Shakespeare’s Narrative Sources: Italian Novellas and Their European Dissemination

1587 Semi-diplomatic

The Tragicall hiſtorie of Romeus and Iuliet, Contayining in it a rare example of true conſtancie: with the ſubtill counſels and practiſes of an old Fryer, and their ill euent. Res eſt ſollicit plena timoris amor. At London, Imprinted by R. Robinſon, 1587.


To the Reader.


Amid the deſert rockes, the mountaine Beare,

Brings forth vnformed, vnlyke her ſelfe, her yong,

Nought els but lumpes of fleſhe,withouten heare,

In tract of time, her often licking tong

Giues them ſuch ſhape as doth (ere long) delight

The lookers on. Or when one dogge doth ſhake,

With mooſled mouth,the ioynts too weake to fight.

Or when vpright he ſtandeth by his ſtake,

(A noble creaſt) or wilde in ſauage woode,

A doſin doggs one holdeth at a baye,

With gaping mouth, and ſtayned iawes with blood:

Or els, when from the farthest heauens,they

The lode ſtarres are, the weary Pilats marke,

In ſtormes to guide to hauen the toſſed barke:

Right ſo my muſe,

Hath (now at length) with trauel long brought forth

Her tender whelpes, her diuers kindes of ſtyle:

Such as they are, or nought, or little worth,

Which carefull trauell, or a longer while,

May better ſhape. The eldeſt of them, loe,

I offer to the ſtake, my youthfull worke,

Which one reprochfull mouth might ouerthrow.

The reſt vnlickt, as yet a while ſhall lurke,

Till time giue ſtrength, to might and match in fight

With ſlaunders whelps. Then ſhall they tell of ſtrife

Of noble triumphes, and deedes of martiall might:

And ſhall giue rules of chaſt and honeſt life.

The while I pray that ye with fauour blame,

Or rather not reproue the laughing game

Of this my muſe.



The Argument


Loue hath inflamed twaine by ſodaine ſight

And both do graunt the thing that both deſire

They wed in ſhrift by counſell of a Fryre

Yong Romeus climes faire Iuliets bour by night

Three monthes he doth enioy his chiefe delight

By Tybalts rage, provoked vnto yre

He payeth death to Tybalt for his hire

A baniſht man he ſcapes by ſecrete flight

New marriage is offred to his wife

She drinkes a drinke that ſemes to reaue her breath

They bury her,that ſleeping yet hath life

Her huſband heares the tydings of her death

He drinks his bane. And ſhe with Romeus knife

When ſhe awakes, her ſelfe (alas) ſhe ſleath.



There is beyond the Alps,

a towne of auncient fame:

Whoſe bright renowne yet ſhineth cléere,

Verona men it name.

Built in an happy time,

built on a fertile ſoyle:

Mayntayned by the heau’nly fates,

and by the towniſh toyle.

The fruitfull hilles aboue,

the pleaſant uales belowe:

The ſiluer ſtreame with channell déepe

that through the towne doth flowe:

The ſtore of ſprings that ſerue

for vſe, and eke for eaſe:

And other moe commodities

which profite may and pleaſe:

Eke many certaine ſignes

of things betide of olde,

To fill the hungry eyes of thoſe

that curiouſly beholde:

Doe make this towne to be

preferd before the reſt

Of Lumbard townes, or at the leaſt,

compared with the beſt.

In which while Eſcalus,

as Prince alone did raigne,

To reache rewarde vnto the good,

to pay the lewde with paine:

Alas (I rewe to thinke)

an heauie hap befell:

Which Boccas ſcant (not my rude tongue)

were able forth to tell.

Within my trembling hand,

my pen doth ſhake for feare:

And on my colde amſed head,

upright doth ſtand my heare.

But ſith ſhe doth commaunde,

whoſe heſt I muſt obaye:

In mourning verſe, a wofull chaunce

to tell I will aſſaye.

Helpe learned Pallas,helpe,

ye Muſes with your arte:

Helpe all you damned feendes, to tell,

of ioyes returnde to ſmart.

Helpe eke ye ſiſters three,

my ſkilleſſe pen t’indyte:

For you it cauſd ewhich I (alas)

unable am to write.

There were two auncient ſtockes,

which Fortune high dyd place

Aboue the reſt, indude with wealth,

and nobler of their race.

Lou’d of the common ſort,

lou’d of the Prince alike:

And like vnhappy were they both,

when Fortune liſt to ſtrike.

Whoſe prayſe with equall blaſt,

Fame in her trumpet blew:

The one was cleped Capylet,

and th’other Montagew.

A wonted vſe it is,

that men of likely ſort

(I wot not by what fury for’d)

envy eache others port.

So theſe, whoſe egall ſtate

bred enuye pale of hew:

And then, of grudging enuyes roote,

blacke hate and rancor grewe:

As of a little ſparke,

oft ryſeth mighty fire:

So of a kindled ſparke or grudge,

in flames flaſhe out theyr yre.

And then their deadly foode,

firſt hatch’d of tryfling ſtrife:

Did bath in bloud of ſmarting woundes,

it reued breth and life.

No legend lye I tell,

ſcarce yet their eyes be drye:

That did beholde the griſly ſight,

with wet and weeping eye.

But when the prudent Prince,

who there the ſcepter helde:

So great a new diſorder in

his common weale beheld:

By ientil meane he ſought,

their choller to aſſwage:

And by perſwaſion to appeaſe,

their blamefull furious rage.

But both his wordes and time,

the Prince hath ſpent in vaine:

So rooted was the inwarde hate,

he loſt his buſie paine.

When friendly ſage aduiſe,

ne ientyll wordes auaile:

By thundring threats, & princely powre

their courage gan he quayle.

In hope, that when he had

the waſting flame ſuppreſt,

In time he ſhould quite quench the ſparks

that burnde within their breſt.

Now whilſt theſe kindreds do

remayne in this eſtate:

And eache with outwarde frendly ſhewe

doth hide his inwarde hate:

One Romeus,who was

of race a Montagew,

Upon whoſe tender chyn, as yet,

no man-like bearde there grewe:

Whoſe beauty and whoſe ſhape

ſo farre the reſt did ſtayne,

That from the chiefe of Veron youth

he greateſt fame did gayne,

Hath founde a mayde ſo fayre

(he found ſo fowle his happe)

Whoſe beauty, ſhape, and comely grace,

did ſo his heart intrappe,

That from his owne affayres,

his thought ſhe did remoue:

Onely he ſought to honor her,

to ſerue her, and to loue.

To her he wryteth oft,

oft meſſengers are ſent,

At length (in hope of better ſpéede)

him-ſelfe the louer went

Preſent to pleade for grace,

which abſent was not founde.

And to diſcouer to her eye

his new receiued wounde.

But ſhe that from her youth

was foſtred euermore

With vertues foode, and taught in ſchoole

of wiſedomes ſkilfull lore:

By aunſwere did cut off

Th’ffections of his loue,

That he no more occaſion had

ſo vayne a ſute to moue.

So ſterne ſhe was of chéere,

(for all the paines he tooke)

That in reward of toyle, ſhe would

not giue a frendly looke.

And yet how much ſhe did

with conſtant mind retyre:

So much the more his feruent minde

was prickt forth by deſire.

But when he many monthes,

hopeleſſe of his recure

Had ſerued her, who forced not

(what paynes he did endure:)

At length he thought to leaue

Verona, and to proue

If chaunge of place might chaunge away

his ill beſtowed loue.

