughman that for doubt  
of fierce invading foes,  
Rather to sit in idle ease  
then sow his tilt hath chose:  
Rejoice to hear proclaimed  
the tidings of the peace:  
Not pleasurd with the sound so much:  
but when the wars do cease.  
Then ceased are the harms  
which cruel war brings forth.  
The merchant then may boldly fetch,  
his wares of precious worth.  
Dredelesse the husband man  
doth till his fertile field:  
For wealth her mate, not for herself,  
is peace so precious held.  
So lovers live in care,  
in dread, and in unrest:  
And deadly war by striving thoughts  
they keep within their breast.  
But wedlock is the peace  
whereby is freedom won,  
To do a thousand pleasant things  
that should not else be done.  
The news of ended war  
these two have hard with joy:  
But now they long the fruit of peace  
with pleasure to enjoy.  
In stormy wind and wave,  
in danger to be lost:  
Thy stearles ship (O Romeus)  
hath been long while betost.  
The seas are now appeased,  
and thou by happy star  
Art come in sight of quiet haven:  
and now the wrackful bar  
Is hid with swelling tide,  
boldly thou mayst resort  
Unto thy wedded ladies bed,  
thy long desired port.  
God grant no follies missed  
so dim thy inward sight,  
That thou do miss the channel, that  
doth lead to thy delight.  
God grant no dangers rock  
ylurking in the dark  
Before thou win the happy port  
wrack thy sea beaten bark.  
A servant Romeus had,  
of word and deed so just:  
That with his life (if need requierd)  
his master would him trust,  
His faithfulness had oft  
our Romeus proved of old  
And therefore all that yet was done  
unto his man he told.  
Who strait as he was charged,  
a corden ladder looks:  
To which he hath made fast two strong  
and crooked iron hooks.  
The bride to send the nurse  
at twilight faileth not:  
To whom the bridegroom yeven hath.  
the ladder that he got.  
And then to watch for him  
appointeth her an hour:  
For whether Fortune smile on him,  
or if she list to lower,  
He will not miss to come  
to his appointed place,  
Where wont he was to take by stealth  
the view of Iuliets face.  
How long these lovers thought  
the lasting of the day,  
Let other judge that wonted are  
like passions to assay.  
For my part, I do guess  
each hour seems twenty year:  
So that I deem if they might have  
(as of Alcume we hear)  
The sun bond to their will,  
if they the heavens might guide:  
Black shade of night and doubled dark  
should strait all over hide.  
Thappointed hour is come,  
he clad in rich array,  
Walks toward his desired home,  
good Fortune guide his way.  
Approaching near the place  
from whence his heart had lffe:  
So light he wor, he leapt the wall,  
and there he spied his wife.  
Who in the window watched  
the coming of her lord:  
Where she so surely had made fast  
the ladder made of cord:  
That dangerless her spouse  
the chamber window climbs,  
Where he ere then had wished himself  
above ten thousand times.  
The windows close are shut,  
else look they for no gest,  
To light the waxed quariers,  
the ancient nurse is priest,  
Which juliet had before  
prepared to be light,  
That she at pleasure might behold  
her husbands beauty bright.  
A Carchef white as snow,  
ware juliet on her head,  
Such as she wonted was to wear,  
attire meet for the bed.  
As soon as she him spied,  
about his neck she clung:  
And by her long and slender arms  
a great while there she hung.  
A thousand times she kissed,  
and him unkissed again:  
Ne could she speak a word to him  
though would she near so fain.  
And like betwixt his arms  
to faint his lady is:  
She fettes a sigh, and clappeth close  
her closed mouth to his.  
And ready then to sound  
she looked ruthfully:  
That lo, it made him both at once  
to live and eke to die.  
These piteous painful pangs  
were haply overpast:  
And she unto herself again  
returned home at last.  
Then through her troubled breast,  
even from the farthest part,  
An hollow sigh, a messenger  
she sendeth from her heart.  
O Romeus quoth she,  
in whom all virtues shine:  
Welcome thou art into this place  
where from these eyes of mine,  
Such teary streams did flow,  
that I suppose wellnigh  
The source of all my bitter tears  
is altogether dry.  
Absence so pinned my heart,  
which on thy presence fed:  
And of thy safety and thy health  
so much I stood in dread.  
But now what is decreed  
by fatal destiny:  
I force it not, let Fortune do  
and death their worst to me.  
Full recompensed am I  
for all my passed harms,  
In that the Gods have granted me  
to clasp thee in mine arms.  
The crystal tears began  
to stand in Romeus eyes,  
When he unto his lady's words  
'gan answer in this wise.  
Though cruel Fortune be  
so much my deadly foe:  
That I ne can by lively proof  
cause thee (fair dame) to know  
How much I am by love  
enthralled unto thee:  
Ne yet what mighty power thou hast  
by thy desert on me.  
Ne torments that for thee  
I did ere this endure:  
Yet of thus much (ne will I feign)  
I may thee well assure.  
The least of many pains  
which of thy absence sprung:  
More painfully than death itself  
my tender heart hath wrong.  
Ere this one death had reft  
a thousand deaths away:  
But life prolonged was by hope,  
of this desired day.  
Which so just tribute pays  
of all my passed moan:  
That I as well contented am,  
as if myself alone  
Did from the Ocean reign  
unto the sea of Ind:  
Wherefore now let us wipe away  
old cares out of our mind.  
For as the wretched state  
is now redressed at last,  
So is it skill behind our back  
the cursed care to cast.  
Since Fortune of her grace  
hath place and time assigned  
Where we with pleasure may content  
our uncontented mind.  
In Lethe's hide we deep  
all grief and all annoy,  
Whilst we do bath in bliss, and fill  
our hungry hearts with joy.  
And for the time to come,  
let be our busy care:  
So wisely to direct our love  
as no wight else be ware.  
Lest enmous foes by force  
despoil our new delight,  
And us throw back from happy state  
to more unhappy plight.  
Fair juliet began  
to answer what he said:  
But forth in haste the old nurse stepped,  
and so her answer stayed.  
Who takes not time (quoth she)  
when time well offered is,  
another time shall seek for time,  
and yet of time shall miss.  
And when occasion serves,  
who so doth let it slip,  
Is worthy sure (if I might judge)  
of lashes with a whip.  
Wherefore, if each of you  
hath harmed the other so,  
And each of you hath been the cause  
of others wailed woe,  
Lo here a field, (she showed  
a fieeldbed ready dight)  
Where you may, if you list, in arms,  
revenge yourself by fight.  
Whereto these lovers both  
'gan easily assent,  
And to the place of mild revenge  
with pleasant cheer they went.  
Where they were left alone,  
the nurse is gone to rest:  
How can this be? they restless lie,  
ne yet they feel unrest.  
I grant that I envy  
the bliss they lived in:  
Oh that I might have found the like.  
I wish it for no sin.  
But that I might as well  
with pen their joys depaint,  
As here tofore I have displayed  
their secret hidden plaint.  
Of shivering care and bred,  
I have felt many a fit,  
But Fortune such delight as theirs  
did never grant me yet.  
By proof no certain truth  
can I unhappy write:  
But what I guess by likelihood,  
that dare I to indite.  
The blyndfyld goddess that  
with frowning face doth fray,  
And from their seat the mighty kings  
throws down with headlong sway▪  
beginneth now to turn,  
to these her smile face,  
Needs must they taste of great delight,  
so much in Fortune's grace.  
If Cupid, God of love,  
be God of pleasant sport,  
I think O Romeus Mars himself  
envies thy happy sort.  
Ne Venus justly might,  
(as I suppose) repent,  
If in thy stead (O juliet)  
this pleasant time she spent.  
This pass they forth the night  
in sport, in jolly game:  
The hastiness of Phoebus' steeds  
in great despite they blame.  
And now the virgin's fort  
hath warlike Romeus got,  
In which as yet no breach was made  
by force of canon shot.  
And now in ease he doth  
possess the hoped place:  
How glad was he, speak you that may  
your lovers parts embrace?  
The marriage thus made up,  
and both the parties pleased:  
The nigh approach of days retoorne  
these silly fools diseased.  
And for they might no while  
in pleasure pass their time,  
Ne leisure had they much to blame  
the hasty morning's crime:  
With friendly kiss in arms  
of her his leave he takes,  
And every oath night to come,  
a solemn oath he makes.  
By one self mean, and eke  
to come at one self hour:  
And so he doth till Fortune list  
to sauce his sweet with sour.  
But who is he that can  
his present state assure?  
And say unto himself, thy joys  
shall yet a day endure.  
So wavering Fortunes wheel  
her changes be so strange.  
And every wight ythralled is  
by sat unto her change.  
Who reigns so over all,  
that each man hath his part:  
(Although not aye perchance alike)  
of pleasure and of smart.  
For after many joys,  
some feel but little pain:  
And from that little grief they toorne  
to happy joy again.  
But other some there are,  
that living long in woe,  
At length they be in quiet ease,  
but long abide not so.  
Whose grief is much increased  
by mirth that went before:  
Because the sudden change of things  
doth make it seem the more.  
Of this unlucky sort  
our Romeus is one  
For all his hap turns to mishap,  
and all his mirth to moon.  
And joyful juliet  
an other leaf must toorne:  
As wont she was (her joys bereft)  
she must begin to mourn.  
The summer of their bliss,  
doth last a month or twain:  
But winter's blast with speedy foot  
doth bring the fall again.  
Whom glorious fortune erst  
had heaved to the skies:  
By envious fortune overthrown  
on earth now groveling lies.  
She paid their former grief  
with pleasures doubled gain:  
But now for pleasure's usury  
ten fold redoubleth pain.  
The prince could never cause  
those households so agree,  
But that some sparkles of their wrath,  
as yet remaining be.  
Which lie this why eraakd up,  
in ashes pale and dead,  
Till time do serve that they again  
in wasting flame may spread.  
At holiest times men say  
most heinous crimes are done,  
The morrow after Easter day  
the mischief new begun.  
A band of Capilets  
did meet (my heart it rows)  
Within the walls by Pursers' gate,  
a band of Montagewes.  
The Capilets as chief,  
a young man have chose out:  
Best exercisd in feats of arms,  
and noblest of the rout.  
Our Iuliets uncles son  
that cliped was Tibalt:  
He was of body tall and strong,  
and of his courage halt.  
They need no trumpet sound  
to bid them give the charge,  
So loud he cried with ftrayned voice  
and mouth out stretched large.  
Now, now, (quoth he) my friends,  
ourself so let us wreak,  
That of this days revenge, and us,  
our children's heirs may speak.  
Now once for all let us  
their swelling pride assuage,  
Let none of them escape alive,  
than he with furious rage  
And they with him gave charge,  
upon they present foes,  
And then forthwith a skirmish great  
upon this fray arose.  
For lo, the Montagewes  
thought shame away to fly,  
And rather than to live with shame,  
with praise did choose to die.  
The words that Tybalt used  
to stir his folk to ire,  
Have in the breasts of Montegewes  
kindled a furious fire.  
With lions hearts they fight,  
warily themself defend:  
To wound his foe, his present wit  
and force each one doth bend.  
This furious fray is long,  
on each side stoutly fought,  
That whether part had got the worst  
full doubtful were the thought.  
The noise hereof anon,  
throughout the town doth fly:  
And parts are taken on every side.  
both kindreds thither high.  
Here one doth gasp for breath,  
his friend bestrideth him,  
And he hath lost a hand, and he  
another maimed him.  
His leg is cut whilst he  
strikes at an other full:  
And whom he would have thrust quite through  
hath cleft his cracked skull.  
Their valiant hearts forbade  
their foot to give the ground,  
With unappalled cheer they took  
full deep and doubtful wound.  
Thus foot by foot long while,  
and shield to shield set fast:  
One foe doth make another faint  
but makes him not aghast.  
And whilst this noise is rife  
in every towns man's ear,  
Eke walking with his friends, the noise  
doth woeful Romeus hear.  
With speedy foot he runs  
unto the fray apace:  
With him those few that were with him  
he leadeth to the place.  
They pity much to see  
the slaughter made so great:  
That wet-shod they might stand in blood  
on either side the street.  
Part friends (said he) part friends,  
help friends to part the fray:  
And to the rest, enough (he cries)  
now time it is to stay.  
God's farther wrath you stir,  
beside the hurt you feel:  
And with this new uproar confound  
all this our common weal.  
But they so busy are  
in fight so eager and fierce,  
That through their ears his sage advise  
no leisure had to pierce.  
Then leapt he in the throng,  
to part, and bar the blows,  
As well of those that were his friends:  
as of his deadly foes.  
As soon as Tybalt had  
our Romeus espied:  
He threw a thrust at him that would  
have passed from side to side.  
But Romeus ever went  
(doubting his foes) well armed:  
So that the sword (kept out by mail)  
hath nothing Romeus harmed.  
Thou dost me wrong (quoth he)  
for I but part the fray,  
Not dread, but other weighty cause  
my hasty hand doth stay.  
Thou art the chief of thine,  
the noblest eke thou art:  
Wherefore leave of thy malice now,  
and help these folk to part.  
Many are hurt, some slain,  
and some are like to die.  
No, coward traitor boy (ꝙ he)  
strait way I mind to try  
Whether thy sugared talk,  
and tongue so smootely field:  
Against the force of this my sword  
shall serve thee for a shield.  
And then at Romeus head,  
a blow he struck so hard,  
That might have clove him to the brain  
but for his cunning ward.  
It was but lent to him  
that could repay again:  
And give him death for interest,  
a well forborn gain.  
Right as a forest bore,  
that lodged in the thick,  
Pinched with dog, or else with spear  
ypricked to the quick:  
His bristles stiff upright  
upon his back doth set,  
And in his foamy mouth, his sharp  
and crooked tusks doth whet.  
Or as a Lion wild  
that rampeth in his rage,  
His whelps bereft, whose fury can  
no weaker beast assuage.  
Such seemed Romeus,  
in every others sight:  
When he him shope, of wrong received  
t'avenge himself by fight.  
Even as two thunderbolts,  
thrown down out of the sky,  
That through the air the massy earth  
and seas have power to fly:  
So met these two, and while  
they change a blow or twain,  
Our Romeus thrust him through the throat  
and so is Tybalt slain.  
Lo here the end of those  
that stir a deadly strife:  
Who thirsteth after others death,  
himself hath lost his life.  
The Capilets are quailed,  
by Tybalts overthrow:  
The courage of the Mountagewes,  
by Romeus sight doth grow,  
The towns men waren strong,  
the prince doth send his force:  
The fray hath end, the Capilets  
do bring the brethles corce,  
Before the prince: and crave,  
that cruel deadly pain  
May be the guerdon of his fault,  
that hath their kinsman slain.  
The Montagewes do plead,  
their Romeus void of fault:  
The lookers on do say, the fight  
begun was by Tybalt.  
The prince doth pause, and then  
gives sentence in a while,  
That Romeus, for slaying him  
should gone into exile.  
His foes would have him hanged,  
or starve in prison strong:  
His friends do think (but dare not say)  
that Romeus hath wrong.  
Both households strait are charged  
on pain of losing life:  
Their bloody weapons laid aside,  
to cease the stirred strife.  
This common plague is spread,  
through all the town anon:  
From side to side the town is filled  
with mumur and with moan.  
For Tybalts hasty death,  
bewailed was of some,  
Both for his skill in feats of arms,  
and for in time to come:  
He should (had this not chanced)  
been rich, and of great power:  
To help his friends, and serve the state,  
which hope within an hour  
Was wasted quite, and he  
thus yielding up his breath,  
More than he holp the town in life,  
hath harmed it by his death.  
And other some bewail,  
(but ladies most of all)  
The lookeles lot by Fortune's guilt,  
that is so late befall,  
(Without his fault,) unto  
the silly Romeus,  
For whilst that he from native land  
shall live exiled thus.  
From heavenly beauties light,  
and his welshaped parts:  
The sight of which, was wont (fair dames)  
to glad your youthful hearts.  
Shall you be banished quite:  
and till he do retoorne  
What hope have you to joy?  
what hope to cease to mourn?  
This Romeus was borne  
so much in heavens grace  
Of Fortune, and of nature so  
beloved, that in his face  
(Beside the heavenly beauty  
glistering ay so bright:  
And seemly grace, that wonts so  
to glad the seers sight.)  
A certain charm was graved  
by natures secret art:  
That virtue had to draw to it,  
the love of many a heart.  
So every one doth wish,  
to bear a part of pain:  
That he released of exile,  
might strait return again.  
But how doth mourn among  
the mourners juliet?  
How doth she bathe her breast in tears?  
what deep sighs doth she fet?  
How doth she tear her hear?  
her weed how doth she rend?  
How fares the lover hearing of  
her lovers banishment?  
How wails she Libalts death,  
whom she had loved so well?  
Her hearty grief and piteous plaint,  
cunning I want to tell  
For delving deeply now  
in depth of deep despair:  
With wretched sorrows cruel sound  
she fills the empty air.  
And to the lowest hell,  
down falls her heavy cry,  
And up unto the heavens height  
her piteous plaint doth fly.  
The waters and the woods,  
of sighs and sobs resound:  
And from the hard resounding rocks  
her sorrows do rebound.  
Eke from her teary eyen,  
down rained many a shower:  
That in the garden where she walked  
might water herb and flower.  
But when at length she saw  
herself outraged so:  
Unto her chamber strait she hide  
there overcharged with wo.  
Upon her stately bed,  
her painful parts she threw:  
And in so wondrous wise began  
her sorrows to renew:  
That sure no heart so hard,  
(but it of flint had been:)  
But would have rude the piteous plaint  
that she did languish in.  
Then rapt out of herself,  
whilst she on every side  
Did cast her restless eye, at length  
the window she espied,  
Through which she had with joy  
seen Romeus many a time:  
Which oft the venturous knight was wont  
For Iuliets sake to climb.  
She cried O cursed window,  
a cursed be every pane,  
Through which (alas) to one I reached  
the cause of life and bane.  
If by thy mean I have  
some slight delight received,  
Or else such fading pleasure as  
by Fortune strait was reaved:  
Hast thou not made me pay  
a tribute rigorous?  
Of heaped grief, and lasting care:  
and sorrows dolorous?  
That these my tender parts,  
which needful strength do lack,  
To bear so great unwieldy load?  
upon so weak a back:  
Oppressed with weight of cares  
and with these sorrows rife:  
At length must open wide to death,  
the gates of loathed life.  
That so my weary spirit,  
may some where else unload  
His deadly load, and free from thrall  
may seek else where abroad:  
For pleasant quiet ease,  
and for assured rest,  
Which I as yet could never find,  
but for my more unrest.  
O Romeus, when first  
we both acquainted were,  
When to thy painted promises  
I lent my listening ear:  
Which to the brinks you filled  
with many a solemn oath,  
And I them judged empty of guile,  
and fraughted full of troth:  
I thought you rather would  
continue our good will,  
And seek t'appease our father's strife  
which daily groweth still.  
I little wend you would  
have sought occasion how  
By such an heinous act to break  
the peace, and eke your vow  
Whereby your bright renown,  
all whole yelipsed is,  
And I unhappy husbandless,  
of comfort robbed, and bliss.  
But if you did so much  
the blood of Capulets thirst,  
Why have you often spared mine?  
mine might have quenched it first.  
Since that so many times,  
and in so secret place  
(Where you were wont with vele of love  
to hide your hatreds face.)  
My doubtful life hath happed  
by fatal doom to stand,  
In mercy of your cruel heart,  
and of your bloody hand.  
What? seemed the conquest which  
you got of me, so small?  
What? seemed it not enough that I  
poor wretch, was made your thrall?  
But that you must increase  
it with that kinsman's blood,  
Which for his worth and love to me  
most in my favour stood?  
Well, go henceforth else where,  
and seek another while,  
Some other as unhappy as I,  
by flattery to beguile.  
And where I come, see that  
you shun to show your face:  
For your excuse within my heart  
shall find no resting place.  
And I that now too late  
my former fault repent:  
Will so the rest of weary life  
with many tears lament:  
That soon my ioyceles corpse,  
shall yield up banished breath,  
And where on earth it restless lived,  
in earth seek rest by death.  
These said, her tender heart,  
by pain oppressed sore:  
Restrained her tears, and forced her tongue  
to keep her talk in store.  
And then as still she was,  
as if in sound she lay:  
And then again, wroth with herself,  
with feeble voice 'gan say.  
Ah cruel murdering tongue,  
murderer of others fame:  
How dared thou once attempt to touch  
the honour of his name?  
Whose deadly foes do yield  
him dew and earned praise:  
For though his freedom be bereft,  
his honour not decays.  
Why blamst thou Romeus  
for slaying of Tybalt,  
Since he is guiltless guite of all,  
and Tybalt bears the fault?  
Whether shall he (alas)  
poor banished man now fly?  
What place of succour shall he seek  
beneath the starry sky?  
Since she pursueth him,  
and him defames by wrong:  
That in distress should be his fort,  
and only rampire strong.  
Receive the recompense,  
O Romeus of thy wife:  
Who for she was unkind herself,  
doth offer up her life.  
In flames of ire, in sighs,  
in sorrow and in ruth:  
So to revenge the crime she did  
commit against thy truth.  
These said, she could no more,  
her senses all 'gan fail:  
And deadly pangs began strait way  
her tender heart assail.  
Her limbs she stretched forth,  
she drew no more her breath,  
Who had been there, might well have seen  
the signs of present death.  
The nurse that knew no cause,  
why she absented her,  
Did doubt lest that some sudden grief  
too much tormented her.  
Each where but where she was  
the careful Beldame sought,  
Last, of the chamber where she lay,  
she haply her bethought.  
Where she with piteous eye,  
her nurse child did behold:  
Her limbs stretched out, her outward parts  
as any marble cold.  
The nurse supposed that she  
had paid to death her det:  
And then as she had lost her wits,  
she cried to juliet.  
Ah my dear heart (quoth she)  
how grieveth me thy death?  
Alas what cause hast thou thus soon,  
to yield up living breath?  
But while she handled her,  
and chafed every part,  
She knew there was some spark of life  
by beating of her heart.  
So that a thousand times  
she called upon her name,  
There is no way to help a trance,  
but she hath tried the same.  
She openeth wide her mouth,  
she stoppeth close her nose,  
She bendeth down her breast, she wrings  
her fingers and her toes.  
And on her bosom cold,  
she layeth clothes hot,  
A warmed and a wholesome juice  
she poureth down her throat.  
At length doth juliet,  
heave faintly up her eyes,  
And then she stretcheth forth her arm,  
and then her nurse she spies.  
But when she was awakde,  
from her unkindly trance:  
Why dost thou trouble me (quoth she)  
what drove thee (with mischance)  
To come to see my spirit,  
forsake my brethles corce?  
Go hence, and let me die, if thou  
have on my smart remorse.  
For who would see her friend  
to live in deadly pain?  
Alas, I see my grief begun,  
for ever will remain.  
Or who would seek to live,  
all pleasure being passed?  
My mirth is done, my morning moan  
for ay is like to last.  
Wherefore since that there is  
none other remedy,  
come gentle death, and rive my heart,  
at once, and let my dye.  
The nurse with tricling tears,  
to witness inward smart,  
With helow sigh fetched from the depth,  
of her appalled heart.  
Thus spoke to juliet,  
yelad with eugly care.  
Good lady mine, I do not know  
what makes you thus to far.  
Ne yet the cause of your  
unmeasurde heaviness.  
But of this one I you assure,  
for care and sorrows stress,  
This hour large and more,  
I thought (so god me save)  
That my dead corpse should wait on yours,  
to your untimely grave.  
Alas my tender nurse,  
and trusty friend (quoth she)  
Art thou so blind, that with thine eye,  
thou canst not easily see  
The lawful cause I have,  
to sorrow and to mourn,  
Since those the which I held most dear  
I have at once forlorn?  
Her nurse then answered thus.  
Me thinks it sits you ill,  
To fall in these extremities  
that may you guiltless spill.  
For when the storms of care,  
and troubles do arise,  
Then is the time for men to know,  
the foolish from the wise.  
You are accounted wise,  
a fool am I your nurse:  
But I see not how in like case  
I could be have me worse.  
Tibalt your friend is dead,  
what ween you by your tears,  
To call him back again? think you  
that he your crying hears?  
You shall perceive the fault,  
(if it be justly tried)  
Of his so sudden death, was in  
his rashness and his pride.  
Would you that Romeus,  
himself had wronged so,  
To suffer himself causeless to be  
outraged of his foe?  
To whom in no respect,  
he ought a place to give?  
Let it suffice to thee fair dame,  
that Romeus doth live.  
And that there is good hope  
that he within a while,  
With greater glory shallbe called  
home from his hard exile.  
How well yborn he is,  
thyself I know canst tell:  
By kindred strong, and well allied,  
of all beloved well.  
With patience arm thyself,  
for though that Fortune's crime  
Without your fault, to both your griefs  
depart you for a time.  
I dare say for amends  
of all your present pain  
She will restore your own to you,  
within a month or twain.  
With such contented ease,  
as never erst you had:  
Wherefore rejoice a while in hope,  
and be ne more so sad.  
And that I may discharge  
your heart of heavy care:  
A certain way I have found out,  
my pains ne will I spare.  
To learn his present state,  
and what in time to come  
He minds to do, which known by me,  
you shall know all and some.  
But that I dread the whilst  
your sorrows will you quell,  
Strait would I high where he doth lurk  
to friar Laurence cell.  
But if you begin eftsoons  
(as erst you did) to moorre  
Whereto go I, you will be dead  
before I thence retoorne.  
So I shall spend in waist,  
my time, and busy pain,  
So unto you (your life once lost)  
good answer comes in vain.  
So shall I rid myself  
with this sharp pointed knife:  
So shall you cause your parents dear  
wax weary of their life.  
So shall your Romeus,  
(despising lively breath,)  
With hasty foot (before his time)  
run to untimely death.  
Where if you can a while,  
by reason, rage suppress,  
I hope at my return to bring  
the salve of your distress.  
Now choose to have me here  
a partner of your pain,  
Or promosse me, to feed on hope,  
till I return again.  
Her mistress sends her forth,  
and makes a grave behest,  
With reason's rain to rule the thoughts  
that rage within her breast.  
When hugy heaps of harms,  
are heapd before her eyes,  
Then vanish they by hope of escape,  
and thus the lady lies,  
Twixt well assured trust.  
and doubtful lewd despair,  
Now black and ugly be her thoughts:  
now seem they white and fair.  
As oft in summer tide,  
black clouds do dim the son,  
And strait again in clearest sky  
his restless steeds do run,  
So Iuliets wandering mind  
yclowded is with woe,  
And by and by her hasty thought  
the woes doth overgo.  
But now is time to tell  
whilst she was tossed thus  
What winds did drive or haven did hold  
her lover, lover Romeus  
When he had slain his foe,  
that 'gan this deadly strife,  
And saw the furious fray had end,  
by ending Tybalts life:  
He fled the sharp revenge  
of those that yet did live,  
And doubting much what penal doom  
the troubled prince might give,  
He sought some where unseen,  
to lurk a little space,  
And trusty Laurence secret cell,  
he thought the surest place.  
In doubtful hap ay best,  
a trusty friend is tried,  
The friendly friar in this distress,  
doth grant his friend to hide.  
A secret place he hath,  
well seeled round about,  
The mouth of which, so close is shut,  
that none may find it out.  
Both room there is to walk,  
and place to sit and rest,  
Beside, a bed to sleep upon,  
full soft and trimly dressed.  
The flower is planked so  
with mats, it is so warm.  
That neither wind, nor smoky damps  
have power him aught to harm.  
Where he was wont in youth,  
his fair friends to bestow,  
There now he hideth Romeus  
whilst forth he goeth to know  
Both what is said and done,  
and what appointed pain,  
Is published by trumpets sound.  
then home he hies again.  
By this, unto his cell,  
the nurse with speedy pace:  
Was co●●●e the nearest way: she sought,  
no idle resting place.  
The friar sent home the news  
of Romeus certain health:  
And promise made (what so befell)  
he should that night by stealth  
come to his wont place  
that they in needful wise  
Of their affairs in time to come,  
might thoroughly devise.  
Those joyful news, the nurse  
brought home with merry joy:  
And now our juliet joys, to think,  
she shall her love enjoy.  
The friar shuts fast his door,  
and then to him beneath.  
That waits to hear the doubtful news  
of life or else of death:  
Thy hap quoth he, is good,  
danger of death is none:  
But thou shalt live, and do full well,  
in spite of spiteful fone.  
This only pain for thee  
was erst proclaimed aloud,  
A banished man, thou mayst thee not  
within Verona shroud.  
These heavy tidings heard,  
his golden locks he tore:  
And like a frantic man hath torn  
the garments that he ware.  
And as the smitten dear,  
in brakes is weltering found:  
So waltreth he, and with his breast  
doth beat the trodden ground.  
He riseth eft, and strikes  
his head against the walls,  
He falleth down again, and loud  
for hasty death be calls.  
Come speedy death (quoth he)  
the readiest leech in love,  
Since nought can else beneath the sun  
the ground of grief remove.  
Of loathsome life break down  
the hated staggering stays,  
Destroy, destroy at once the life  
that faintly yet decays.  
But you (fair dame) in whom  
dame nature did devise,:  
With cunning hand to work, that might  
seem wondrous in our eyes:  
For you I pray the Gods,  
your pleasures to increase,  
And all mishap, with this my death,  
for evermore to cease.  
And mighty jove with speed,  
of justice bring them low,  
Whose lofty pride (without our guilt)  
our bliss doth overblow.  
And Cupid grant to those  
their speedy wrongs redress,  
That shall bewail my cruel death,  
and pity her distress.  
Therewith, a cloud of sighs,  
he breathed into the skies:  
And two great streams of bitter tears,  
ran from his swollen eyes.  
These things, the ancient friar,  
with sorrow saw, and heard,  
Of such beginning eke, the end,  
the wise man greatly feared.  
But lo, he was so weak,  
by reason of his age,  
That he ne could by force, repress  
the rigour of his rage.  
His wise and friendly words,  
he speaketh to the air:  
For Romeus so vexed is,  
with care and with despair,  
That no advise can pierce,  
his close forstopped ears:  
So now the friar doth take his part,  
in shedding ruthful tears.  
With colour pale, and wan,  
with arms full hard yfold,  
With woeful cheer, his wailing friend,  
he standeth to behold.  
And then, our Romeus.  
with tender hands ywrong:  
With voice, with plaint made hoarse, with sobs,  
and with a faltering tongue.  
Renewed with novel moan  
the dolours of his heart,  
His outward dreary cheer bewrayed,  
his store of inward smart.  
first, nature did he blame,  
the author of his life,  
In which his joys had been so scant,  
and sorrows aye so rife:  
The time and place of birth,  
he fiercely did reprove,  
He cried out (with open mouth)  
against the stars above:  
The ●●tall sisters three,  
he said, had done him wrong,  
The thread that should not have been spun  
they had drawn forth too long.  
He wished that he had  
before this time been borne,  
Or that as soon as he won light,  
his life he had forlorn.  
His nurse he cursed, and  
the hand that gave him pap,  
The midwife eke with tender gripe  
that held him in her lap:  
And then did he complain,  
on Venus' cruel son  
Who led him first unto the rocks,  
which he should warily shun.  