And ſpeaking to himſelfe,

thus gan he make his mone:

What booteth me to loue and ſerue

a fell vnthankfull one:

Sith that my humble ſute

and labour ſowde in vaine,

Can reap no other fruite at all

but ſcorne and prowde diſdaine.

What way ſhée ſéekes to goe,

the ſame I ſéeke to runne:

But ſhe the path wherein I treade,

with ſpéedy flight doth ſhunne.

I can not liue, except

that nere to her I be:

She is ay beſt content when ſhe

is fartheſt off from me.

Wherefore hence=forth I will

farre from her take my flight.

Perhaps mine eye once baniſhed

by abſence from her ſight,

This fyre of myne, that by

her pleaſant eyne is fed,

Shall litle and litle weare away,

and quite at laſt be ded.

But whilſt he did decree

this purpoſe ſtill to kéepe:

A contrary repugnant thought

ſanke in his breſt ſo déepe:

That doubtfull is he now,

which of the twayne is beſt:

In ſighs, in ſobs, in plaint, in care,

in ſorow and vnreſt

He mones the daye, he wakes

the long and weary night:

So déepe hath loue with pearcing hand

y=grau’d her beautie bright

Within his breſt, and hath

ſo maſtred quite his hart:

That he of force muſt yéelde as thrall,

no way is left to ſtart.

He cannot ſtaye his ſtep,

but forth ſtill muſt he runne:

He languiſheth, and melts away

as ſnow againſt the ſunne.

His kindred and alyes,

do wonder what he ayles?

And eache of them in frendly wiſe,

his heauie hap bewayles.

But one emong the reſt,

the truſtieſt of his féeres.

Far more than he with counſell fild,

and riper of his eares,

Gan ſharply him rebuke:

ſuch loue to him he bare,

That he was felow of his ſmart,

and partner of his care.

What meanſt thou Romeus

(quoth he) what doting rage

Doth make thee thus conſume away,

the beſt part of thine age,

In ſéeking her that ſcornes,

and hides her from thy ſight?

Not forceing al thy great expence,

ne yet thy honour bright:

Thy teares, thy wretched lyfe,

in thine unſpotted truth:

Which are of force (I wéene) to moue

the hardeſt heart to ruth.

Now for our frendſhips ſake,

and for thine health, I pray,

That thou henceforth become thine owne:

O giue no more away,

Unto a thankeles wight,

thy precious free eſtate:

In that thou loueſt ſuch a one,

thou ſéemſt thy ſelfe to hate.

For ſhée doth loue els-where,

(and then thy time is lorne)

Or els (what booteth thée to ſue)

loues court ſhe hath forſworne.

Both yong thou art of yeares,

and high in Fortunes grace:

What man is better ſhaped than thou?

who hath a ſwéeter face?

By painfull ſtudies meane

great learning haſt thou wonne:

Thy parentes haue none other heyre,

thou art theyr onely ſonne.

What greater gréefe (trowſt thou?)

what wofull deadly ſmart

Should ſo be able to diſtraine

thy ſéely fathers heart?

As in his age to ſée

thée plonged déepe in vice.

When greateſt hope he hath to heare

thy vertues fame ariſe.

What ſhall thy kinſmen thinke,

thou cauſe of all theyr ruthe?

Thy deadly foes do laugh to ſcorne

thy ill employed youth.

Wherefore, my counſell is,

that thou henceforth begin

To know and flie the errour which

too long thou liuedſt in.

Remoue the vaile of loue,

that kéepes thine eyes ſo blinde,

That thou ne canſt the ready path

of thy forefathers finde.

But if vnto thy will

ſo much in thrall thou art,

Yet in ſome other place beſtowe

thy witles wandring hart.

Chooſe out ſome worthie dame,

her honour thou and ſerue,

Who will giue eare to thy complaint,

and pitie ere thou ſterue.

But ſow no more thy paines

in ſuch a barraine ſoyle,

As yéeldes in harueſt time no crop

in recompence of toyle.

Ere long, the towniſhe dames

together will reſort:

Some one of beautie, favour, ſhape,

and of ſo louely port,

With ſo faſt fixed eye,

perhaps thou maiſt beholde:

That thou ſhalt quite forget thy loue,

and paſſions paſt of olde.

The young mans liſtning eare

receiude the holſome ſounde,

And reaſons truth y=planted ſo

within his head had grounde:

That now with healthie coole

y-tempred is the heate:

And péecemeale weares away the gréefe

that earſt his heart did freate.

To his approued frend

a ſolemne oth he plight.

At eu’ry feaſt y-kept by day,

and banquet made by night:

At pardons in the Church,

at games in open ſtreete:

And eu’ry where he would reſort,

where Ladies vse to meete.

Eke ſhould his ſauage heart

lyke all indifferently:

For he would vewe and iudge them all

with vnallured eye.

How happy had he béene.

had he not béene for ſworne:

But twiſe as happy had he béene,

had he béene neuer borne.

For ere the Moone could thriſe

her waſted hornes renew,

Falſe Fortune caſt for him poore wretch

a miſchiefe newe to brewe.

The weary winter nightes

reſtore the Chriſtmas games:

And now the ſeaſon doth inuite

to banquet towniſh dames.

And firſt in Capels houſe,

the chiefe of all the kyn,

Sparth for no coſt, the wonted vſe

of banquets to begin.

No Lady fayre or fowle

was in Verona towne:

No Knight or gentleman,

of high or low renowne:

But Capilet himſelfe

hath bid vnto his feaſt:

Or by his name in paper ſent

appoynted as a geaſt.

Yong damſels thether flocke,

of bachelers a rowte:

Not ſo much for the banquets ſake,

as beauties to ſearche out.

But not a Montagew

would enter at his gate:

For as you hearde, the Capilets,

and they were at debate.

Saue Romeus, and he,

in maſke with hidden face:

The ſupper done, with other fiue

did preaſe into the place.

When they had maſ’d a while,

with dames in courtly wiſe:

All did vnmaſke, the reſt did ſhew

them to theyr Ladies eyes.

But baſhfull Romeus,

with ſhamefaſt face forſooke

The open preaſe, and him withdrew

into the chambers nooke.

But brighter than the Sunne,

the waxen torches ſhone,

That mauger what he could, he was

eſpide of every one.

But of the women chéefe,

theyr gaſing eyes that threwe

To wonder at his ſightly ſhape

and beauties ſpotles hewe.

With which the heauens him had

and Nature ſo bedect:

That Ladies thought the faireſt dames:

were fowle in his reſpect.

And in their head beſide,

an other wonder roſe:

How he durſt put himſelfe in throng,

among ſo many foes.

Of courage ſtoute they thought

his comming to procéede:

And women loue an hardie heart,

as I in ſtories réede.

The Capilets diſdaine

the preſence of their foe:

Yet they ſuppreſſe their ſtirred yre,

the cauſe I do not knowe,

Perhaps t’offend their gueſtes

the courteous knights are loth:

Perhaps they ſtay from ſharpe reuenge,

dreading the Princes wroth.

Perhaps for that they ſhamde

to exerciſe theyr rage

Within their houſe, gainſt one alone,

and him of tender age.

They vſe no taunting talke,

ne harme him by theyr déede:

They neyther ſay, what makſt thou héere,

ne yet they ſay God ſpéede.

So that he fréely might

the Ladies view at eaſe:

And they alſo beholding him,

their chaunge of fanſies pleaſe.

Which Nature had him taught,

to doe with ſuch a grace:

That there was none but ioyed at

his being there in place.