By mean whereof he lost,  
both life and liberty,  
And died a hundred times a day,  
and yet could never die.  
loves troubles lasten long,  
the joys he gives are short:  
He forceth not a lovers pain,  
their earnest is his sport.  
A thousand things and more,  
I here let pass to write,  
Which unto love this woeful man,  
did speak in great despite.  
On Fortune eke he raylde,  
he called her deaf, and blind,  
Vinconstant, fond, deceitful rash,  
unruthfull, and unkind.  
And to himself he laid  
a great part of the fault:  
For that he slew, and was not slain,  
in fight with Tibalt.  
He blamed all the world,  
and all he did defy  
But juliet, for whom he lived,  
for whom eke would he die.  
When after raging fits,  
appeased was his rage,  
And when his passions (powered forth)  
'gan partly to assuage.  
So wisely did the friar,  
unto his tale reply,  
That he strait cared for his life,  
that erst had care to die.  
Art thou quoth he a man?  
Thy shape saith so thou art:  
Thy crying and thy weeping eyes,  
denote a woman's heart.  
For manly reason is  
quite from of thy mind outchased,  
And in her stead affections lewd,  
and fancies highly placed.  
So that, I stood in doubt  
this hour (at the least)  
If thou a man, or woman wert,  
or else a brutish beast.  
A wise man in the midst  
of troubles and distress,  
Still stands not wailing present harm,  
but seeks his harms redress,  
As when the winter flaws,  
with dreadful noise arise,  
And heave the foamy swelling waves  
up to the starry skies,  
So that the bruised bark  
in cruel seas betossed,  
despaireth of the happy haven  
in danger to be lost.  
The pilate bold at helm,  
cries, mates strike now your sail:  
And tornes her stem into the waves,  
that strongly her assail.  
Then driven hard upon  
the bare and wrackful shore,  
In greater danger to be wrecked,  
than he had been before.  
He seeth his ship full right  
against the rock to run,  
But yet he doth what lieth in him  
the perilous rock to shun.  
Sometimes the beaten boat,  
by cunning government,  
The anchors lost, the cables broke,  
and all the tackle spent.  
The roder smitten of,  
and over board the mast,  
Doth win the long desired port,  
the stormy danger past.  
But if the master dread,  
and overpressed with woe,  
Begin to wring his hands, and lets  
the guiding rodder go  
The ship rends on the rock,  
or sinketh in the deep,  
And eke the coward drenched is,  
So: if thou still be weep  
And seek not how to help  
the changes that do chance,  
Thy cause of sorrow shall increase,  
thou cause of thy mischance.  
Other account thee wise,  
prove not thyself a fool,  
Now put in practice lessons learned,  
of old in wisdoms school,  
The wise man saith, beware  
thou double not thy pain:  
For one perhaps thou mayst abide,  
but hardly suffer twain.  
As well we ought to seek  
things hurtful to decrease,  
As to endeavour helping things  
by study to increase.  
The praise of true freedom,  
in wisdoms bondage lies  
He winneth blame whose deeds be fond,  
although his words be wise.  
Sickness the body's jail,  
grief, jail is of the mind,  
If thou canst scape from heavy grief,  
true freedom shalt thou find.  
Fortune can fill nothing,  
so full of hearty grief,  
But in the same a constant mind,  
Finds solace and relief,  
Virtue is always thrall,  
to troubles and annoy,  
But wisdom in adversity,  
finds cause of quiet joy.  
And they most wretched are,  
that know no wretchedness:  
And after great extremity,  
mishaps ay waxed less.  
Like as there is no weal,  
but wastes away sometime,  
So every kind of wailed woe,  
will wear away in time.  
If thou wilt master quite,  
the troubles that the spill,  
Endeavour first by reasons help,  
to master witless will.  
A sundry medson hath,  
each sundry faint disease,  
But patience, a common salve,  
to every wound gives ease.  
The world is always full  
of chances and of change,  
Wherefore the change of chance must not  
seem to a wise man strange.  
For tickel Fortune doth,  
in changing but her kind:  
But all her changes cannot change,  
a steady constant mind.  
Though wavering Fortune toorne  
from thee her smile face,  
And sorrow seek to set himself,  
in banished pleasures place,  
Yet may thy marred state,  
be mended in a while,  
And she eftsoons that frowneth now,  
with pleasant cheer shall smile.  
For as her happy state,  
no long while standeth sure,  
Even so the heavy plight she brings,  
not always doth endure.  
What need so many words,  
to thee that art so wise?  
Thou better canst advise thyself,  
than I can thee advise.  
Wisdom I see is vain,  
if thus in time of need,  
A wise man's wit unpractised,  
doth stand him in no steed.  
I know thou hast some cause,  
of sorrow and of care:  
But well I wots thou hast no cause  
thus frantikly to far.  
Affections foggy mist,  
thy feebled sight doth blind,  
But if that reasons beams again,  
might shine into thy mind:  
If thou wouldst view thy state  
with an indifferent eye,  
I think thou wouldst condemn thy plaint,  
thy sighing and thy cry.  
With valiant hand thou madest  
thy foe yield up his breath,  
Thou hast escapd his sword, and eke  
the laws that threaten death.  
By thy escape, thy friends,  
are fraughted full of joy,  
And by his death thy deadly foes  
are laden with annoy  
Wilt thou with trusty friends,  
of pleasure take some part?  
Or else to please thy hateful foes,  
be partner of their smart?  
Why criest thou out on love,  
why dost thou blame thy fate?  
Why dost thou so cry after death?  
thy life why dost thou hate?  
Dost thou repent the choice.  
that thou so late didst choose?  
Love is thy Lord, thou oughtest obey,  
and not thy prince accuse.  
For thou hast found (thou know'st)  
great favour in his sight:  
He granted thee at thy request,  
thy only hearts delight:  
So that the Gods envied  
the bliss thou livedst in,  
To give to such unthankful men,  
is folly and a sin.  
He thinks I hear thee say  
the cruel banishment,  
Is only cause of thy unrest,  
only thou dost lament,  
That from thy native land,  
and friends thou must departed,  
Enforsd to fly from her that hath  
the keeping of thy heart.  
And so oppressed with weight  
of smart that thou dost feel,  
Thou dost complain of Cupid's brand,  
and Fortunes turning wheel.  
Unto a valiant heart,  
there is no banishment,  
All countries are his native soil  
beneath the firmament.  
As to the fish, the sea:  
as to the fowl, the air:  
So is like pleasant to the wise,  
each place of his repair.  
Though froward Fortune chase  
thee hence into exile:  
With doubled honour shall she call  
thee home within a while.  
Admit thou shouldst abide  
abroad a year or twain:  
Should so short absence cause so long,  
and eke so grievous pain?  
Though thou ne master thy friends,  
here in Verona see,  
They are not banished Mantua,  
where safely thou must be.  
Thither they may resort,  
though thou resort not hither,  
And there in surety may you talk,  
of your affairs together.  
Yea, but this while (alas)  
thy juliet must thou miss,  
The only pillar of thy health,  
and anchor of thy bliss.  
Thy heart thou leavest with her,  
when thou dost hence departed:  
And in thy breast enclosed bear'st,  
her tender friendly heart.  
But if thou rue so much,  
to leave the rest behind,  
With thought of passed joys, content  
thy uncontented mind.  
So shall the moan decrease,  
wherewith thy mind doth melt,  
Compared to the heavenly joys  
which thou hast often felt.  
He is too nice a weakling,  
that shrinketh at a shower,  
And he unworthy of the sweet,  
that tasteth not the sour.  
Call now again to mind,  
thy first consuming flame,  
How didst thou vainly burn in love  
of an unloving dame.  
Hadst thou not well-nigh wept,  
quite out thy swelling eyen:  
Did not thy parts fordoon with pain,  
languish away and pine?  
Those griefs and others like,  
were haply overpast:  
And thou in height of Fortune's wheel,  
well placed at the last:  
From whence thou art now fallen,  
that raised up again,  
With greater joy a greater while  
in pleasure mayst thou reign.  
Compare the present while,  
with times ypast before,  
And think that Fortune hath for thee,  
great pleasure yet in store.  
The whilst, this little wrong,  
receive thou patiently,  
And what of force must needs be done,  
that do thou willingly.  
Foly it is to fear  
that thou canst not avoid  
And madness to desire it much,  
that can not be enjoyed.  
To give to Fortune place,  
not ay deserveth blame:  
But skill it is, according to  
the times, thyself to frame.  
Whilst to this skilful lore;  
he lent his listening ears:  
His sighs are stopped, and stopped are  
the conduits of his tears.  
As blackest clouds are chased,  
by winter's nimble wind:  
So have his reasons chased care,  
out of his careful mind.  
As of a morning fowl,  
ensues an evening fair:  
So banished hope returneth home,  
to banish his despair.  
Now is affection's veal,  
removed from his eyes.  
He seeth the path that he must walk,  
and reason makes him wise.  
For very shame, the blood  
doth flash in both his cheeks:  
He thanks the father for his lore,  
and farther aid he seeks.  
He saith that skills youth,  
for counsel is unfit,  
And anger oft with hastiness  
are joined to want of wit.  
But sound advise abounds  
in heads with horishe hears:  
For wisdom is by practice won,  
and perfect made by years.  
But aye from this time forth,  
his ready bending will:  
Shallbe in awe, and governed,  
by friar Laurence skill.  
The governor is now,  
right careful of his charge:  
To whom he doth wisely discoorse,  
of his affairs at large.  
He tells him how he shall,  
depart the town unknown,  
Both mindful of his friends safety,  
and careful of his own.  
How he shall guide himself,  
how he shall seek to win,  
The friendship of the better sort,  
how warily to creep in  
The favour of the Mantuan prince:  
and how he may  
Appease the wrath of Escalus:  
and wipe the fault away.  
The choler of his foes,  
by gentle means tasswage:  
Or else by force and practices,  
to bridle quite their rage.  
And last he chargeth him,  
at his appointed hour,  
To go with manly merry cheer,  
unto his lady's bower.  
And there with hole some words,  
to salve her sorrows smart:  
And to revive, (if need require,  
her faint and dying heart.  
The old man's words have filled  
with joy, our Romeus breast:  
And eke the old wives talk, hath set  
our Iuliets heart at rest.  
Whereto may I compare,  
(O lovers) this your day?  
Like days the painful mariners,  
are wonted to assay.  
For beat with tempest great,  
when they at length, espy  
Some little beam of Phoebus' light,  
that pierceth through the sky,  
To clear the shadowde earth,  
by clearness of his face:  
They hope that dreadless, they shall run  
the remnant of their race.  
Yea, they assure themself:  
and quite behind their back,  
They cast all doubt, and thank the Gods  
for scraping of the wrack.  
But strait the boisterous winds,  
with greater fury blow,  
And over board the broken mast.  
the stormy blasts do throw.  
The heavens large, are clad  
with clouds, as dark as hell:  
And twice as high, the striving waves  
begin to roar, and swell.  
With greater dangers dread,  
the men are vexed more:  
In greater peril of their life,  
than they had been before.  
The golden son, was gone  
to lodge him in the west:  
The full moon eke in yonder South,  
had sent most men to rest:  
When restless Romeus,  
and restless juliet,  
In wonted sort, by wonted mean,  
in Iuliets chamber met.  
And from the windows top,  
down had he leapt scarce,  
When she with arms outstretched wide,  
so hard did him embrace,  
That well-nigh had the spirit  
(not forced by deadly force)  
Flown unto death, before the time  
abandoning the corce.  
Thus mute stood they both,  
the eight part of an hour  
And both would speak, but neither had  
of speaking any power.  
But on his breast her head  
doth joyless juliet lay,  
And on her slender neck, his chin  
doth ruthful Romeus stay.  
Their scalding sighs ascend,  
and by their cheeks dowue fall,  
Their trickling tears, as crystal clear,  
but bitterer far than gall.  
Then he to end the grief,  
which both they lived in,  
Did kiss his love, and wisely thus  
his tale he did begin.  
My juliet, my love,  
my only hope and care:  
To you I purpose not as now,  
with length of words declare,  
The diversenes, and eke  
the accidents so strange,  
Of frail unconstant Fortune, that  
delighteth still in change.  
Who in a moment heaves  
her friends up to the height,  
Of her swift turning slippery wheel,  
then fleets her friendship strait,  
O wondrous change, even with  
the twinkling of an eye,  
Whom erst herself had rashly set,  
in pleasant place so high?  
The same in great despite,  
down headlong doth she throw:  
And while she treads and spurneth at  
the lofty state laid low,  
More sorrow doth she shape  
within an hours space,  
Then pleasure in an hundred years:  
so geyson is her grace.  
The proof whereof in me  
(alas) too plain appears,  
Whom tenderly my careful friends  
have fostered with my fears,  
In prosperous high degree:  
maintained so by fate,  
That (as yourself did see) my foes  
envied my noble state.  
One thing there was, I did  
above the rest desire,  
To which, as to the sovereign good,  
by hope I would aspire:  
Thol by our marriage mean,  
we might within a while,  
(To work our perfect happiness)  
our parent's reconcile.  
That safely so we might  
(not stopped by sturdy strife)  
Unto the bounds that God hath set,  
guide forth our pleasant life.  
But now (alack) too soon  
my bliss is overblown,  
And upside down my purpose and  
my enterprise are thrown,  
And driven from my friends,  
of strangers must I crave,  
(O grant it God) from dangers dread,  
that I may surety have.  
For lo, henceforth I must,  
wander in lands unknown:  
(So hard I find the prince's doom,)  
exiled from mine own.  
Which thing I have thought good,  
to set before your eyes:  
And to exhort you, now to prove  
yourself a woman wise.  
That patiently, you bear  
my absent long abode.  
For, what above by fatal dooms  
decreed is that God,  
And more than this, to say  
it seemed he was bend,  
But juliet, in deadly grief,  
with brackish tears besprent,  
Broke of his tale begun,  
and whilst his speech he stayed,  
These self same words, or like to these,  
with dreary cheer she said.  
Why Romeus, can it be,  
thou hast so hard a heart?  
So far removed from ruth? so far  
from thinking on my smart?  
To leave me thus alone?  
(thou cause of my distress)  
besieged with so great a camp,  
of mortal wretchedness,  
That every hour now,  
and moment in a day,  
A thousand times, death brags, as he  
would reave my life away.  
Yet such is my mishap,  
(O cruel destiny)  
That still I live, and wish for death,  
but yet can never die.  
So that just cause I have,  
to think (as seemeth me)  
That froward Fortune did of late,  
with cruel death agree  
To lengthen loathed life,  
to pleasure in my pain,  
And triumph in my harm, as in  
the greatest hoped gain.  
And thou the instrument  
of Fortune's cruel will,  
Without whose aid she can no way,  
her tyrants lust fulfil:  
Art not a whit ashamed,  
(as far as I can see)  
To cast me of, when thou hast could  
the better part of me.  
Whereby (alas) to soon,  
I silly wretch do prove,  
That all the ancient sacred laws,  
of friendship and of love,  
Are quelled and quenched quite.  
since he on whom always,  
My chief hope, and my steady trust,  
was wonted still to stay,  
For whom I am become,  
unto myself a foe:  
disdaineth me his steadfast friend,  
and scorns my friendship so.  
Nay Romeus, nay, thou mayst  
of two things choose the one:  
Either to see thy castaway  
as soon as thou art gone,  
Headlong to throw herself  
down from the windows height,  
And so to break her siender neck,  
with all the body's weight.  
Or suffer her to be  
companion of thy pain,  
Where so thou go (Fortune thee guide)  
till thou retoorne again.  
So wholly into thine,  
transformed is my heart,  
That even as oft as I do think  
that thou and I shall part:  
So oft (me thinks) my life  
withdraws itself away,  
Which I retain, to no end else,  
but to the end I may  
In spite of all thy foes,  
thy present parts enjoy,  
And in distress to bear with thee,  
the half of thine annoy.  
Wherefore in humble sort  
(Romeus) I make request,  
If ever tender pity yet,  
were lodged in gentle breast,  
O let it now have place,  
to rest within thy heart,  
Receive me as thy servant, and  
the fellow of thy smart.  
Thy absence is my death,  
thy sight shall give me life.  
But if perhaps thou stand in dread,  
to lead me as a wife,  
Art thou all counsellesse,  
canst thou no shift devise?  
What letteth, but in other weed  
I may myself disguise.  
What, shall I he the first?  
hath none done so ere this?  
To scape the bondage of their friends?  
thyself can answer yes.  
Or dost thou stand in doubt,  
that I thy wife ne can,  
By service pleasure thee as much,  
as may thy hired man?  
Or is my loyalty  
of both accounted less?  
Perhaps thou fearest lest I for gain,  
forsake thee in distress.  
What, hath my beauty now,  
no power at all on you?  
Whose brightness, force, and praise sometime,  
up to the skies you blew?  
My tears, my friendship, and  
my pleasures done of old:  
Shall they be quite forgot in deed?  
when Romeus did behold  
The wildness of her look,  
her cooler pale and dead,  
The worst of all that might betide  
to her, he 'gan to dread.  
And once again he did  
in arms his juliet take:  
And kissed her with a loving kiss,  
And thus to her he spoke.  
Ah juliet (quoth he)  
the mistress of my heart,  
For whom (even now) thy servant doth  
abide in deadly smart,  
Even for the happy days  
which thou desirest to see,  
And for the fervent friendships sake  
that thou dost owe to me:  
At once these fancies vain,  
out of thy mind root out,  
Except perhaps unto thy blame,  
thou fond go about  
To hasten forth my death,  
and to thine own to run:  
Which Natures law, and wisdoms lore  
teach every wight to shun.  
For, but thou change thy mind,  
(I do foretell the end)  
Thou shalt undo thyself for ay,  
and me thy trusty friend.  
For why, thy absence known,  
thy father willbe wroth,  
And in his rage, so narrowly  
he will pursue us both:  
That we shall try in vain,  
to scape away by flight,  
And vainly seek a loorking place,  
to hide us from his sight.  
Then we found out, and caught,  
quite void of strong defence  
Shall cruelly be punished,  
for thy departure hence.  
I, as a ravishor,  
thou, as a careless child,  
I, as a man who doth defile,  
thou, as a maid defiled.  
Thinking to lead in ease,  
a long contented life,  
Shall short our days by shameful death.  
but (if my loving wife)  
Thou banish from thy mind,  
two foes that counsel hath:  
(That wont to hinder sound advise)  
rash hastiness, and wrath:  
If thou be bend to bay  
the lore of reason's skill,  
And wisely by her princely power  
suppress rebelling will:  
If thou our safety seek,  
more than thine own delight,  
Since surety stands in parting, and  
thy pleasures grow of sight:  
For hear the cause of joy,  
and suffer for a while,  
So shall I safely live abroad,  
and safe torn from exile.  
So shall no slanders blot,  
thy spotless life distain,  
So shall thy kinsmen be unstyrd,  
and I exempt from pain.  
And think thou not that aye,  
the cause of care shall last,  
These stormy broils shall overblow,  
much like a winter's blast.  
For Fortune changeth more,  
than fickel fantasy,  
In nothing Fortune constant is,  
save in unconstancy.  
Her hasty running wheel,  
is of a restless course,  
That turns the clymers headlong down,  
from better to the worse.  
And those that are beneath,  
she heaveth up again,  
So we shall rise to pleasures mount,  
out of the pit of pain.  
Ere four months overpass,  
such order will I take,  
And by my letters, and my friends,  
such means I mind to make,  
That of my wandering race,  
ended shallbe the roil,  
And I called home with honour great,  
unto my native soil.  
But if I be condemned  
to wander still in thrall,  
I will return to you (mine own)  
befall what may befall.  
And then by strength of friends,  
and with a mighty hand,  
From Verone will I carry thee,  
into a foreign land.  
Not in man's weed disguised,  
or as one scarcely known,  
But as my wife and only fear,  
in garment of thine own.  
Wherefore repress at once,  
the passions of thy heart,  
And where there is no cause of grief,  
cause hope to heal thy smart.  
For of this one thing thou  
mayst well assured be:  
That nothing else but only death  
shall sunder me from thee.  
The reasons that he made,  
did seem of so great weight,  
And had with her such force: that she  
to him 'gan answer strait.  
Dear sir, nought else wish I,  
but to obey your will:  
But sure where so you go, your heart  
with me shall tarry still,  
As sign and certain pledge,  
till here I shall you see:  
Of all the power that over you  
yourself did grant to me.  
And in hip stead take mine,  
the gage of my good will:  
One promise crave I at your hand,  
that grant me to fulfil.  
Fail not to let me have  
at friar Laurence hand,  
The tidings of your health, and how  
your doubtful case shall stand.  
And all the weary while  
that you shall spend abroad:  
Cause me from time to time to know  
the place of your abode.  
His eyes did gush out tears,  
a sigh broke from his breast,  
When he did grant, and with an oath  
did vow to keep the hest.  
Thus these two lovers pass  
away the weary night,  
In pain and plaint, not (as they wonted)  
in pleasure and delight.  
But now (somewhat too soon)  
in farthest East arose  
Fair Lucifer, the golden star,  
that Lady Venus chose.  
Whose course appointed is,  
with speedy race to run,  
A messenger of dawning day,  
and of the rising son.  
Then fresh Aurora, with  
her pay and silver glade  
Did clear the skies, and from the earth,  
had chased ugly shade.  
When thou ne lookest wide,  
ne closely dost thou wink,  
When Phoebus from our hemisphere,  
in western wave doth sink.  
What cooler then the heavens  
do show unto thine eyes:  
The same, (or like) saw Romeus  
in farthest Eastern skies.  
As yet, he saw no day:  
ne could he call it night,  
With equal force, decreasing dark,  
fought with increasing light.  
Then Romeus in arms  
his lady 'gan to fold,  
With friendly kiss and ruthfully  
she 'gan her knight behold.  
With solemn oath they both▪  
their sorrowful leave do take,  
They swear no stormy troubles shall  
their steady friendship shake.  
Then careful Romeus,  
again to cell retoornes,  
And in her chamber secretly  
our joyless juliet moornes.  
Now hugycloudes of care,  
of sorrow and of dread,  
The clearness of their gladsome hearts  
hath wholly overspread.  
When golden crested Phoebus  
boasteth him in sky,  
And under earth, to scape revenge,  
his deadly foe doth fly:  
Then hath these lovers day  
an end, their night begun,  
For each of them to other is,  
as to the world, the sun.  
The dawning they shall see,  
ne summer any more,  
But blackfaced night with winter rough,  
(ah) beaten over sore.  
The weary watch discharged,  
did high them home to sleep,  
The warders, and the scouts were charged▪  
their place and course to keep.  
And Verone gates a wide,  
the porters had set open,  
When Romeus had of his affairs  
with friar Laurence spoken:  
Warily he walked forth,  
unknown of friend or foe:  
Clad like a merchant venterer,  
from top even to the toe.  
He spurred apace and came  
withouten stop or stay,  
To Mantua gates, where lighted down,  
he sent his man away.  
With words of comfort, to  
his old afflicted fire:  
And strait in mind to sojourn there,  
a lodging doth he hire.  
And with the nobler sort  
he doth himself acquaint,  
And of his open wrong received,  
the Duke doth hear his plaint.  
He practiseth by friends,  
for pardon of ●●yle,  
The whilst, he seeketh every way,  
his sorrows to beguile.  
But who forgets the coal  
that burneth in his breast?  
Alas his cares, deny his heart,  
the sweet desired rest.  
No time finds he of mirth,  
he finds no place of joy,  
But every thing occasion gives,  
of sorrow and annoy.  
For when in toorning skies,  
the heavens lamps are light,  
And from the other hemisphere,  
fair Phoebus chaseth night,  
When every man and beast,  
hath rest from painful toil,  
Then in the breast of Romeus,  
his passions begin to boil.  
Then doth he wet with tears,  
the couch whereon he lies,  
And then his sighs the chamber fill,  
and out aloud he cries  
Against the restless stars,  
in rolling skies that range,  
Against the fatal sisters three,  
and Fortune full of change.  
Each night a thousand times  
he calleth for the day,  
He thinketh Titan's restless steeds,  
of restines do stay.  
Or that at length they have  
some raising place found out,  
Or (guided ill) have lost their way  
and wandered far about.  
While thus in idle thoughts,  
the weary time he spendeth,  
The night hath end, but not with night▪  
the plaint of night be endeth.  
Is he accompanied,  
is he in place alone?  
In company he wails his harm,  
a part be maketh moan.  
For if his fears rejoice,  
what cause hath he to joy,  
That wanteth still his chief delight,  
while they their loves enjoy▪  
But if with heavy cheer,  
they show their inward grief,  
He waileth most his wretchedness,  
that is of wretches chief.  
When he doth hear abroad,  
the praise of ladies blown.  
Within his thought he scorneth them  
and doth prefer his own.  
When pleasant songs he bears  
When others do rejoice  
The melody of Music doth  
stir up his mourning voice.  
But if in secret place  
he walk some where alone,  
The place itself, and secretness  
redoubleth all his moan.  
Then speaks he to the beasts  
to feathered fowls, and trees,  
Unto the earth, the clouds, and to  
what so beside he sees.  
To them he showeth his smart,  
as though they reason had,  
Each thing may cause his heaviness▪  
but nought may make him glad.  
And (weary of the day)  
again he calleth night,  
The sun he curseth, and the hour,  
when first his eyes saw light.  
And as the night, and day,  
their course do interchange:  
So doth our Romeus nightly cares,  
for cares of day exchange.  
In absence of her knight,  
the lady no way could  
Keep true between her griefs and her,  
though near so fain she would.  
And though with greater pain  
she cloaked sorrows smart:  
Yet did her paled face disclose  
the passions of her heart.  
Her sighing every hour,  
her weeping every where,  
Her reckless heed of meat, of sleep,  
and wearing of her gear:  
The careful mother marks.  
then of her health afraid,  
Because the griefs increased still.  
thus to her child she said.  
Dear daughter, if you should  
long languish in this sort,  
I stand in doubt that over soon  
your sorrows▪ will make short  
Your loving father's life,  
and mine, that love you more  
Than our own proper breath, and life.  
Brydel hence forth therefore  
Your grief, and pain yourself  
on joy your thought to set,  
For time it is that now you should  
our Tybalts death forget.  
Of whom, since God hath claimed  
the life, that was but lent,  
He is in bliss, ne is there cause  
why you should thus lament▪  
You can not call him back  
with tears, and shrikinges shrill:  
It is a fault thus still to grudge  
at Gods appointed will.  
The silly soul had now  
no longer power to feign,  
Ne longer could she hide her harm:  
but answered thus again.  
With heavy broken sighs,  
with visage pale and dead  
Madam, the last of Tybalts tears,  
a great while since I shed.  
Whose spring hath been ere this  
so jaded out by me,  
That empty quite, and moystureles,  
I guess it now to be.  
So that my pained heart  
by canduites of the eyen,  
No more henceforth (as wont it was)  
shall gush forth dropping brine.  
The woeful mother knew  
not, what her daughter meant,  
And loath to vex her child by words,  
her peace she warily hent.  
But when from hour to hour,  
from morrow to the morrow,  
Still more and more she saw increased  
her daughter's wont sorrow.  
All means she sought of her,  
and household folk, to know  
The certain root, whereon her grief,  
and bootless moan doth grow.  
But lo, she hath in vain,  
her time, and labour lore,  
Wherefore without all measure, is  
her heart tormented sore.  
And sith herself could not  
find out the cause of care:  
She thought it good to tell the sire,  
how ill his child did far.  
And when she saw her time,  
thus to her fear she said:  
Sir, if you mark our daughter well,  
the countenance of the maid,  
And how she fareth, since  
that Tybalt unto death,  
(Before his time, forced by his foe)  
did yield his living breath.  
Her face shall seem so changed,  
her doings eke so strange,  
That you will greatly wonder at,  
so great and sudden change.  
Not only she forbears,  
her meat, her drink, and sleep,  
But now she tendeth nothing else  
but to lament and weep.  
No greater joy hath she,  
nothing contents her heart  
So much, as in her chamber, close  
to shut herself apart.  
Where she doth so torment  
her poor afflicted mind,  
That much in danger stands her life,  
except some help we find.  
But (out alas) I see not  
how it may be found:  
Unless that first, we might find, whence  
her sorrows thus abound.  
For though with busy care,  
I have employed my wit,  
And used all the ways I knew,  
to learn the truth of it:  
Neither extremity,  
ne gentle means could boot.  
She hideth close within her breast,  
her secret sorrows root.  
This was my first conceit,  
that all her ruth arose  
Out of her coofin Tybalts death,  
late slain of deadly foes.  
But now my heart doth hold  
a new repugnant thought,  
Some greater thing, not Tybalts death  
this change in her hath wrought.  
Herself assured me,  
that many days a go,  
She shed the last of Tybalts tears,  
which word amald me so,  
That I than could not guess  
what thing else might her green,  
But now at length I have bethought  
me. And I do believe  
The only crop and root  
of all my daughter's pain,  
Is grudging envies faint disease,  
perhaps she doth disdain  
To see in wedlock yoke  
the most part of her fears,  
Whilst only she unmarried,  
doth lose so many years.  
And more perchance she thinks  
you mind to keep her so,  
Wherefore despairing doth she wear  
herself away with woe.  
Therefore (dear sir) in time,  
take on your daughter ruth,  
For why, a brickle thing is glass,  
and frail is frayllesse youth.  
join her at once to some,  
in link of marriage,  
That may be meet for our degree,  
and much about her age.  
So shall you banish care  
out of your daughter's breast:  
So we her parents in our age,  
shall live in quiet rest.  
Whereto 'gan easily  
her husband to agree,  
And to the mother's skilful talk,  
thus strait way answered he.  
Oft have I thought (dear wife)  
of all these things ere this,  
But evermore my mind me gave,  
it should not be amiss,  
By farther leisure had,  
a husband to provide,  
Scarce saw she yet full xvi years:  
too young to be a bride.  
But since her state doth stand  
on terms so perilous,  
And that a maiden daughter is  
a treasure dangerous:  
With so great speed I will  
endeavour to procure  
A husband for our daughter young,  
her sickness faint to cure.  
That you shall rest content,  
(so warily will I choose)  
And she recover soon enough  
the time she seems to lose.  
The whilst, seek you to learn,  
if she in any part,  
Already hath (unware to us)  
fixed her friendly heart.  
Lest we have more respect  
to honour and to wealth,  
Then to our daughters quiet life,  
and to her happy health.  
Whom I do hold as dear,  
as thapple of mine eye,  
And rather with in poor estate,  
and daughterles to die:  
Then leave my goods and her  
ythrald to such a one,  
Whose chorlish dealing (I once dead)  
should be her cause of moan.  
This pleasant answer heard,  
the lady parts again.  
And Capilet the maidens sire,  
within a day or twain,  
Conferreth with his friends,  
for marriage of his daughter,  
And many gentlemen there were,  
with busy care that sought her.  
Both for the maiden was  
well shaped, young, and fair,  
As also well brought up, and wise,  
her father's only heir.  
Among the rest was one  
inflamed with her desire,  
Who, County Paris cliped was,  
an Earl he had to sire.  
Of all the suitors, him  
the father liketh best,  
And easily unto the Earl  
he maketh his behest.  