With vpright beame he weyd

the bewty of eche dame,

And iudge who beſt, and who next her

was wrought in Natures frame.

At length he ſaw a mayde,

right fayre of perfect ſhape:

Which Theſeus or Paris would

haue choſen to their rape.

Whom erſt he neuer ſaw,

of all ſhe pleaſd him moſt:

Within himſelfe he ſayd to her,

thou iuſtly maiſt thee boſte,

Of perfect ſhapes renowne,

and Beauties ſounding prayſe:

Whoſe like ne hath, ne ſhall be ſeene,

ne liueth in our dayes.

And whilſt he fixd on her

his parciall pearced eye,

His former loue, for which of late

he ready was to dye,

Is nowe as quite forgot

as it had neuer beene:

The prouerb ſaith, vnminded oft

are they that are vnſeene.

And as out of a planke

a nayle a nayle doth driue:

So nouell loue out of the minde

the auncient loue doth riue.

This ſodaine kindled fire

in time is waxt ſo great,

That only death, and both theyr bluds

might quench the fierie heate.

When Romeus ſaw himſelfe

in this new tempeſt toſt:

Where both was hope of pleaſaunt port,

and daunger to be loſt:

He doubtefull ſcaſely knew

what countenaunce to kéepe:

In Lethies floud his wonted flames

were quencht and drenchd déepe.

Yea, he forgets himſelfe,

ne is the wretch ſo bolde

To aſke her name, that without force

hath him in bondage folde.

Ne how t’unlooſe his bondes

doth the poore foole deuiſe,

But onely ſéeketh by her ſight

to féede his hungrie eyes.

Through them he ſwalloweth downe

loues ſwéete impoyſonde baite:

How ſurely are the wareles wrapt,

by thoſe that lye in wayte.

So is the poyſon ſpred

throughout his bones and veines,

That in a while (alas the while)

it haſteth deadly paines.

Whilſt Iuliet (for ſo

this gentle damſell hight)

From ſide to ſide on euery one

did caſt about her ſight:

At laſt her flowing eyes

were ancord faſt on him,

Who for her ſake dyd baniſh health

and fréedome from ech limme.

He in her ſight did ſéeme,

to paſſe the reſt as farre:

As Phoebus ſhining beames doe paſſe

the brightnes of a ſtarre.

In waite lay warlike Loue,

with golden bowe and ſhafte,

And to his eaer with ſteady hande

the bow=ſtring vp he raft.

Till now ſhe had eſcapte

his ſharpe inflaming darte:

Till now he liſted not aſſaulte,

her yong and tender heart.

His whetted arrow looſde,

ſo toucht her to the quicke:

That through the eye it ſtrake the heart,

and there the heade did ſticke.

It booted not to ſtriue,

for why, ſhe wanted ſtrength:

The weaker aye vnto the ſtrong

of force muſt yéeld at length.

The pomps now of the feaſt,

her heart gins to deſpiſe:

And onely ioyeth when her eyne

méete with her louers eyes.

When their new ſmitten heartes

had fed on louing gleames:

Whilſt paſſing too and fro theyr eyes

y=mingled were their beames:

Each of theſe louers gan

by others lookes to knowe,

That friendſhip in their breſt had roote:

and both would haue it growe.

When thus in both their heartes

had Cupid made his breach:

And each of them had ſought the meane

to ende the warre by ſpéech:

Dame Fortune did aſſent,

their purpoſe to aduaunce:

With torch in hand a comely knight,

did fetch her forth to daunce.

She quit her ſelfe ſo well,

and with ſo trim a grace:

That ſhe the chiefe praiſe wan that night,

from all Verona race.

The whilſt our Romeus,

a place had warely wonne:

Nye to the ſeate where ſhe muſt ſitt,

the daunce once beyng done.

Fayre Iuliet turned to

her chayre with pleaſant chéere:

And glad ſhe was her Romeus

approched was ſo néere.

At th’one ſide of her chayre,

her louer Romeo:

And on the other ſide there ſate

one calde Mercutio.

A courtier that ech where,

was highly had in price:

For hée was courteous of his ſpéeche,

and pleaſant of device.

Euen as a Lyon would

emong the lambes behold:

Such was emong the baſhfull maydes,

Mercutio to bebolde.

With frendly gripe he ceaſd

fayre Iuliets ſnowiſh hand:

A gift hée had that Nature gaue

him to his ſwathing hand:

That froſen mountayne yſe

was neuer halfe ſo cold,

As were his hands, though nere ſo néere

the fyre he did them holde.

As ſoone as had the Knight

the virgins right hand raught:

Within his trembling hand her left

hath louing Romeus caught.

For hée wiſt well, him ſelfe

for her abode moſt paine:

And well hée wiſt ſhEe loude him beſt,

vnleſſe ſhée liſt to faine.

Then ſhee with tender hand

his tender palme hath preſt:

What ioy trow you was graffed now

in Romeus clouen breaſt?

The ſodaine ſweete delight

hath ſtopped quite his tongue:

Ne can hee claime of her his right,

ne craue redreſſe of wrong.

But ſhée eſpide ſtraight way

by chaunging of his hue

From pale to red,from red to pale,

and ſo from pale anew:

That vehment loue was cauſe,

why ſo his tongue did ſtay:

And ſo much more ſhée longd to heare

what loue could teache him ſaye.

When ſhée had longed long,

and hée long held his peace,

And her deſire of hearing him

by ſilence did encreaſe:

At laſt with trembling voyce

and ſhamefaſt chéere, the mayde

Unto her Romeus turnde her ſelfe,

and thus to him ſhée ſayde:

O bleſſed bee the time

of thy arriuall here:

But ere ſhée could ſpeake forth the reſt,

to her Loue drewe ſo néere,

And ſo within her mouth

her tongue hée glewed faſt,

That no one word could ſcape her more,

than what alreadie paſt.

In great contented eaſe

the yong man ſtraight is rapt,

What chaunce (qd hee) vnware to mée

O Lady mine is hapt,

That giues you worthie cauſe,

my cumming here to bliss.

Fayre Iuliet was come agayne

vnto her ſelfe by this.

Fyrſt ruthfully ſhee lookt,

then ſayd with ſmylyng cheere:

Meruaile no whit, my hearts delight,

my onely Knight and fere,

Mercutios yſy hande

had all to froʒen mine:

And of thy goodness, thou againe

haſt warmed it with thine.

Whereto with ſtayed brow,

gan Romeus to replie:

If ſo the Gods haue graunted me

ſuche fauour from the ſkie,

That by my being heare,

ſome ſeruice I haue done

That pleaſeth you, I am as glad

as I a realme had wonne.

O well beſtowed time,

that hath the happy hyre,

Which I would wiſh, if I might haue

my wiſhed hearts deſire.

For I of God woulde craue,

as priſe of paine forpaſt,

To ſerue, obey, and honour you,

ſo long as lyfe ſhall laſt:

As proofe ſhall teache you playne,

if that you like to trie

His faltles truth, that nill for ought,

vnto his Lady lie.

But if my touched hand,

haue warmed yours ſome dele

Aſſure your ſelf the heat is cold,

which in your hand you fele,

Compard to ſuch quick ſparkes

and glowing furious gleade,

As from your beauties pleaſant eyne,

loue cauſed to proceade.

Which haue ſo ſet on fyre

eache féeling part of mine,

That lo, my minde doth melt away,

my outward parts doe pine.

And,but you help, all whole,

to aſhes ſhould I turne:

Wherefore (alas) haue ruth on him,

whom you doe force to burne.