Both of his own good will,  
and of his friendly aid,  
To win his wife unto his will,  
and to persuade the maid.  
The wife did joy to hear  
the joyful husband say,  
How happy hap, how meet a match,  
he had found out that day.  
He did she seek to hide  
her joys within her heart,  
But strait she hieth to juliet,  
to her she tells apart,  
What happy talk (by mean  
of her) was passed no rather  
Between the wooing Paris, and  
her careful loving father.  
The person of the man,  
the fewters of his face,  
His youthful years, his fairness, and  
his port and seemly grace.  
With curious words she payntes  
before her daughter's eyes,  
And then with store of virtues praise,  
she heaves him to the skies.  
She vaunts his race, and gifts,  
that Fortune did him give:  
Whereby (she saith) both she and hers,  
in great delight shall live.  
When juliet conceived  
her parents whole intent,  
Whereto, both love, and reasons right,  
forbade her to assent:  
Within herself she thought,  
rather than be forsworn,  
With horses wild, her tender parts  
a sunder should be torn.  
Not now with bashful brow  
(in wont wise) she spoke,  
But with unwonted boldness, strait  
into these words she broke.  
Madame, I marvel much,  
that you so lavasse are,  
Of me your child, (your jewel once,  
your only joy and care.)  
As thus to yield me up,  
at pleasure of another,  
Before you know if I do like,  
or else mislike my lover.  
Do what you list, but yet  
of this assure you still,  
If you do as you say you will,  
I yield not there until.  
For had I choice of twain,  
far rather would I choose,  
My part of all your goods, and eke  
my breath and life to lose:  
Then grant that he possess  
of me the smallest part.  
First, weary of my painful life,  
my cares shall kill my heart.  
Else will I pierce my breast,  
with sharp and bloody knife,  
And you my mother shall become  
the murderess of my life:  
In giving me to him,  
whom I ne can ne may,  
Ne ought to love. Wherefore on knees,  
dear mother I you pray  
To let me live henceforth,  
as I have lived tofore:  
Cease all your troubles for my sake,  
and care for me no more.  
But suffer Fortune fierce,  
to work on me her will,  
In her it lieth to do me boot,  
in her it lieth to spill.  
For whilst you for the best,  
desire to place me so,  
You hast a way my lingering death,  
and double all my woe.  
So deep this answer made  
the sorrows down to sink,  
Into the mother's breast: that she  
ne knoweth what to think.  
Of these her daughter's words.  
but all appalled she stands,  
And up unto the heavens she throws  
her wondering head and hands.  
And nigh beside herself  
her husband hath she sought,  
She tells him all, she doth forget  
ne yet she hideth aught.  
The testy old man wroth,  
disdainful without measure,  
Sends forth his folk in haste for her.  
and bids them take no leisure.  
Ne on her tears or plaint,  
at all to have remorse,  
But (if they can not with her will,)  
to bring the maid perforce.  
The message heard, they part,  
to fetch that they must fet:  
And willingly with them walks forth  
obedient juliet.  
Arrived in the place,  
when she her father saw,  
Of whom (as much as duty would)  
the daughter stood in awe.  
The servants sent away,  
(the mother thought it meet)  
The woeful daughter all be wept,  
fell groveling at his feet.  
Which she doth wash with tears  
as she thus groveling lies:  
So fast and eke so plenteously  
distill they from her eyes.  
When she to call for grace  
her mouth doth think to open,  
Must she is: for sighs and sobs  
her fearful talk have broken.  
The sire, whose swelling worth  
her tears could not assuage,  
With fiery eyen, and scarlet cheeks,  
thus spoke her in his rage.  
Whilst ruthfully stood by  
the maidens mother mild,  
Listen (quoth he) unthankful and  
thou disobedient child.  
Hast thou so soon let slip  
out of thy mind the word,  
That thou so often times hast heard  
rehearsed at my board?  
How much the Roman youth  
of parents stood in awe,  
And eke what power upon their seed  
the fathers had by law?  
Whom they not only might  
pledge, alienate, and sell,  
(When so they stood in need) but more  
if children did rebel,  
The parents had the power,  
of life and sudden death.  
What if those goodmen should again  
receive the living breath?  
In how strait bonds would they  
thy stubborn body bind:  
What weapons would they seek for thee?  
what torments would they find?  
To chasten (if they saw)  
the lewdness of thy life,  
Thy great unthankfulness to me,  
and shameful sturdy strife?  
Such care thy mother had,  
so dear than wert to me,  
That I with long and earnest ●ute,  
provided have for thee.  
One of the greatest lords,  
that wonnes about this town,  
And for his many virtues sake,  
a man of great renown.  
Of whom, both thou and I,  
unworthy are too much,  
So rich ere long he shallbe left,  
his father's wealth is such.  
Such is the nobleness,  
and honour of the race,  
From whence his father came, and yet  
thou playest in this case,  
The dainty fool, and stubborn  
girl, for want of skill,  
Thou dost refuse thy offered weal,  
and disobey my will.  
Even by his strength I swear,  
that first did give me life  
And gave me in my youth the strength  
to get thee on my wife.  
On less by wednesday next,  
thou bend as I am bend,  
And at our castle called free town,  
thou freely do assent  
To Count Paris suit,  
and promise to agree  
To whatsoever then shall pass,  
twixt him, my wife, and me.  
Not only will I give  
all that I have away,  
From thee, to those that shall me love,  
me honour, and obey:  
But also too so close,  
and to so hard a jail,  
I shall thee wed for all thy life,  
that sure thou shalt not fail.  
A thousand times a day  
to wish for sudden death:  
And curse the day, and hour when first  
thy lungs did give thee breath.  
Advise thee well, and say  
that thou art warned now,  
And think not that I speak in sport,  
or mind to break my vow.  
For were it not that I  
to Count Paris gave  
My faith, which I must keep unfalst,  
my honour so to save:  
Ere thou go hence, myself  
would see thee chastened so,  
That thou shouldst once for all be taught,  
thy duty how to know  
And what revenge of old,  
the angry sires did find  
Against their children that rebelled,  
and showed themself unkind.  
These said, the old man strait.  
is gone in haste a way.  
Ne for his daughters imswere▪ would  
the testy father stay.  
And after him, his wife  
doth follow out of door,  
And there they leave their chidden child.  
kneeling upon the floor.  
Then she that oft had seen  
the fury of her sire,  
Dreading what might come of his rage,  
nould farther stir his ire.  
Unto her chamber she  
withdrew herself apart,  
Where she was wont to unload,  
the sorrows of her heart.  
There did she not so much  
busy her eyes in sleeping,  
As overpressed with restless thoughts  
in piteous bootless weeping.  
The fast falling of tears  
make not her tears decrease,  
Ne by the pouring forth of plaint,  
the cause of plaint doth cease.  
So that to th'end the moan  
and sorrow may decay,  
The best is that she seek some mean  
to take the cause away.  
Her weary bed betime  
the woeful wight forsakes,  
And to saint Francis church to mass  
her way devoutly takes.  
The friar forth is called,  
she prays him hear her shrift:  
Devotion is in so young years,  
a rare and precious gift.  
When in her tender knees  
the dainty lady kneels,  
In mind to power forth all the grief,  
that inwardly she feels.  
With sighs and salted tears  
her shryving doth begin,  
Forshe of heaped sorrows hath  
to speak, and not of sin.  
Her voice with piteous plaint  
was made already hoarse,  
And hasty sobs, when she would speak,  
broke of her words perforce.  
But as she may piece meal,  
she poureth in his lap,  
The marriage news, a mischief new,  
prepared by mishap.  
Her parents promiss erst  
to Count Paris past,  
Her father's threats she telleth him,  
and thus concludes at last.  
Once was I wedded well,  
ne will I wed again,  
For since I know I may not be  
the wedded wife of twain,  
For I am bound to have  
one God, even faith, one make,  
My purpose is as soon as I  
shall hence my journey take  
With these two hands which joined  
unto the heavens I stretch,  
The hasty death which I desire  
unto myself to reach.  
This day (O Romeus)  
this day thy woeful wife  
Will 〈◊〉 the end of all her ears  
by ending careful life.  
So my departed spirit  
shall witness to the sky,  
And eke my blood unto the earth  
bear record how that I  
Have kept my faith unbroke,  
steadfast unto my friend,  
When this her heavy tale was told  
her vow eke at an end,  
Her gazing here and there,  
her fierce and staring look,  
Did witness that some lewd attempt,  
her heart had undertook.  
Whereat, the friar affonde,  
and gaftfully afraid,  
Lest she by deed perform her word,  
thus much to her he said.  
Ah lady juliet,  
what need the words you spoke▪  
I pray you grant me one request  
for blessed Mary's sake.  
Measure somewhat your grief,  
hold here a while your peace,  
Whilst I bethink me of your case,  
your plaint and sorrows cease.  
Such comfort will I give  
you ere you part from hence,  
And for thassaults of Fortunes pray  
prepare so sure defence,  
So wholesome salve will I  
for your afflictions find,  
That you shall hence departed again  
with well contented mind.  
His words have chased strait  
out of her heart despair,  
Her black and ugly dreadful thoughts  
by hope are waxen fair.  
So friar Laurence now  
hath left her there alone,  
And he out of the church in haste  
is to his chamber gone.  
Where sundry thoughts within  
his careful head arise,  
The old man's foresight divers doubts  
hath set before his eyes.  
His conscience one while  
condems it for a sin,  
To let her take Paris to spouse,  
since he himself had been  
The chiefest cause, that she  
unknown to father or mother,  
Not five months passed in that self place  
was wedded to another.  
An other while an hugy  
heap of dangers dread,  
His restless thought hath heaped up,  
within his troubled head.  
Even of itself that tempt  
he judgeth pertious,  
The execution eke he demes  
so much more dangerous,  
That to a woman's grace  
he must himself commit,  
That young is, simple, and unware,  
for weighty affairs unfit.  
For if the fail in aught  
the matter published,  
Both she and Romeus were undone,  
himself eke punished,  
When too and fro in mind  
he divers thoughts had cast,  
With tender pity and with ruth  
his heart was won at last.  
He thought he rather would  
in hazard set his fame,  
Then suffer such adultery  
resolving on the same,  
Out of his closet strait,  
he took a litele glass,  
And then with double haste retornde  
where woeful juliet was.  
Whom he hath found well-nigh  
in trance, scarce drawing breath,  
Attending still to hear the news  
of life or else of death.  
Of whom he did inquire  
of the appointed day.  
On wednesday next (quoth juliet)  
so doth my father say:  
I must give my consent  
but (as I do remember)  
The solemn day of marriage is,  
the tenth day of September.  
Dear daughter quoth the friar  
of good cheer see thou be,  
For lo, saint Francis of his grace  
hath showed a way to me,  
By which I may both thee,  
and Romeus together,  
Out of the bondage which you fear  
assured deliver.  
Even from the holy font  
thy husband have I known,  
And since he grew in years, have kept  
his counsels as mine own.  
For from his youth he would  
unfold to me his heart,  
And often have I cured him,  
of anguish, and of smart.  
I know that by desert  
his friendship I have won,  
And I him hold as dear, as if  
he were my proper son.  
Wherefore my friendly heart,  
can not abide that he  
Should wrongfully in aught be harmed,  
if that it lay in me,  
To right or to revenge  
the wrong by my advise,  
Or timely to prevent the same  
in any other wise.  
And sith thou art his wife,  
thee am I bound to love,  
For Romeus friendship's sake, and seek  
thy anguish to remove.  
And dreadful torments which  
thy heart besegen round,  
Wherefore my daughter give good care,  
unto my counsels sound.  
Forget not what I say,  
ne tell it any wight,  
Not to the nurse thou trustest so,  
as Romeus is thy knight.  
For on this thread doth hang  
thy death and eke thy life,  
My fame, or shame, his weal or woe,  
that chose thee to his wife.  
Thou art not ignorant  
(because of such renown  
As every where is spread of me,  
but chiefly in this town.)  
That in my youthful days  
abroad I travailed  
Through every land found out by men,  
by men inhabited,  
So twenty years from home,  
in lands unknown, a gest,  
I never gave my weary limbs  
long time of quiet rest.  
But in the desert woods,  
to beast? of cruel kind,  
Or on the seas to drenching waves,  
at pleasure of the wind.  
I have committed them  
to ruth of rovers hand,  
And to a thousand dangers more  
by water and by land,  
But not in vain (my child)  
hath all my wandering been,  
Beside the great contentedness  
my spirit abideth in.  
That by the pleasant thought  
of passed things doth grow  
One private fruit more have I pluchd  
which thou shalt shortly know:  
What force the stones, the plants,  
and metals have to work,  
And divers other things that in  
the bowels of earth do loorke,  
With care I have sought out  
with pain I did them prove,  
With them eke can I help myself,  
at times of my behove,  
(Although the science be  
against the laws of men)  
When sudden danger forceth me,  
but yet most chiefly when  
The work to do is least  
displeasing unto God,  
Not helping to do any sin  
that wreakful jove forbade.  
For since in life no hope  
of long abode I have,  
But now am come unto the drink  
of my appointed grave,  
And that my death draws near,  
whose stripe I may not shun,  
But shallbe called to make account  
of all that I have done,  
Now ought I from hence forth  
more deeply print in mind  
The judgement of the lord, then when  
youths folly made me blind,  
When love and fond desire  
were boiling in my breast,  
Whence hope and dread by striving thoughts  
had banished friendly rest,  
Know therefore (daughter) that  
with other gifts which I  
Have well attained to by grace  
and favour of the sky,  
Long since I did find out,  
and yet the way I know  
Of certain roots and savoury herbs  
to make a kind of dough,  
Which baked hard, and bet  
into a powder fine,  
And drunk with conduit water, or  
with any kind of wine,  
It doth in half an hour  
astonne the taker so,  
And mastreth all his senses, that  
he feeleth weal nor woe,  
And so it burieth up  
the spirit and living breath,  
That even the skilful leech would say,  
that he is slain by death.  
One virtue more it hath,  
as marvelous as this,  
The taker by receiving it,  
at all not grieved is.  
But painless as a man,  
that thinketh nought at all,  
Into a sweet and quiet sleep  
immediately doth fall,  
From which (according to  
the quantity he taketh,  
Longer or shorter is the time  
before the sleper waketh.  
And thence (th'effect once wrought)  
again it doth restore  
Him that received unto the state,  
wherein he was before.  
Wherefore, mark well the end,  
of this my tale begun,  
And thereby learn what is by thee  
hereafter to be done.  
Cast of from thee at once,  
the weed of womanish dread,  
With manly courage arm thyself,  
from heel unto the head.  
For only on the fear  
or boldness of thy breast,  
The happy hap, or ill mishap  
of thy affair doth rest.  
Receive this viol small,  
and keep it as thine eye,  
And on thy marriage day before  
the sun do clear the sky,  
Fill it with water full,  
up to the very brim.  
Then drink it of, and thou shalt feel,  
throughout each vain and limb:  
A pleasant slumber slide,  
and quite dispred at length,  
On all thy parts, from every part  
reave all thy kindly strength.  
Withouten moving thus  
thy ●dle parts shall rest,  
No pulse shall go, ne heart once beat  
within thy hollow breast.  
But thou shalt lie as she  
that dieth in a trance,  
Thy kinsmen, and thy trusty friends  
shall wail the sudden chance:  
Thy corpse then will they bring  
to grave in this church yard,  
Where thy forefathers long ago  
a costly tomb prepared.  
Both for himself, and eke  
for those that should come after,  
Both deep it is, and long and large,  
where thou shalt rest my daughter,  
Till I to Mantua send  
for Romeus thy knight.  
Out of the tomb, both he and I  
will take thee forth that night.  
And when out of thy sleep  
thou shalt awake again,  
Then mayst thou go with him from hence,  
and healed of thy pain.  