Euen with his ended tale

the torches daunce had end,

And Iuliet of force muſt part,

from her new choſen frend.

His hand ſhée claſped hard,

and all her parts did ſhake:

When leaſureles with whiſpring voice

thus did ſhée anſwer make.

You are no more your owne

(dear friend) than I am yours:

(Mine honour ſau’d) preſt to bey

your will, while life endures.

Lo heere the lucky lot,

that ſéeld true louers finde:

Eche takes away the others heart,

and leaues their owne behinde.

A happy life is loue

if God graunt from aboue,

That heart with heart by euen waight

doe make exchaunge of loue.

But Romeus gone from her,

his heart for care is colde:

He hath forgot to aſke her name

that hath his heart in holde.

With forged careles chéere,

of one he ſéekes to knowe,

Both how ſhe hight, & whence ſhe came,

that him enchuanted ſo.

So hath he learnd her name,

and knowth ſhe is no geaſt.

Her father was a Capilet,

and maiſter of the feaſt.

Thus hath his foe in choiſe

to giue him life or death,

That ſcarſely can his wofull breſt

kéepe in the liuely breath.

Wherefore with piteous plaint

fierce Fortune doth he blame:

That in his ruth and wretched plight

doth ſéeke her laughing game.

And he reprooueth loue,

chiefe cauſe of his vnreſt:

Who eaſe and fréedome hath exilde

out of his youthfull breſt.

Twiſe hath he made him ſerue,

hopeles of his rewarde:

Of both the illes to chooſe the leſſe,

I wéene the choyce were harde.

Firſt to a ruthleſſe one

he made him ſue for grace:

And now with ſpurre he forceth him

to runne an endles race.

Amid theſe ſtormy ſeas

one anchor doth him holde:

He ſerueth not a cruell one,

as he had done of olde.

And therefore is content,

and chooſeth ſtill to ſerue,

Though hap ſhould ſwear yt guerdonles

the wretched wight ſhould ſterue.

The lot of Tantalus

Is, Romeus, like to thine,

For want of food amid his foode,

the miſer ſtill doth pine.

As carefull was the maide,

what way were beſt deuiſe

To learne his name, that intertainde

her in ſo gentle wiſe.

Of whome her heart receiude

ſo déepe, ſo wide a wounde,

An auncient dame ſhe cald to her

and in her ear gan rounde.

This olde dame in her youth,

had nurſt her with her milke,

With ſlender néedle taught her ſow,

and how to ſpin with ſilke.

What twayne are thoſe, (qd ſhe)

which preaſe vnto the dore,

Whoſe pages in theyr hands do beare,

two torches light before.

And then as eache of them

had of his houſhold name,

So ſhe him namde yet once againe

the yong and wyly dame.

And tel me who is he

with viſor in his hand:

That yonder doth in maſking wéede

beſide the window ſtand.

His name is Romeus,

(ſayd ſhe) a Montegewe,

Whoſe fathers pride firſt ſtird the ſtrife

which both your houſholds rew,

The worde of Montegew,

her ioyes did ouerthrow:

And ſtraight in ſtéede of happy hope,

dyſpayre began to grow.

What hap haue I (qd ſhée)

to loue my fathers foe?

What, am I weary of my weale?

what, doe I wiſh my woe?

But though her grieuous paines

diſtrayned her tender hart,

Yet with an outward ſhew of ioye,

ſhée cloked inward ſmart.

And of the courtlike dames

her leaue ſo courtlike tooke,

That none did geſſe the ſodaine change,

by chaunging of her looke.

Then at her mothers heſt,

to chamber ſhée her hyde:

So well ſhée fainde, mother ne nurce

the hidden harme deſcride.

But when ſhe ſhould haue ſlept,

as wont ſhe was, in bed,

Not halfe a winke of quiet ſleepe

could harbour in her bed.

For lo, an hugie heape

of diuers thoughts ariſe,

That reſt haue baniſht from her heart,

and ſlumber from her eyes.

And now from ſide to ſide

ſhe toſſeth and ſhe turnes,

And now for feare ſhe ſhiuereth,

and now for loue ſhe burnes.

Ah ſéely foole (qd ſhe).

y=caught in ſuttel ſnare:

Ah wretched wench bewrapt in woe,

ah caytife clad with care.

Whence come theſe wandring thoughts,

to thy vnconſtant breſt?

By ſtraying thus from reaſons lore,

that reue thy wonted reſt?

What if his ſuttle braine,

to fayne haue taught his tongue?

And ſo the ſnake that lurkes in graſſe

thy tender hart hath ſtong?

What if with frendly ſpeach

the traytor lye in wayte?

As oft the poyſonde hooke is hid

wrapt in the pleaſaunt baite?

Oft vnder cloke of trueth,

hath falſehood ſerude her luſt:

And turnd theyr honor into ſhame,

that did ſo ſlightly truſt.

What, was not Dido ſo,

a crouned Quéene defamde?

And eke for ſuch an heynous crime,

haue men not Theſeus blamde?

A thouſande ſtories more,

to teach me to beware:

In Bocace and in Ouids bookes

too plainely written are.

Perhaps the great reuenge

he cannot worke by ſtrength:

By ſubtill ſleight (my honor ſtaynd)

he hopes to worke at length.

So ſhall I ſéeke to finde

my fathers foe his game:

So I befylde, Report ſhall take

her trompe of blacke defame.

Whence ſhe with puffed chéeke

ſhall blowe a blaſt ſo ſhrill

Of my diſpraiſe, that with the noiſe

Verona ſhall ſhe fill.

Then I a laughing ſtocke

through all the towne become ,

Shall hide my ſelfe, but not my ſhame,

within an hollowe toombe.

Streight vnderneth her foote,

ſhe treadeth in the duſt

Her troublous thought as wholy vaine,

y-bred of fond diſtruſt.

No no,by God aboue,

I wot it well quoth ſhe,

Although I raſhly ſpake before,

in no wiſe can it be:

That where ſuch perfet ſhape,

with pleaſant bewtie reſtes:

There crooked craft and trayſon blacke,

ſhould be appointed geſtes.

Sage writers ſay,the thoughts

are dwelling in the eyne:

Then ſure I am as Cupid raignes

that Romeus is myne.

The tongue, the meſſenger

eke call they of the minde:

So that I ſee he loueth me:

ſhall I then be vnkinde?

His faces roſie hew,

I ſawe full oft to ſeeke:

And ſtreight againe it flaſhed foorth,

and ſpred in either chéeke.

His fixed heauenly eyne,

that through me quite did perce,

His thoughts vnto my hart,my thought

they ſéemed to rehearce.

What ment his foltring tongue,

in telling of his tale?

The trembling of his ioynts,and eke

his colour waxen pale?

And whilſt I take with him,

himſelfe he hath exilde,

Out of himſelfe (as ſéemed me)

ne was I ſure beguilde.

Thoſe arguments of loue,

craft wrate not in his face:

But Natures hand,when all deceipt

was baniſht out of place.

What other certaine ſignes

ſéeke I of his good will?

Theſe doe ſuffiſe: and ſtedfaſt I

will loue and ſerue him ſtil,

Till Atropos ſhall cut

my fatall thread of life:

So that he minde to make of me

his lawfull wedded wife.

For ſo, perchaunce, this new

aliance may procure

Unto our houſes ſuche a peace

as euer ſhall endure

Oh how we can perſwade,

our ſelfe to what we like:

And how we can diſſwade our minde,

if ought our minde miſlike.

Weake arguments are ſtrong,

our fanſies ſtreight to frame,

To pleaſing thing, and eke to ſhuanne,

if we miſlike the ſame.

The mayde had ſcarſely yet

ended the weary warre,

Kept in her heart by ſtriuing thoughts,

when eu’ry ſhining ſtarre

Had payde his borowde light,

and Phoebus ſpred in ſkies

His golden rayes,which ſéemd to ſay:

now time it is to riſe.

And Romeus had by this

y-left his weary bed:

Where he a thouſand thoughts and more,

had forged in his hed.

And while with lingring ſtep

by Iuliets houſe he paſt:

And vpward to her windoes high

his gréedy eyes did caſt.

His loue that lookte for him,

there gan he ſtraight eſpie:

With pleaſaunt chéere eche gréeted is:

ſhe followeth with her eye

His parting ſteps,and he

oft looketh backe agayne:

But not ſo oft as hee deſires,

warely hee doth refrayne.

What life were like to loue,

if dread of ieopardie

Y-ſowred not the ſwéete, if loue

were free from ieloſy.

But ſhe more ſure within,

vnſeene of any wight,

When ſo he comes, lookes after him,

till he be out of ſight.

In often paſſing ſo,

his buſie eyes he threw,

That euery pane and tooting hole

the wily louer knew.

In happy hower he doth

a garden plot eſpie:

From which except he warely walke,

men may his loue deſcrie.

For lo, it fronted full,

vpon her leaning place:

Where ſhe is woont to ſhew her heart,

by cheerefull frendly face.

And leſt the arbors might

theyr ſecret loue bewray,

He doth keepe backe his forwarde foote

from paſſing there by day.

But when on earth the night

her mantle blacke hath ſpred,

Well armde he walketh foorth alone,

ne dreadfull foes doth dred.

Whom maketh Loue not bold?

nay whom makes he not blinde?

He reueth daungers dread oft times

out of the louers minde.

By night he paſſeth here,

a weeke or two in vayne:

And for the miſſing of his marke

his griefe hath him nie ſlaine.

And Iuliet that now

both lacke her hearts releefe:

Her Romeus pleaſaunt eyen (I meane)

is almoſt dead for greefe.

Eche day ſhe chaungeth howres,

(for louers keepe an howre ,

When they are ſure to ſee theyr loue

in paſſing by theyr howre)

Impacient of her woe,

ſhe hapt to leane one night

Within her window, and anon

the Moone did ſhine ſo bright,

That ſhe eſpide her loue:

her heart reuiued ſprang,

And now for ioy ſhe claps her handes,

which erſt for woe ſhe wrang.

Eke Romeus when he ſaw

his long deſired ſight:

His moorning cloake of mone caſt off,

hath clad him with delight.

Yet dare I ſay, of both,

that ſhe reioyced more:

His care was great, hers twiſe as great

was all the time before.

For whilſt ſhe knew not why

he dyd himſelfe abſent,

Aye doubting both his health and life,

his death ſhe did lament.

For loue is fearefull oft,

where is no cauſe of feare:

And what loue feares, that loue laments,

as though it chaunced were.

Of greater cauſe alway,

is greater woorke y-bred:

While he nought doubteth of her health,

ſhée dreads leſt he be ded.

When onely abſence is

the cauſe of Romeus ſmart,

By happie hope of ſight againe,

he feedes his fainting heart.

What wonder then if he

were wrapt in leſſe annoy?

What maruaile if by ſodaine ſight

ſhée fed of greater ioy?

His ſmaller griefe or ioy,

no ſmaller loue doe proue:

Ne for ſhe paſſeth him in both,

did ſhee paſſe him in loue.

But eche of them alike

did burne in equall flame:

The welbelouing Knight,and eke

the welbeloued dame.

Now whilſt with bitter teares

her eyes as fountaines ronne:

With whiſpering voyce y-broke with ſobs

thus is her tale begonne.

Oh Romeus,of your lyfe

too lauas ſure yon are:

That in this place, and at this time,

to haſard it you dare.

What if your deadly foes,

my kynſmen, ſaw you here?

Lyke Lyons wylde, your tender partes

aſunder would they teare.

In ruth and in diſdayne,

I weary of my life,

With cruel hand my moorning heart,

would pearce with bloudy knife.

For you mine owne once deade,

what ioy ſhould I haue heere?

And eke my honour ſtainde,which I

than life doe holde more deare.

Fayre lady mine dame Iuliet,

my lyfe (quoth hée)

Euen from my byrth committed was

to fatal ſiſters thrée.

They may, in ſpyte of foes,

drawe foorth my liuely thred:

And they alſo, who ſo ſayth nay?

aſunder may it ſhred.

But who to reaue my life,

his rage and force would bend:

Perhaps ſhould trye vnto his paine,

how I could it defende.

Ne yet I loue it ſo,

but alwayes for your ſake ,

A ſacrifice to death I would

my wounded corps betake.

If my miſhap were ſuch,

that here before your ſight

I ſhould reſtore againe to death

of lyfe my borowde light:

This one thing, and no more,

my parting ſprite would rewe:

That part he ſhould,before that you

by certaine tryall knew

The loue I owe to you,

the thrall I languiſh in,

And how I dread to looſe the gaine

which I doe hope to win.

And how I wiſh for life,

not for my proper eaſe:

But that in it you might I loue,

you honour, ſerue, and pleaſe

Till deadly pangs the ſprite

out of the corps ſhall ſend:

And thereupon he ſware an oth,

and ſo his tale had end.

Now loue and pitie boyle

in Iuliets ruthfull breſt:

In windowe on her leaning arme

her weary head doth reſt.

Her boſome bath’d in teares,

to witnes inward paine:

With dreary chere to Romeus,

thus aunſwerde ſhe againe.

Ah my deare Romeus,

keepe in theſe words (quoth ſhe)

For lo, the thought of ſuch miſchaunce

already maketh me,

For pity and for dread,

Wel nigh to yeeld vp breath:

In euen ballance payʒed are

my life and eake my death.

For so my heart is knit,

yea, made all one with youres,

That ſure there is no greefe ſo ſmall,

by which your minde endures,

But as you ſuffer payne,

ſo I doe beare in part,

(Although it leſſens not your greefe)

the halfe of all your ſmart.

But theſe things ouerpaſt,

if of your health and mine

You haue reſpect, or pity ought

my teary weeping eyne:

In few vnfayned woordes,

your hidden minde vnfolde,

That as I ſee your pleaſant face,

your heart I may beholde.

For if you doe intende

mine honour to defile,

In errour ſhall you wander ſtill,

as you haue done this while.

But if your thought be chaſte,

and haue on vertue ground:

If wedlocke be the ende and marke,

which your deſire hath found:

Obedience ſet aſide,

vnto my parents dew:

The quarell eke that long agoe,

betwéene our houſholdes grewe.

Both me and myne I will

all whole to you betake:

And following you where ſo you goe,

my fathers houſe forſake.

But if by wanton loue,

and by vnlawfull ſute,

You thinke in ripeſt yéeres to plucke

my maydenhods dainty frute:

You are beguilde, and now,

your Iuliet you beſéekes

To ceaſe your ſute, and ſuffer her

to liue among her likes.

Then Romeus, whoſe thought

was féee from fowle deſire:

And to the top of vertues hayght,

did worthely aſpire:

Was fild with greater ioy,

then can my pen expreſſe:

Or, til they haue enioyde the like,

the hearers heart can geſſe.