In Mantua lead with him  
unknown a pleasant life,  
And yet perhaps in time to come,  
when cease shall all the strife,  
And that the peace is made  
twixt Romeus and his foes,  
Myself may find so fit a time  
these secrets to disclose,  
Both to my praise, and to  
thy tender parent's joy,  
That dangerless without reproach  
thou shalt thy love enjoy.  
When of his skilful tale,  
the friar had made an end,  
To which our juliet so well  
her ear and wits did bend,  
That she hath heard it all,  
and hath forgotten nought,  
Her fainting heart was comforted,  
with hope and pleasant thought.  
And then to him she said,  
doubt not but that I will  
With stout and unappalled heart,  
your happy hest fulfil.  
Yea, if I witted it were  
a venomous deadly drink:  
Rather would I that through my throat  
the certain bane should sink,  
Then I (not drinking it)  
into his hands should fall,  
That hath no part of me as yet,  
ne aught to have at all.  
Much more I ought with bold  
and with a willing heart,  
To greatest danger yield myself  
and to the deadly smart,  
To come to him, on whom  
my life doth wholly stay,  
That is my only hearts delight,  
and so he shallbe aye.  
Then go quoth he (my child)  
I pray that God on high,  
Direct thy foot, and by thy hand  
upon the way thee gye:  
God grant he so confirm  
in thee thy present will,  
That no inconstant toy thee let,  
thy promise to fulfil.  
A thousand thanks and more,  
our juliet gave the friar,  
And homeward to her father's house  
joyful she doth retire.  
And as with stately gate  
she passed through the street,  
She saw her mother in the door,  
that with her there would meet.  
In mind to ask if she  
her purpose yet did hold,  
In mind also a part twixt them,  
her duty to have told:  
Wherefore with pleasant face,  
and with unwonted cheer,  
As soon as she was unto her  
approached somewhat near,  
Before the mother spoke,  
thus did she first begin,  
Madam, at saint Francis church  
have I this morning been,  
Where I did make abode,  
a longer while (percase)  
Then duty would, yet have I not  
been absent from this place,  
So long a while, without  
a great and just cause why,  
This fruit have I received there,  
my heart erst like to die,  
Is now revived again,  
and my afflicted breast  
Released from affliction,  
restored is to rest.  
For lo, my tronbled ghost  
(alas too sore diseased,)  
By ghostly counsel and advise,  
hath friar Laurence eased,  
To whom I did at large  
discourse my former life,  
And in confession did I tell  
of all our passed strife.  
Of Count Paris suit,  
and how my lord my sire,  
By my ungrate and stubborn stryft,  
I stirred unto ire.  
But lo, the holy friar  
hath by his ghostly lore,  
Made me another woman now,  
than I had been before,  
By strength of arguments  
he charged so my mind,  
That (though I sought) no sure defence  
my searching thought could find.  
So forced I was at length  
to yield up witless will,  
And promised to be ordered by  
the friars praised skill,  
Wherefore, albeit I  
had rashly long before,  
The bed and rites of marriage,  
for many years forswore,  
Yet mother now behold,  
your daughter at your will,  
Ready (if you command her aught)  
your pleasure to fulfil.  
Wherefore in humble wise.  
dear madam I you pray  
To go unto my lord and sire,  
withouten long delay,  
Of him first pardon crave  
of faults already past,  
And show him (if it pleaseth you)  
his child is now at last  
Obedient to his just  
and to his skilful hest.  
And that I will (god lending life)  
on wednesday next be priest▪  
To wait on him and you,  
unto th'appointed place,  
Where I will in your hearing and  
before my father's face,  
Unto the Count give  
my faith and whole assent,  
To take him for my lord and spouse.  
thus fully am I bend.  
And that out of your mind  
I may remove all doubt,  
Unto my closet far I now,  
to search and to choose out  
The bravest garments and  
the richest jewels there,  
Which (better him to please) I mind  
on wednesday next to wear.  
For if I did excel  
the famous Grecian rape,  
Yet might attire help to amend  
my beauty and my shape.  
The simple mother was,  
rapt in to great delight,  
Not half a word could she bring forth,  
but in this joyful plight,  
With nimble foot she ran  
and with unwonted pace,  
Unto her pensive husband, and  
to him with pleasant face  
She told what she had heard,  
and praiseth much the friar.  
And joyful tears ran down the cheeks  
of this grey berded fire.  
With hands and eyes heaved up,  
he thanks God in his heart,  
And then he saith, this is not (wife)  
the friars first desert.  
Oft hath he showed to us,  
great friendship heretofore,  
By helping us at needful times,  
with wisdoms precious lore:  
In all our common weal,  
scarce one is to be found,  
But is for some good torn unto  
this holy father bound.  
Oh that the third part of  
my goods (I do not feign)  
But twenty of his passed years  
might purchase him again  
So much in recompense  
of friendship would I give,  
So much (in faith) his extreme age  
my friendly heart doth grieve.  
These said, the glad old man,  
from home, goeth strait abroad,  
And to the stately palace hieth,  
where Paris made abode.  
Whom he desires to be  
on wednesday next his jest,  
At Freetowne, where he minds to make  
for him a costly feast.  
But lo, the Earl saith  
such feasting were but lost,  
And counsels him till marriage time  
to spare so great a cost.  
For than he knoweth well  
the charges willbe great,  
The whilst his heart desireth still  
her sight, and not his meat.  
He craves of Capilet,  
that he may strait go see  
Fair juliet, where to he doth  
right willingly agree.  
The mother warned before,  
her daughter doth prepare,  
She warneth and she chargeth her  
that in no wise she spare  
Her courteous speech, her pleasant  
looks, and commely grace,  
But liberally to give them forth  
when Paris comes in place.  
Which she as cunningly  
could set forth to the show,  
As cunning craftsmen to the sale  
do set they wares on rew:  
That ere the County did  
out of her sight departed,  
So secretly unwares to him,  
she stolen away his heart,  
That of his life and death  
the wily wench hath power,  
And now his longing heart thinks long  
for their appointed hour.  
And with importune suit,  
the parents doth he pray,  
The wedlock knot to knit soon up,  
and hast the marriage day.  
The wooer hath passed forth  
the first day in this sort,  
And many other more than this,  
in pleasure and disport,  
At length the wished time  
of long hoped delight,  
(As Paris thought) drew near, but near  
approached heavy plight:  
Against the bridal day  
the parents did prepare,  
Such rich attire, such furniture,  
such store of dainty fare,  
That they which did behold  
the same the night before,  
Did think and say, a man could scarcely  
wish for any more.  
Nothing did seem to dear,  
the dearest things were bought,  
And (as the written story saith)  
in deed there wanted nought.  
That longed to his degree  
and honour of his stock,  
But juliet the whilst her thoughts  
within her breast did lock.  
Even from the trusty nurse,  
whose secretries was tried,  
The secret counsel of her heart  
the nurse child seeks to hide.  
For sith to mock her dame  
she did not stick to lie,  
She thought no sin with show of truth,  
to blear her nurses eye.  
In chamber-secretly  
the tale she 'gan renew,  
That at the door she told her dame  
as though it had been true.  
The flattering nurse did praise  
the friar for his skill,  
And said that she had done right well  
by wit to order will.  
She setteth forth at large  
the father's furious rage,  
And eke she praiseth much to her,  
the second marriage.  
And County Paris now  
she praiseth ten times more,  
By wrong, than she herself by right,  
had Romeus praised before.  
Paris shall dwell there still,  
Romeus shall not return,  
What shall it boot her life,  
to languish still and mourn.  
The pleasures passed before,  
she must account as gain,  
But if he do return, what then?  
for one she shall have twain.  
The one shall use her as  
his lawful wedded wise,  
In wanton love, with equal joy  
the other lead his life:  
And best shall she be sped  
of any townish dame,  
Of husband and of paramour,  
to find her change of game.  
These words and like, the nurse  
did speak, in hope to please,  
But greatly did those wicked words  
the lady's mind disease:  
But ay she hide her wrath,  
and seemed well content,  
When daily did the naughty nurse  
new arguments invent:  
But when the bride perceived  
her hour opproched near,  
She sought (the best she could) to feign,  
and tempted so her cheer,  
That by her outward look,  
no living wight could guess  
Her inward woe, and yet a new  
renewed is her distress.  
Unto her chamber doth  
the pensive wight repair.  
And in her hand a percher light  
the nurse bears up the stair,  
In Iuliets chamber was  
her wont use to lie,  
Wherefore her mistress dreading that  
she should her work descry  
As soon as she began  
her pallet to unfold,  
Thinking to lie that night, where she  
was wont to lie of old:  
Doth gently pray her seek,  
her lodging some where else.  
And lest the crafty should suspect,  
a ready reason tells.  
Derefrend (quoth she) you know,  
to morrow is the day,  
Of new contract, wherefore this night,  
my purpose is to pray,  
Unto the heavenly minds,  
that dwell above the skies,  
And order all the course of things,  
as they can best devise,  
That they so smile upon  
the doings of To morrow,  
That all the remnant of my life,  
may be exempt from sorrow:  
Wherefore I pray you leave  
me here alone this night,  
But see that you to morrow come  
before the dawning light,  
For you must coorle my hear,  
and set on my attire,  
And eastly the loving nurse,  
did yield to her desire.  
For she within he head  
did cast before no doubt,  
She little knew the close attempt,  
her nurse child went about.  
The nurse departed once,  
the chamber door shut close,  
Assured that no living wight,  
her doing might disclose,  
She powered forth into  
the viol of the friar,  
Water out of a silver ewer,  
that on the board stood by her,  
The sleepy mixture made,  
fair juliet doth it hide,  
Under her bolster soft, and so  
unto her bed she hied:  
Where divers novel thoughts  
arise within her head,  
And she is so environed  
about with deadly dread,  
That what before she had  
resolved undoubtedly,  
That same she calleth into doubt,  
and lying doubtfully,  
Whilst honest love did strive  
with dread of deadly pain,  
With hands ywrong, and weeping eyes,  
thus 'gan she to complain.  
What, is there any one  
beneath the heavens high,  
So much unfortunate as I,  
so much past hope as I?  
What, am not I myself  
of all that yet were borne,  
The deepest drenched in despair,  
and most in Fortune's scorn?  
For lo the world for me,  
hath nothing else to find,  
Beside mishap and wretchedness,  
and anguish of the mind,  
Since that the cruel cause  
of my unhappiness,  
Hath put me to this sudden plunge,  
and brought to such distress,  
As (to the end I may  
my name and conscience save,)  
I must devour the mixed drink,  
that by me here I have.  
Whose working and whose force  
as yet I do not know,  
And of this piteous plaint began  
another doubt to grow.  
What do I know (quoth she)  
if that this powder shall  
Sooner or later than it should  
or else not work at all?  
And then my craft descried,  
as open as the day,  
The people's tale and laughing stock,  
shall I remain for aye.  
And what know I (quoth she)  
if serpent's odious,  
And other beasts and worms that are  
of nature venomous,  
That wont are to lurk,  
in dark caves under ground,  
And commonly as I have heard  
in dead men's tombs are found,  
Shall harm me yea or nay,  
where I shall lie as did,  
Or how shall I that always have  
in so fresh air been bred  
Endure the loathsome stink  
of such an heaped store  
Of carcases, not yet consumed  
and bones that long before  
Entombed were, where I  
my sleeping place shall have,  
Where all my ancestors do rest,  
my kindred's common grave.  
Shall not the friar and  
my Romeus when they come,  
Find me (if I awake before)  
ystified in the tomb?  
And whtlst she in these thoughts  
doth dwell somewhat to long,  
The force of her imagining,  
anon did ware so strong,  
That she surmysde she saw  
out of the hollow vault,  
(A griefly thing to look upon,)  
the carcase of Tybalt,  
Right in the self same sort,  
that she few days before  
Had seen him in his blood embrued,  
to death eke wounded sore.  
And then, when she again  
within herself had weighed,  
That quick she should be buried there,  
and by his side be laid  
All comfortless, for she  
shall living fear have none  
But many a rotten carcase, and  
full many a naked bone:  
Her dainty tender parts  
'gan shiver all for dread,  
Her golden hears did stand upright,  
upon her chillish head.  
Then pressed with the fear  
that she there lived in,  
A sweat as cold as mountain ice,  
pierced through her tender skin,  
That with the moisture hath  
wet every part of hers,  
And more beside, she vainly thinks,  
whilst vainly thus she fears,  
A thousand bodies dead  
have compassed her about,  
And lest they will dismember her,  
she greatly stands in doubt,  
But when she felt her strength  
began to wear away,  
By little and little, and in her heart  
her fear increased ay:  
Dreading that weakness might  
or foolish cowardice  
Hinder the execution of  
the purposed enterprise,  
As she had frantic been,  
in haste the glass she caught,  
And up she drank the mixture quite.  
withouten farther thought.  
Then on her breast she crossed  
her arms long and small,  
And so her senses failing her,  
into a trance did fall.  
And when that Phoebus' bright  
heaved up his seemly head,  
And from the East in open skies  
his glistering rays dispred  
The nurse unshut the door,  
for she the key did keep,  
And doubting she had slept to long,  
she thought to break her sleep:  
first, softly did she call,  
then louder thus did cry,  
Lady, you sleep to long, (the Earl)  
will raise you by and by.  
But we'll away, in vain  
unto the deaf she calls,  
She thinks to speak to juliet,  
but speaketh to the walls.  
If all the dreadful noise,  
that might on earth be found,  
Or on the roaring seas, or if  
the dreadful thunder's sound,  
Had blown into her ears,  
I think they could not make,  
The sleeping wight before the time  
by any means awake:  
So were the spirits of life  
shut up, and senses thralled,  
Wherewith the silly careful nurse,  
was wondrously appalled.  
She thought to daw her now  
as she had done of old,  
But lo, she found her parts were stiff.  
and more than marble cold,  
Neither at mouth nor nose,  
found she recourse of breath,  
Two certain arguments were these,  
of her untimely death.  
Wherefore as one distraught,  
she to her mother ran,  
With scratched face, and hear betorne,  
but no word speak she can.  
At last (with much a do)  
dead (quoth she) is my child,  
Now out alas (the mother cried)  
and as a Tiger wild,  
Whose whelps whilst she is gone  
out of her den to pray,  
The hunter greedy of his game,  
doth kill or carry away:  
So, raging forth she ran,  
unto her Iuliets bed,  
And there she found her darling, and  
her only comfort ded.  
Then shrieked she out as loud,  
as serve her would her breath,  
And then (that pity was to hear)  
thus cried she out on death.  
Ah cruel death (quoth she)  
that thus against all right  
Hast ended my felicity,  
and robbed my hearts delight,  
Do now thy worst to me,  
once wreak thy wrath for all.  
Even in despite I cry to thee  
thy vengeance let thou fall.  
Whereto stay I (alas,)  
since juliet is gone?  
Whereto live I since she is dead,  
except to wail and moon?  
Alack dear child, my tears  
for thee sha●l never cease,  
Even as my days of life increase,  
so shall my plaint increase.  
Such store of sorrow shall  
afflict my tender heart,  
That deadly pangs when they assail  
shall not augment my smart.  
Then 'gan she so to sob,  
it seemed her heart would braced,  
And while she crieth thus, behold  
the father at the last,  
The County Paris, and  
of gentlemen a rout,  
And ladies of Verona town,  
and country round about,  
Both kindreds and allies,  
thet her a pace have priest,  
For by their presence there they sought  
to honour so the feast,  
But when the heavy news  
the hidden guests did hear,  
So much they mourned, that who had seen  
their countenance and their cheer,  
Might easily have indgde,  
by that that they had seen,  
That day the day of wrath, and eke  
of pity have been.  
But more than all the rest  
the father's heart was so  
Smit with the heavy news, and so  
shut up with sudden woe,  
That he ne had the power  
his daughter to beweep,  
Ne yet to speak, but long is forsd,  
his tears and plaint to keep.  
In all the hast he hath  
for skilful leeches sent,  
And hearing of her passed life,  
they judge with one assent,  
The cause of this her death  
was inward care and thought,  
And then with double force again  
the doubled sorrows wrought.  
If ever there hath been  
a lamentable day,  
A day ruthful, unfortunate,  
and fatal, than I say,  
The same was it in which,  
through Veron town was spread,  
The woeful news how juliet  
was starved in her bed.  
For so she was bemonde,  
both of the young and old,  
That it might seem to him that would  
the comen plaint behold,  
That all the comen wealth  
did stand in jeopardy,  
So universal was the plaint,  
so piteous was the cry.  
For lo, beside her shape,  
and native beauties hew,  
With which, like as she grew in age,  
her virtues praises grew.  
She was also so wise,  
so lowly, and so middle:  
That even from the hoary head,  
unto the witless child,  
She won the hearts of all,  
so that there was not one,  
Ne great ne small, but did that day  
her wretched state bemoan.  
Whilst juliet slept, and whilst  
the other weepen thus:  
Our friar Laurence hath by this,  
sent one to Romeus.  
A friar of his house,  
there never was a better,  
He trusted him even as himself,  
to whom he gave a letter:  
In which, he written had,  
of every thing at length,  
That passed twixt juliet and him,  
and of the powders strength.  
The next night after that,  
he willeth him to come  
To help to take his juliet  
out of the hollow tomb.  
For by that time, the drink  
he saith will cease to work,  
And for one night his wife and he  
within his cell shall loorke.  
Then shall he carry her  
to Mantua away,  
(Till sickle Fortune favour him)  
disguised in man's array.  
This letter closed he sends  
to Romeus by his brother:  
He chargeth him that in no case  
he give it any other.  
Apace our friar john  
to Mantua him hies,  
And for because in Italy  
it is a wont guise,  
That friars in the town  
should seldom walk alone,  
But of their covent ay should be  
accompanied with one:  
Of his profession strait  
a house he findeth out.  
In mind to take some friar with him,  
to walk the town about.  
But entered once, he might  
not issue out again,  
For that a brother of the house,  
a day before or twain.  
died of the plague (a sickness which  
they greatly fear and hate)  
So were the brethren charged to keep  
within their covent gate,  
Bard of their fellowship,  
that in the town do won,  
The town folk eke commanded are,  
the friars house to shun:  
Till they that had the care of health,  
their freedom should renew,  
Whereof, as you shall shortly hear,  
a mischief great there grew.  
The friar by this restraint,  
beset with dread and sorrow,  
Not knowing what the letters held,  
differed until the morrow:  
And then he thought in time  
to send to Romeus,  
But whilst at Mantua where he was,  
these doings framed thus,  
The town of Iuliets birth  
was wholly busied,  
About her obsequies, to see  
their darling buried.  
Now is the parent's mirth  
quite changed into moan,  
And now to sorrow is retornde  
the joy of every one.  
And now the wedding weeds  
for mourning weeds they change,  
And Hymene into a Dyrge,  
alas it seemeth strange.  
In stead of marriage gloves,  
now funeral gloves they have,  
And whom they should see married,  
they follow to the grave.  
The feast that should have been  
of pleasure and of joy,  
Hath every dish, and cup, filled full  
of sorrow and annoy.  
Now throughout Italy  
this comen use they have,  
That all the best of every stock  
are earthed in one grave.  
For every household, if  
it be of any fame,  
Doth build a tomb, or dig a vault  
that bears the households name.  
Wherein (if any of  
that kindred hap to die)  
They are bestowed, else in the same  
no other corpse may lie.  
The Capilets, her corpse  
in such a one did lay,  
Where Tybalt slain of Romeus,  
was laid the other, day:  
An other use there is,  
that whosoever dies,  
Borne to their church with open face,  
upon the beer he lies  
In wont weed attired,  
not wrapped in winding sheet,  
So, as by chance he walked abroad,  
our Romeus man did meet  
His masters wise, the sight  
with sorrow strait did wound  
His honest heart, with tears he saw  
her lodged under ground.  
And for he had been sent  
to Verone for a spy,  
The doings of the Capilets  
by wisdom to descry,  
And for he knew her death  
did touch his master most,  
(Alas) too soon, with heavy news  
he byed away in post:  
And in his house he found  
his master Romeus,  
Where he besprent with many fears,  
began to speak him thus.  
Sir, unto you of late  
is chanced so great a harm,  
That sure except with constancy  
you seek yourself to arm,  
I fear that straight you will  
brethe out your latter breath,  
And I most wretched wight Shallbe  
thoccasion of your death.  
Know sir that yesterday  
my lady and your wife,  
I wots not by what sudden grief,  
hath made exchange of life:  
And for because on earth,  
she found nought but unrest,  
In heaven hath she sought to find  
a place of quiet rest.  
And with these weeping eyes  
myself have seen her laid  
Within the tomb of Capilets,  
and here withal he stayed,  
This sudden message sound  
sent forth with sighs and tears,  
Our Romeus received too soon  
with open listening ears,  
And thereby hath sunk in  
such sorrow in his heart,  
That lo, his spirit annoyed sore  
with torment and with smart,  
Was like to break out of  
his prison house perforce,  
And that he might fly after hers,  
would leave the massy corce.  
But earnest love that will  
not fail him till high end,  
This fond and sudden fantasy  
into his head did send:  
That if near unto her  
he offered up his breath,  
That then an hundred thousand parts  
more glorious were his death,  
Eke should his painful heart  
a great deal more be eased,  
And more also (he vainly thought)  
his lady better pleased.  
Wherefore, when he his face  
hath washed with water clean,  
Lest that the stains of dried tears,  
might on his cheeks be seen,  
And so his sorrow should  
of every one be spied,  
Which he with all his care did seek  
from every one to hide:  
Strait weary of the house,  
he walketh forth abroad,  
His servant at the masters hest  
in chamber still abode:  
And then fro street to street,  
he wandereth up and down,  
To see if he in any place  
may find in all the town,  
A salve meet for his sore,  
an oil fit for his wound,  
And seeking long (alac too soon)  
the thing he sought, he found.  
An Apothecary sat  
unbusied at his door,  
Whom by his heavy countenance  
he guessed to be poor,  
And in his shop he saw  
his boxes were but few,  
And in his window (of his wares)  
there was so small a show,  
Wherefore our Romeus  
assuredly hath thought,  
What by no friendship could be got,  
with money should be bought.  
For needy lack is like  
the poor man to compel,  
To sell that which the city's law  
forbiddeth him to sell.  
Then by the hand he drew  
the needy man apart,  
And with the sight of glitrring gold  
inflamed hath his heart,  
Take fifty crowns of gold  
(quoth he) I give them thee▪  
So that before I part from hence  
thou strait deliver me,  
Some poison strong, that may  
in less than half an hour,  
Kill him whose wretched hap shallbe  
the potion to devour.  
The wretch by covetise  
is won, and doth assent,  
To sell the thing, whose sale ere long▪  
too late he doth repent.  
In haste he poison sought,  
and closely he it bound,  
And then began with whispering voice  
thus in his ear to round,  
Fair sir (quoth he) be sure,  
this is the speeding gear,  
And more there is then you shall need,  
for half of that is there,  
Will serve, I undertake,  
in less than half an hour,  
To kill the strongest man alive,  
such is the poisons power,  
Then Romeus somewhat eased  
of one part of his care,  
Within his bosom putteth up  
his dear unthrifty ware.  
Returning home again,  
he sent his man away,  
To Verone town, and chargeth him,  
that he without delay,  
provide both instruments,  
to open wide the tomb,  
And lights to show him juliet,  
and stay (till he shall come.)  
near to the place whereas  
his loving wife doth rest,  
And chargeth him not to bewray  
the dolours of his breast.  
Peter, these heard, his leave  
both of his master take,  
betime he comes to town, such haste  
the painful man did make.  
And then with busy care  
he seeketh to fulfil,  
But doth disclose unto no wight  
his woeful masters will.  
Would God he had herein  
broken his masters hest,  
Would God that to the friar he had  
disclosed all his breast.  
But Romeus, the while,  
with many a deadly thought,  
Provoked much, hath caused ink  
and paper to be brought,  
And in few lines he did  
of all his love dyscoorse,  
How by the friars help, and by  
the knowledge of the noorse,  
The wedlock knot was knit,  
and by what mean that night  
And many more he did enjoy,  
his happy hearts delight.  
Where he the poison bought,  
and how his life should end,  
And so his wailful tragedy  
the wretched man hath penned.  
The letters close and sealed,  
directed to his sire:  
He locketh in his purse, and then,  
a post horse doth he hire.  
When he approached near,  
he waxely lighted down,  
And even with the shade of night,  
he entered Verone town,  
Where he hath found his man  
waiting when he should come,  
With lantern and with instruments,  
to open Iuliets toomme.  
Help Peter, help quoth he,  
help to remove the stone,  
And strait when I am gone fro thee  
my juliet to bemoan:  
See that thou get thee hence,  
and on the pain of death,  
I charge thee that thou come not near,  
while I abide beneath,  
Ne seek thou not to let  
thy master's enterprise,  
Which he hath fully purposed  
to do in any wise.  
Take there a letter, which  
as soon as he shall rise,  
Present it in the morning to  
my loving father's eyes.  
Which unto him perhaps  
far pleasanter shall seem,  
Then either I do mind to say,  
or thy gross head can deem.  
Now Peter that knew not,  
the purpose of his heart,  
Obediently a little way  
withdrew himself apart,  
And then our Romeus,  
(the vault stone set upright)  
Descended down, and in his hand,  
he bore the candle light.  
And then with piteous eye,  
the body of his wife,  
He 'gan behold, who surely was  
the organ of his life.  
For whom unhappy now  
he is, but erst was blyst:  
He watered her with tears, and then  
an hundred times her kissed.  
And in his folded arms,  
full straightly he her plight,  
But no way could his greedy eyes  
be filled with her sight,  
His fearful hands he laid  
upon her stomach cold,  
And them on divers parts beside,  
the woeful wight did hold.  
But when he could not find  
the signs of life he sought,  
Out of his cursed box he drew  
the poison that he bought.  
Whereof, he greedily  
devowrde the greater part,  
And then he cried with deadly sigh,  
fetched from his mourning heart:  
Oh juliet, of whom  
the world unworthy was,  
From which, for worlds unworthiness  
thy worthy ghost did pass:  
What death more pleasant could  
my heart wish to abide,  
Then that which here it suffereth now,  
so near thy friendly side.  
Or else so glorious tomb,  
how could my youth have craved.  
As in one self same vault with thee  
haply to be engraved?  
What Epitaph more worth,  
or half so excellent,  
To consecrate my memory,  
could any man invent  
As this, our mutuell, and  
our piteous sacrifice  
Of life, set light for love, but while  
he talketh in this wise,  
And thought as yet a while  
his dolours to enforce,  
His tender heart began to faint,  
priest with the venom's force:  
Which little and little 'gan  
to overcome his heart,  
And whilst his busy eyen he threw  
about to every part:  
He saw hard by the corce  
of sleeping juliet,  
Bold Tybalts carcase dead, which was  
not all consumed yet,  
To whom (as having life)  
in this sort speaketh he,  
Ah cousin dear Tybalt, whereso  
thy restless spirit now be,  
With stretched hands to thee  
for mercy now I cry,  
For that before thy kindly hour  
I forced thee to die.  
But if with quenched life,  
not quenched be thine ire.  
But with revengeing lust as yet  
thy heart be set on fire:  
What more amends, or cruel  
wreak desirest thou?  
To see on me, than this which here  
is showed forth to thee now?  
Who reft by force of arms  
from thee thy living breath,  
The same with his own hand (thou seest)  
doth poison himself to death.  
And for he caused thee  
in tomb too soon to lie,  
Too soon also, younger than thou  
himself he layeth by.  
These said, when he 'gan feel,  
the poisons force prevail,  
And little and little mastered life,  
for aye began to fail,  
Kneeling upon his knees,  
he said with voice full low,  
Lord Christ that so to ransom me  
rescendedst long ago,  
Out of thy father's bosom,  
and in the virgin's womb,  
Didst put on flesh, Oh let my plaint  
out of this hollow tomb,  
Pierce through the air, and grant  
my suit may favour find.  
Take pity on my sinful and  
my poor afflicted mind.  
For well enough I know,  
this body is but clay,  
Nought but a mass of sin, to frail,  
and subject to decay.  
Then pressed with extreme grief,  
he threw with so great force,  
His overpressed parts upon  
his ladies wailed corpse:  
That now his weakened heart,  
weakened with torments past,  
Unable to abide this pang,  
the sharpest and the last:  
Remained quite deprived,  
of sense and kindly strength,  
And so the long imprisoned soul,  
hath freedom won at length.  
Ah cruel death, too soon,  
too soon was this divorce,  
Twixt youthful Romeus heavenly spirit,  
and his fair earthy corpse.  
The friar that knew what time  
the powder had been taken,  
Knew eke the very instant, when  
the sleper should awaken.  
But wondering that he could  
no kind of answer hear,  
Of letters, which to Romeus  
his fellow friar did bear:  
Out of saint Francis church  
himself alone did far,  
And for the opening of the tomb,  
meet instruments he bore:  
Approaching nigh the place,  
and seeing there the light,  
Great horror felt he in his heart,  
by strange and sudden sight,  
Till Peter (Romeus man)  
his coward heart made bold,  
When of his masters being there,  
the certain news he told:  
There hath he been (quoth he)  
this half hour at the least,  
And in this time I dare well say  
his plaint hath still increased.  
Then both they entered in,  
where they (alas) did find,  
The bretheles corpse of Romeus,  
forsaken of the mind.  
Where they have made such moan,  
as they may best conceive,  
That have with perfect friendship loved,  
whose friend, fears death did reave.  
But whilst with piteous plaint,  
they Romeus fate be weep,  
An hour too late fair juliet  
awaked out of sleep.  
And much amazed to see  
in tomb so great a light,  
She witted not if she saw a dream,  
or spirit that walked by night.  
But coming to herself,  
she knew them, and said thus,  
What friar Laurence, is it you?  
where is my Romeus?  
And then the ancient friar,  
that greatly stood in fear,  
Lest if they lingered over long,  
they should be taken there,  
In few plain words, the whole  
that was betide he told,  
And with his fingar showed his corpse  
out stretched, stiff, and cold,  
And then persuaded her  
with patience to abide  
This sudden great mischance, and saith  
that he will soon provide  
In some religious house  
for her a quiet place,  
Where she may spend the rest of life,  
and where in time percase  
She may with wisdoms mean,  
measure her mourning breast,  
And unto her tormented soul  
call back exiled rest.  
But lo, as soon as she  
had cast her ruthful eye  
On Romeus face, that pale and wan,  
fast by her side did lie,  
Strait way she did unstop  
the conduits of her tears,  
And out they gush, with cruel hand  
she tore her golden hears.  
But when she neither could  
her swelling sorrows wage,  
Ne yet her tender heart abide  
her sickness furious rage:  
Fallen on his corpse, she lay  
long panting on his face,  
And then with all her force and strength,  
the dead corpse did embrace,  
As though with sighs, with sobs,  
with force and busy pain,  
She would him raise, and him restore  
from death to life again:  
A thousand times she kissed  
his month as cold as stone,  
And it unkissed again as oft,  
then 'gan she thus to moon.  
Ah pleasant prop of all  
my thoughts, ah only ground  
Of all the sweet delights, that yet  
in all my life I found.  
Did such assured trust  
within thy heart repose:  
That in this place, and at this time,  
this churchyard thou hast chose?  