And then with ioyned hands,

Heau’d vp vnto the ſkies:

He thankes the Gods , & from the heauens

for vengeaunce downe he cries,

If he haue other thought,

but as his Lady ſpake:

And then his looke he turnde to her,

and thus did anſwere make.

Since, Lady, that you like,

to honor me ſo much:

As to accept me for your ſpouſe,

I yéelde my ſelfe for ſuch.

In true witnes whereof,

becauſe I muſt depart:

Till that my déede doe proue my word,

I leaue in pawne my heart.

To morow eke betimes,

before the ſunne ariſe:

To Fryer Lawrence will I wende,

to learne his ſage aduiſe.

He is my ghoſtly ſyre,

and oft he hath me taught:

What I ſhould doe in things of wayght,

when I his ayde haue ſought.

And at this ſelfe ſame houre,

I plight you héere my faith:

I will be heere (if you thinke good)

to tell you what he ſaith.

She was contented well:

els fauour found he none,

That night at Lady Iuliets hand,

ſaue pleaſaunt wordes alone.

This barefoote Fryer gyrt,

with cord his grayiſh wéede,

For he of Frauncis order was,

a Fryer, as I réede.

Not as the moſt was he,

a groſſe vnlearned foole:

But Doctor of diuinitie

procéeded he in ſchoole.

The ſecretes eke he knew,

in natures workes that loorke:

By magiks Arte moſt men ſuppoſde,

that he could wonders woorke.

Ne doth it ill beſéeme

Deuines thoſe ſkls to know:

If on no harmefull déede they doe,

ſuch ſkilfulnes beſtowe.

For iuſtly, of no Arte

can men condemne the vſe:

But right and reaſons lore crie out,

againſt the lewde abuſe.

The bounty of the Fryer,

and wiſedome hath ſo wonne

The townes folkes hearts, that welnigh al

to Fryer Laurence ronne

To ſhriue themſelfe, the olde,

the yong, the great and ſmall:

Of all he is beloued well,

and honorde much of all.

And (for he did the reſt

in wiſdome farre excéede)

The Prince by him (his counſell craude)

was holpe at time of neede.

Betwixt the Capilets,

and him great frendſhip grewe:

A ſecret and aſſured friend

vnto the Montegewe:

Loued of this yong man more

then any other gueſt.

The Fryer eke of Veron youth,

aye liked Romeus beſt.

For whom he euer hath

in time of his diſtreſſe:

(As erſt you heard) by ſkilfull lore,

found out his harmes redreſſe.

To him is Romeus gon,

ne ſtayth he till the morrowe:

To him he paynteth all his caſe,

his paſſed ioy and ſorrowe.

How he hath her eſpide

with other dames in daunce,

And how that firſt to talke with her,

himſelfe he did aduaunce.

Their talke and chaunge of lookes

he gan to him declare,

And how ſo faſt by faith and troth

they both y-coupled are:

That neither hope of life,

nor dread of cruell death,

Shall make him falſe his faith to her,

while life ſhall lend him breath.

And then with wéeping eyes

he prayes his ghoſtly ſyre,

To further and accompliſh all

their honeſt heartes deſire.

A thouſand doubts and moe

in th’old mans head aroſe:

A thouſand daungers like to come,

the olde man doth diſcloſe.

And from the ſpouſall rites,

he readeth him refraine:

Perhaps he ſhalbe bet aduiſde

within a weeke or twayne.

Aduiſe is baniſht quit,

from thoſe that followe loue:

Except aduiſe to what they like,

their bending minde doe mooue.

As well the father might

haue counſelde him to ſtay

That frō a mountaines top thrown downe,

is falling halfe the way:

As warne his frend to ſtop,

amid his race begunne:

Whom Cupid with his ſmarting whip,

enforceth forth to runne.

Part wonne by earneſt ſute,

the Fryre doth graunt at laſt:

And part becauſe he thinkes the ſtormes

so lately ouerpaſt:

Of both the houſholds wrath,

this maryage might appeaſe,

So that they ſhould not rage againe,

but quite for euer ceaſe.

The reſpite of a day

he aſketh to deuiſe,

What way were beſt vnknowne, to ende

ſo greate an enterpriſe.

The wounded man that nowe,

doth deadly paines endure:

Scarſe patient tarieth whilſt his léeche,

doth make the ſalue to cure.

So Romeus ſcarſely graunts

a ſhort day and a night:

Yet néeds he muſt, els muſt he want

his onely hearts delight.

You ſée that Romeus

no time or paine doth ſpare:

Thinke that the while faire Iuliet,

is not deuoyd of care.

Yong Romeus powreth forth,

his hap and his miſhap,

Into the Fryers breſt: but where.

ſhall Iuliet vnwrap

The ſecrets of her heart?

to whom ſhall ſhe vnfolde,

Her hidden burning loue,and eke

her thought and cares ſo colde?

The nurſe, of whom I ſpake,

within her chamber lay:

Upon the mayde ſhe waiteth ſtill:

to her ſhe doth bewray

Her new receiued wound,

and then her ayde doth craue:

In her ſhe ſayes it lyes to ſpill,

in her, her life to ſaue.

Not eaſilie ſhe made

the froward nurſe to bowe,

But wonne at length with promiſt hire,

ſhe made a ſolemne vowe,

To doe what ſhe commaundes,

as handmaide of her heſt:

Her maſtres ſecrets hide ſhe will,

within her couert breſt.

To Romeus ſhe goes

of him ſhe doth deſire,

To knowe the meane of marriage,

by counſell of the Fryer.

On Saturday (quoth he)

if Iuliet come to ſhrift,

She ſhall be ſhriued and married:

how like you nurſe this driſt?

Now by my truth (quth ſhe)

Gods bleſſing haue your heart:

For yet in all my life I haue

not heard of ſuch a parte.

Lord,how you yong men can

ſuch craftie wiles deuiſe,

If that ye loue the daughter well,

to bleare the mothers eyes.

An eaſie thing it is,

with cloake of holines,

To mocke the ſillie mother, that

ſuſpecteth nothing leſſe.

But that it pleaſed you

to tell me of the caſe,

For all my many yeres perhaps,

I ſhould haue found it ſcarſe.

Now for the reſt, let me

and Iuliet alone:

To get her leaue, ſome feate excuſe

I will deuiſe anone.

For that her golden lockes

by ſloath haue been vnkempt:

Or for vnwares ſome wanton dreame

the youthfull damſell drempt,

Or for in thoughts of loue,

her idle time ſhe ſpent:

Or otherwiſe within her heart

deſerued to be ſhent.

I know her mother will

in no caſe ſay her nay:

I warrant you ſhe ſhall not faile

to come on Saterday.

And then ſhe ſweares to him,

the mother loues her well:

And how ſhée gaue her ſucke in youth,

ſhe leaueth not to tell.

A pretie babe (qd ſhe)

it was when it was yong:

Lord,how it could full pretilie

haue prated with it tongue.

A thouſand times and more,

I layde her on my lappe:

And clapt her on the buttocke ſoft,

and kiſt where I did clap.

And gladder than was I,

of ſuch a kiſſe forſooth:

Than I had béene to haue a kiſſe,

of ſome olde 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 tooke,

in hearing of his loue:

The meſſage aunſwere ſéemed him

to be of more behoue.

But when theſe Beldames ſit

at eaſe vpon theyr tayle,

The day, and eke the candle light,

before theyr talke, ſhall fayle.

And part they ſay is true,

and part they do deuiſe:

Yet boldly do they chat of both,

when no man checks theyr lyes.