Betwixt the arms of me,  
thy perfect loving make?  
And thus by means of me to end  
thy life, and for my sake?  
Even in the flowering of  
thy youth, when unto thee,  
Thy life most dear (as to the most)  
and pleasant aught to be:  
How could this tender corpse  
withstand the cruel fight  
Of furious death, that wonts to fray  
the stoutest with his sight:  
How could thy dainty youth  
agree with willing heart,  
In this so fowl infected place  
(to dwell) where now thou art.  
Where spiteful Fortune hath  
appaynted thee to be,  
The dainty food of greedy worms,  
unworthy sure of thee.  
Alas, alas, alas,  
what needed now a new,  
My wont sorrows doubled twice  
again thus to renew?  
Which both the time, and eke  
my patient long abode,  
Should now at length have quenched quite,  
and under foot have trod.  
Ah wretch, and caitiff that  
I am, even when I thought  
To find my painful passions salve:  
I mist the thing I sought,  
And to my mortal harm,  
the fatal knife I ground,  
That gave to me so deep, so wide,  
so cruel deadly wound.  
Ah thou most fortunate,  
and most unhappy tomb,  
For thou shalt bear from age to age,  
witness in time to come,  
Of the most perfect league,  
betwixt a pair of lovers,  
That were the most unfortunate,  
and fortunate of others:  
Receive the latter sigh,  
receive the latter pang,  
Of the most cruel of cruel slaves,  
that wrath and death ay wrang.  
And when our juliet would  
continue still her moan,  
The friar and the servant fled  
and left her there alone.  
For they a sudden noise,  
fast by the place did hear,  
And lest they might be taken there,  
greatly they stood in fear.  
When juliet saw herself  
left in the vault alone,  
That freely she might work her will,  
for let or stay was none:  
Then once for all, she took  
the cause of all her harms,  
The body dead of Romeus,  
and clasped it in her arms,  
Then she with earnest kiss,  
sufficiently did prove,  
That more than by the fear of death,  
she was attaint by love.  
And then past deadly fear,  
for life ne had she care,  
With hasty hand she did draw out,  
the dagger that he ware.  
O welcome death (quoth she)  
end of unhappiness,  
That also art beginning of  
assured happiness:  
Fear not to dart me now,  
thy stripe no longer stay,  
Prolong no longer now my life,  
I hate this long delay.  
For strait my parting spirit,  
out of this carcase fled,  
At ease shall find my Romeus spirit,  
among so many ded.  
And thou my loving lord,  
Romeus my trusty fear,  
If knowledge yet do rest in thee,  
if thou these words dost here:  
receive thou her whom thou  
didst love so lawfully,  
That caused (alas) thy violent death  
although unwillingly.  
And therefore willingly  
offers to thee her ghost,  
To th'end that no wight else but thou,  
might have just cause to boast  
Thinjoying of my love,  
which ay I have reserved,  
Free from the rest, bound unto thee,  
that hast it well deserved.  
That so our parted spirits,  
from light that we see here,  
In place of endless light and bliss,  
may ever live yfere.  
These said, her ruthless hand  
through girt her valiant heart.  
Ah Ladies help with tears to wail,  
the ladies deadly smart.  
She groans she stretcheth out  
her simmes, she shuts her eyes,  
And from her corpse the spirit doth fly.  
what should I say: she dies.  
The watchmen of the town,  
the whilst are passed by,  
And through the grates the candle light  
within the tomb they spy:  
Whereby they did suppose,  
enchanters to be come,  
That with prepared instruments  
had opened wide the tomb,  
In purpose to abuse  
the bodies of the dead,  
Which by their science aid abused  
do stand them oft in stead.  
Their curious heart's desire,  
the truth hereof to know,  
Then they by certain steps descend,  
where they do find below  
In clasped arms ywrapt  
the husband and the wife,  
In whom as yet they seemed to see  
some certain marks of life.  
But when more curiously  
with leisure they did view,  
The certainty of both their deaths,  
assuredly they knew.  
Then here and there so long  
with careful ere they sought,  
That at the length hidden they found  
the murderers, so they thought.  
In dungeon deep that night  
they lodged them under ground,  
The next day do they tell the prince  
the mischief that they found.  
The news was by and by  
throughout the town dyspred  
Both of the taking of the friar,  
and of the two found ded.  
Thither might you have seen  
whole households forth to run.  
For to the tomb where they did hear  
this wonder strange was done,  
The great, the small, the rich,  
the poor, the young, the old,  
With hasly pace do run to see,  
but rue when they beheld.  
And that the murderers  
to all men might be known,  
Like as the murder's brute abroad  
through all the town was blown.  
The prince did strait ordain,  
the corpses that were found  
Should be set forth upon a stage,  
high raised from the ground,  
Right in the self same form,  
(showed forth to all men's sight)  
That in the hollow vault they had  
been found that other night.  
And eke that Romeus man,  
and friar Laurence should  
Be openly examined,  
for else the people would  
Have murmured, or feigned  
there were some weighty cause,  
Why openly they were not called,  
and so convict by laws.  
The holy friar now,  
and reverent by his age,  
In great reproach set to the show  
upon the open stage.  
(A thing that ill beseemed,  
a man of silver hears)  
His beard as white as milk he baths,  
with great fast falling tears.  
Whom strait the dreadful judge  
commandeth to declare  
Both how this murder hath been done,  
and who the murderers are.  
For that he near the tomb  
was found at hours unfit,  
And had with him those iron tools,  
for such a purpose fit:  
The friar was of lively  
spirit, and free of speech,  
The judges words paid him not,  
ne were his wits to seeche.  
But with advised heed,  
a while first did he stay,  
And then with bold assured voice,  
aloud thus 'gan he say.  
My lords, there is not one  
among you, set together,  
So that (affection set aside)  
by wisdom he consider  
My former passed life,  
and this my extreme age,  
And eke this heavy sight, the wreak,  
of frantic Fortune's rage,  
But that amazed much,  
doth wonder at this change,  
So great, so suddenly befallen,  
unlooked for, and strange.  
For I, that in the space  
of lx years and ten,  
Since first I did begin to soon  
to lead my life with men,  
And with the worlds vain things  
myself I did acquaint,  
Was never yet, in open place  
at any time attaint  
With any crime, in weight,  
as heavy as a rush,  
Ne is there any slander by,  
can make me guilty blush,  
(Although before the face  
of God, & do confess,  
Myself to be the sinfulst wretch  
of all this mighty press.)  
When readiest I am,  
and likeliest to make  
My great account, which no man else  
for me shall undertake:  
When worms, the earth, and death  
do city me every hour,  
Tappeare before the judgement seat  
of everlasting power,  
And falling ripe I step  
upon my graves brink:  
Even then am I most wretched wight  
(as each of you doth think.)  
Through my most heinous deed,  
with headlong sway thrown down,  
In greatest danger of my life,  
and damage of renown.  
The spring, whence in your head,  
this new conceit doth rise,  
And in your heart increaseth still  
your vain and wrong surmise:  
May be the hugeness of  
these tears of mine (percase,)  
That so abundantly down fall,  
by either side my face.  
As though the memory  
in scriptures were not kept,  
That Christ our saviour himself  
for ruth and pity wept.  
And more whoso will read,  
ywritten shall he find,  
That tears are as true messengers  
of man's unguilty mind,  
or else (a liker proof)  
that I am in the crime,  
You say these present iron are,  
and the suspected tyme.  
As though all hours alike  
had not been made above,  
Did Christ not say the day had twelve?  
whereby he sought to prone,  
That no respect of hours,  
ought justly to be had,  
But at all times men have the choice  
of doing good or bad.  
Even as the spirit of God,  
the hearts of men doth guide,  
Or as it leaveth them to stray  
from virtues path aside.  
As for the irons that  
were taken in my hand,  
As now I deem, I need not seek,  
to make ye understand,  
To what use iron first  
was made, when it began:  
How of itself it helpeth not,  
ne yet can help a man.  
The thing that hurteth, is  
the malice of his will,  
That such indifferent things is wont  
to use and order ill.  
Thus much I thought to say,  
to cause you so to know,  
That neither these my piteous tears,  
though near so fast they flow.  
Ne yet these iron tools,  
nor the suspected time,  
Can justly prout the murder donne,  
or damn me of the crime,  
No one of these hath power,  
ne power have all the three,  
To make me other then I am,  
how so I seem to be.  
But sure my conscience  
(if so my guilt deserve)  
For an appeacher, witness, and  
a hangman eke should serve.  
For through mine age, whose hears,  
of long time since were hoar,  
And credit great that I was in,  
with you in time tofore,  
And eke the sojourn short  
that I on earth must make,  
That every day and hour do look  
my journey hence to take,  
My conscience inwardly,  
should more torment me thrice,  
Then all the outward deadly pain  
that all you could devise.  
But (God I praise) I feel  
no worm that gnaweth me,  
And from remorses pricking sting,  
I joy that I am free.  
I mean as touching this,  
wherewith you troubled are,  
Wherewith you should be troubled still  
if I my speech should spare.  
But to the end I may  
set all your hearts at rest,  
And pluck out all the scrupuls that  
are rooted in your breast:  
Which might perhaps henceforth  
increasing more and more  
Within your conscience also,  
increase your cureless sore:  
I swear by yonder heavens,  
whither I hope to climb,  
And for a witness of my words,  
my heart attesteth him,  
Whose mighty hand doth weld  
them in their violent sway,  
And on the rolling stormy seas  
the heavy earth doth stay:  
That I will make a short  
and eke a true discourse  
Of this most woeful Tragedy,  
and show both th'end and source  
Of their unhappy death,  
which you perchance no less  
Will wonder at, than they (alas)  
poor lovers in distress,  
Tormented much in mind  
not forcing lively breath,  
With strong and patiented heart did yield  
themself to cruel death.  
Such was the mutual love,  
wherein the burned both:  
And of their promyst friendships faith,  
so steady was the troth.  
And then the ancient friar  
began to make discourse,  
Even from the first of Romeus,  
and Iuliets amours.  
How first by sudden sight,  
the one the other chose,  
And twirt themself did knit the knot▪  
which only death might lose.  
And how within a while,  
with hotter love oppressed,  
Under confessions cloak, to him,  
themself they have addressed.  
And how with solemn oaths  
they have protested both,  
That they in heart are married  
by promise and by oath.  
And that except he grant  
the rites of church to give,  
They shallbe forced by earnest love,  
in sinful state to live.  
Which thing when he had weighed,  
and when he understood,  
That the agreement twixt them twaynt  
was lawful honest, good,  
And all things poised well,  
it seemed meet to be,  
For like they were of nobleness,  
age, riches, and degree:  
Hoping that so at length,  
ended might be the strife,  
Of Montagewes and Capelets,  
that led in hate their life.  
Thinking to work a work  
well pleasing in God's sight,  
In secret shrift he wedded them,  
and they the self same night  
Made up the marriage  
in house of Capelet,  
As well doth know (if she be asked,)  
the nurse of juliet.  
He told how Romeus fled,  
for reaving Tybalts life,  
And how the whilst, Paris the Earl  
was offered to his wife.  
And how the lady did,  
so great a wrong disdain,  
And how to shrift unto his church  
she came to him again:  
And how she fell flat down  
before his feet aground,  
And how she swore her hand,  
and bloody knife should wound  
Her harmless heart, except,  
that he some mean did find  
To dysappoynt the Earl's attempt,  
and spotless save her mind.  
Wherefore he doth conclude,  
(although that long before)  
By thought of death, and age, he had  
refused for evermore.  
The hidden arts which he  
delighted in, in youth,  
Yet won by her importunenes,  
and by his inward ruth,  
And fearing lest she would  
her cruel vow discharge,  
His closed conscience he had  
opened and set at large.  
And rather did he choose  
to suffer for one time,  
His soul to be spotted somedeal  
with small and easy crime,  
Then that the lady should,  
(weary of living breath)  
Murder herself, and danger much  
her silly soul by death.  
Wherefore, his ancient arts  
again he putres in ure,  
A certain powder gave he her  
〈◊〉 made her sleep so sure,  
That they her held for dead,  
and how that friar john  
With letters sent to Romeus,  
to Mantua is gone,  
Of whom he knoweth not  
as yet, what is become,  
And how that dead he found his friend  
within her kindred's tomb.  
He thinks with poison strong,  
for care the young man starved,  
Supposing juliet dead, and how,  
that juliet hath carved  
With Romeus dagger drawn  
her heart and yielded breath,  
Desirous to accompany  
her lover after death.  
And how they could not save  
her, so they were afeard,  
And hid themself, dreading the noise  
of watchmen that they heard.  
And for the proof of this  
his tale, he doth desire  
The judge, to send forthwith  
to ●●ntus for the friar,  
To learn his cause of stay,  
and eke to read his letter,  
And more beside, to th'end that they  
might judge his cause the better,  
He prayeth them depose  
the nurse of juliet,  
And Romeus man, whom at unwares  
beside the tomb he met.  
Then Peter not so much  
as erst he was, dismayed,  
My lords (quoth he) too true is all,  
that friar Laurence said.  
And when my master went  
into my mystres grave,  
This letter that I offer you,  
unto me than he gave.  
Which he himself did write  
as I do understand,  
And charged me to offer them  
unto his father's hand.  
The opened packet doth  
contain in it the same,  
That erst the skilful friar said,  
and eke the wretch's name  
That had at his request,  
the deadly poison sold,  
The price of it, and why he bought,  
his letters plain have told.  
The case unfolded so,  
and open now it lies,  
That they could wish no better proof▪  
save seeing it with their eyes.  
So orderly all things  
were told and tried out,  
That in the press there was not one▪  
that stood at all in doubt.  
The wiser sort to council  
called by Escalus,  
Have given advise, and Escalus  
sagely decreeth thus.  
The nurse of juliet,  
is banished in her age,  
Because that from the parents she  
did hide the marriage.  
Which might have wrought much good,  
have it in time been known,  
Where now by her concealing it,  
a mischief great is grown.  
And Peter, for he did  
obey his master's hest,  
In wonted freedom had good leave  
to lead his life in rest.  
Thapothecary, high  
is hanged by the throat,  
And for the pains he took with him,  
the hangman had his cote.  
But now what shall betide  
of this grey bearded sire?  
Of friar Laurence thus araind,  
that good barefooted friar.  
Because that many times  
he worthily did serve  
The comen wealth, and in his life  
was never found to swerver:  
He was discharged quite,  
and no mark of defame,  
Did seem to blot, or touch at all,  
the honour of his name.  
But of himself he went  
into an Hermitage,  
Two miles from Veron town, where he  
in prayers passed forth his age.  
Till that from earth to heaven,  
his heavenly spirit did fly,  
five years he lived an Hermit, and  
an Hermit did he die.  
The stranngenes of the chance,  
when tried was the truth  
The Montagewes and Capelets  
hath moved so to ruth,  
That with their emptied tears,  
their choler and their rage,  
Was emptied quite, and they whose wrath  
no wisdom could assuage,  
Nor threatening of the prince,  
ne mind of murders done:  
At length (so mighty jove it would)  
by pity they are won.  
And lest that length of time  
might from our minds remove,  
The memory of so perfect, sound,  
and so approved love.  
The bodies dead removed  
from vault where they did die,  
In stately tomb, on pillars great,  
of marble raise they high.  
On every side above,  
were set and eke beneath,  
Great store of cunning Epitaphs,  
in honour of their death.  
And even at this day  
the tomb is to be seen.  
So that among the monuments  
that in Verona been,  
There is no monument  
more worthy of the sight:  
Then is the tomb of juliet,  
and Romeus her knight.  
¶ Imprinted at London in Flete street within Temble bar, at the sign of the hand and star, by Richard Tottill the xix day of November. An. do. 1562. (⸫)