Then he vi. crownes of gold

out of his pocket drew:

And gaue them her, a ſlight rewarde

(quoth he) and ſo adew.

In ſeuen yeares twiſe tolde

ſhe had not bowde ſo low

Her crooked knées, as now they bow:

ſhe ſweares ſhe will beſtow

Her craftie wit, her time,

and all her buſie paine,

To helpe him to his hoped bliſſe:

and cowring downe agayne

Shée takes her leaue, and home

ſhée hyes with ſpeedy pace:

The chaumber dore ſhée ſhuts, and then

ſhée ſayth with ſmyling face:

Good newes for thée my gyrle,

good tidings I thee bring:

Leaue off thy wonted ſong of care,

and now of pleaſure ſing.

For thou mayſt holde thy ſelfe,

the happieſt vnder ſu nne:

That in ſo little while, ſo well

ſo worthie a knight haſt wonne.

The beſt y=ſhapde is hée,

and hath the fayreſt face

Of all this towne, & there is none

hath halfe ſo good a grace.

So gentle of his ſpéeche,

and of his counſell wiſe:

And ſtil with many prayſes more,

ſhe heau’d him to the ſkies.

Tell me els what, (quoth ſhe)

this euermore I thought:

But of our mariage ſay at once,

what aunſwere haue you brought?

Nay ſoft,quoth ſhée, I feare,

your hurt by ſodaine ioye.

I liſt not play (quoth Iuliet)

although thou liſt to toye.

How glad trow you was ſhe,

when ſhée had heard her ſay:

No further off than Saturday,

differred was the day.

Againe the auncient nurce

doth ſpeake of Romeus:

And then (ſayde ſhe) he ſpake to me,

and then I ſpake him thus.

Nothing was done or ſayde,

that ſhée hath left vntolde,

Saue onely one, that ſhe forgot,

the taking of the golde.

There is no loſſe (quoth ſhe)

(ſwéete wench) to loſſe of time:

Ne in thine age ſhalt thou repent

ſo much of any crime.

For when I call to minde,

my former paſſed youth:

One thing there is, which moſt of all

doth cauſe my endles ruth.

At ſixtéene yeares I firſt

did chooſe my louing feere:

And I was fully ripe before,

(I dare well ſay) a yeare.

The pleaſure that I loſt

that yere ſo ouerpaſt,

A thouſand times I haue bewept,

and ſhall while life doth laſt.

In fayth it were a ſhame,

yea ſinne it were ywiſſe,

When thou maiſt liue in happy ioy,

to ſet light by thy bliſſe.

She that this morning could

her miſtres minde diſſwade,

Is now become an Oratreſſe,

her Lady to perſwade.

If any man be here.

whome loue hath clad with care:

To him I ſpeake,If thou wilt ſpéede,

thy purſe thou muſt not ſpare.

Two ſorts of men there are,

ſéeld welcome in at dore:

The welthie ſparing niggard, and

the ſutor that is poore.

For glittering golde is wont

by kinde to moue the heart:

And oftentimes a ſlight rewarde

doth cauſe a more deſert.

Y=written haue I read,

I wot not in what booke:

There is no better way to fiſhe,

then with a golden hooke.

Of Romeus theſe two

doe ſit and chat a while,

And to themſelfe they laugh, how they

the mother ſhall beguile.

A feate excuſe they finde,

but ſure I know it not:

And leaue for her to goe to ſhrift

on Saturday ſhe got.

So well this Iuliet,

this wiely wenche did know

Her mothers angrie houres ,and eke

the true bent of her bowe:

The Saturday betimes

in ſober wéede y-clad,

She tooke her leaue,and forth ſhée went

with viſage graue and ſad.

With her the nurce is ſent

as bridle of her luſt:

With her the mother ſendes a maide,

almoſt of equall truſt.

Betwixt her teeth the bytte

the Ienet now hath cought:

So warely eke the virgin walke,s

her maide perceiueth nought.

She gaſeth not in Church,

on yong men of the towne:

Ne wandreth ſhée from place to place,

but ſtraight ſhe kneleth downe

Upon an altars ſtep,

where ſhe deuoutly prayes:

And there vpon her tender knees

the weary Lady ſtayes:

Whilſt ſhe doth ſend her mayde

the certain truth to know,

If Fryer Laurence layſure had,

to heare her ſhrift,or no.

Out of his ſhriuing place

he comes, with pleaſant chéere:

The ſhamefaſt mayde with baſhfull brow

to himward draweth néere.

Some great offence (quoth he)

you haue committed late:

Perhaps you haue diſpleaſde your frend,

by giuing him a mate.

Then turning to the nurce,

and to the other mayde:

Goe heare a maſſe or two, quoth he,

which ſtraight way ſhall be ſayde.

For,her confeſſion heard,

I will vnto you twaine

The charge that I receiu’d of you,

reſtore to you agayne.

What,was not Iuliet

trowe you right well apayde?

That for this truſty Fryre hath chaungde

her yong miſtruſting mayde.

I dare well ſay, there is

in all Verona none:

But Romeus, with whom ſhée would

ſo gladly be alone.

Thus to the Fryers cell,

they both foorth walked bin:

He ſhuts the dore as ſoone as hée

and Iuliet were in.

But Romeus her frend

was entred in before:

And there had wayted for his loue,

two howers large and more.

Eche minute ſeemd an howre,

and eu’ry howre a day:

Twixt hope he liued and deſpayre,

of comming or of ſtay.

Now wauering hope and feare,

are quite fled out of ſight.

For what he hopde he hath at hand,

his pleaſaunt chiefe delight.

And ioyfull Iuliet

is healde of all her ſmart:

For now the reſt of all her partes,

haue found her ſtraying hart.

Both theyr confeſſions firſt

the Fryre hath heard them make:

And then to her with lowder voice,

thus Fryer Laurence ſpake.

Fayre Lady Iuliet,

my ghoſtly daughter deere:

As far as I of Romeus learne

who by you ſtandeth here.

Twixt you it is agréed

that you ſhall be his wife:

And he your ſpouſe in ſteady truth,

till death ſhall end your life.

Are you both fully bent,

to kéepe this great beheſt?

And both the louers ſaid, it was

theyr onely hearts requeſt.

When he did ſée their mindes

in linkes of loue so faſt:

When in the prayſe of wedlocke ſtate

ſome ſkilfull talke was paſt:

When he had tolde at length

the wife what was her due:

His duety eke by ghoſtly talke

the youthfull huſband knew:

How that the wife in loue,

muſt honor and obey:

What loue and honor he doth owe,

and debt that he muſt pay.

The wordes pronounced were

which holy Church of olde,

Appoynted hath for mariage:

and ſhe a ring of golde

Receiu’d of Romeus:

and then they both aroſe.

To whom the Fryre then ſaid, perchaunce

a part you will diſcloſe,

Betwixt your ſelfe alone,

the bottome of your hart:

Say on at once, for time it is

that hence you ſhould depart.

Then Romeus ſaide to her,

(both loth to part ſo ſoone:)

Fayre Lady ſend to me againe

your nurſe this after noone:

Of corde I will beſpeake,

a ladder by that time:

By which, this night, while other ſléepe,

I will your window climbe.

Then will we talke of loue,

and of our olde diſpayres:

And then with longer leaſure had,

diſpoſe our great affaires.

Theſe ſaid, they kiſſe, and then

part to their fathers houſe:

The ioyfull Bride vnto her home,

to his eke go’th the ſpouſe.

Contented both, and yet

both vncontented ſtill:

Till night and Venus child giue leaue

the wedding to fulfill.

The painfull ſouldier ſore

y=bet with wearie warre:

The merchant eke that néedfull thinges

doth dread to fetch from farre:

The plowman that for doubt

of fierce inuading foes,

Rather to ſit in idle eaſe

then ſowe his tilt hath choſe:

Reioyce to heare proclaimde

the tydinges of the peace:

Not pleaſurde with the ſounde ſo much,

but when the warres do ceaſe.

Then ceaſed are the harmes,

which cruell warre brings forth:

The merchant then may boldly fetch,

his wares of precious worth.

Dreadles the huſband man,

doth tyll his fertile fielde:

For wealth her mate, not for her ſelfe,

is peace ſo precious held.

So louers liue in care,

in dread, and in vnreſt:

And deadly warre by ſtriuing thoughts,

they kéepe within their breſt.

But wedlocke is the peace,

whereby is fréedome wonne:

To doe a thouſand pleaſant things,

that ſhould not els be done.

The newes of ended warre,

they two haue hard with ioy:

But now they long the fruite of peace,

with pleaſure to enioy.

In ſtormy wind and waue,

in daunger to be loſt:

Thy ſtearles ſhip (O Romeus)

hath béene long while betoſt.

The Seas are now appeaſde,

and thou by happy ſtarre,

Art come in ſight of quiet hauen:

and now the wrackfull barre

Is hid with ſwelling tide,

boldly thou maiſt reſort

Unto thy wedded Ladies bed,

thy long deſired port.

God graunt no follies miſt,

ſo dimme thy inwarde ſight:

That thou doe miſſe the chanel,that

doth leade to thy delight.

God graunt no daungers rocke,

y=lurking in the darke:

Before thou win the happy port,

wracke thy Sea-beaten barke.

A ſeruant Romeus had,

of worde and déede ſo iuſt:

That with his life (if néede requierd)

his maiſter would him truſt,

His faithfulnes had oft

our Romeus proude of olde:

And therefore all that yet was done,

vnto his man he tolde.

Who ſtraight as he was charged,

a corden ladder lookes:

To which he hath made faſt two ſtrong

and crooked yron hookes.

The Bride to ſend the nurſe

at twilight fayleth not:

To whom the Bridegrome giuen hath.

the ladder that he got.

And then to watch for him

appoynteth her an howre:

For whether Fortune ſmile on him,

or if ſhe liſt to lowre,

He will not miſſe to come,

to his appoynted place,

Where wont he was to take by ſtelth

the view of Iuliets face.

How long theſe louers thought

the laſting of the day

Let other iudge, that wonted are

lyke paſſions to aſſay.

For my part, I do geſſe

ech howre ſéemes twenty yéere:

So that I déeme if they might haue

(as of Alcume we heare)

The Sunne bond to theyr will,

if they the heauens might guide:

Black ſhade of night and doubled darke

ſhould ſtraight all ouer hide.

Th’appoynted howre is come,

he clad in riche araye

Walkes toward his deſired home,

good Fortune guide his way.

Approching neare the place

from whence his heart had life:

So light he wox,he lept the wall,

and there he ſpide his wife.

Who in the window watcht,

the comming of her Lord:

Where ſhe ſo ſurely had made faſt

the ladder made of corde:

That daungerles her ſpouſe

the chamber window climbes:

Where he ere then had wiſht himſelfe

aboue ten thouſand times.

The windowes cloſe are ſhut,

els looke they for no gueſt,

To light the waxen quarriers,

the auncient nurſe is preſt.

Which Iuliet had before

prepared to be light,

That ſhe at pleaſure might behold

her huſbands beautie bright.

A carchef white as ſnowe,

ware Iuliet on her head:

Such as ſhe wonted was to weare,

attyre méete for the bed.

As ſoone as ſhe him ſpide,

about his necke ſhe clong:

And by her long and ſlender armes,

a great while there ſhe hong.

A thouſand times ſhe kiſt,

and him vnkiſt againe:

Ne could ſhe ſpeake a worde to him,

though would ſhe nere ſo faine.

And like betwixt his armes

to faint his Lady is:

She fettes a ſigh, and clappeth cloſe

her cloſed mouth to his.

And ready then to ſownde,

ſhe looked ruthfully:

That loe, it made him both at once

to liue and eke to die.

Theſe piteous painefull panges,

were haply ouerpaſt:

And ſhe vnto her ſelfe againe,

returned home at laſt.

Then through her troubled breſt,

euen from the fartheſt parte,

An hollow ſigh, a meſſenger

ſhe ſendeth from her heart.

O Romeus, quoth ſhe,

in whom all vertues ſhine:

Welcome thou art into this place,

where from theſe eyes of mine,

Such teary ſtreames did flowe:

that I ſuppoſe well nye

The ſource of all my bitter teares

is altogether drye.

Abſence ſo pynde my heart,

which on thy preſence fed:

And of thy ſafety and thy health,

ſo much I ſtood in dred.

But now what is decréed

by fatall deſtenie:

I force it not, let Fortune doe

and death their worſt to me.

Full recompenſt am I ,

for all my paſſed harmes:

In that the Gods haue graunted me,

to claſpe thée in mine armes.

The chriſtall teares began

to ſtand in Romeus eyes,

When he vnto his Ladies wordes

gan anſwere in this wiſe:

Though cruell Fortune be

ſo much my deadly foe:

That I ne can by liuely proofe

cauſe thée (faire dame) to knowe,

How much I am by loue

enthralled vnto thée:

Ne yet what mighty powre thou haſt,

by thy deſert on me.

Ne tormentes that for thée

I did ere this endure:

Yet of thus much (ne will I fayne)

I may thée well aſſure:

The leaſt of many paynes

which of thy abſence ſprong:

More paynefully then death it ſelfe

my tender heart hath wrong.

Ere this one death had reft,

a thouſand deathes away:

But lyfe prolonged was by hope,

of this deſired day.

Which ſo iuſt tribute payes

of all my paſſed mone:

That I as well contented am,

as if my ſelfe alone

Did from the Ocean reigne

vnto the Sea of Inde.

Wherefore now let vs wipe away

old cares out of our minde.

For as the wretched ſtate

is now redreſt at laſt:

So is it ſkil, behinde our backe

the curſed care to caſt.

Since Fortune of her grace

hath time and place aſſinde

Where we with pleaſure may content

our vncontented minde:

In Lethes hide we déepe

all griefe and all annoy,

Whilſt we do bath in bliſſe, and fill

our hungrie hearts with ioy.

And for the time to come,

let be our buſie care:

So wiſely to direct our leoue

as no wight els beware.

Leſt enuious foes,by force

deſpoyle our new delight,

And vs throw backe from happy ſtate

to more vnhappie plight.

Fayre Iuliet began

to a nſwere what he ſayde:

But foorth in haſt the olde nurce ſtept,

and ſo her aunſwere ſtayde.

Who takes not time (quoth ſhe)

when time well offred is,

An other time ſhall ſéeke for time,

and yet of time ſhall miſſe.

And when occaſion ſerues,

who ſo doth let it ſlip,

Is woorthie ſure (if I might iudge)

of laſhes with a whip.

Wherefore,if eche of you

hath harmde the other ſo,

And eche of you hath béen the cauſe

of others wayled wo,

Loe here a fielde, (ſhée ſhewde

a field=bed ready dight)

Where you may, if you liſt, in armes,

reuenge your ſelfe by fight.

Whereto theſe louers both

gan eaſily aſſent:

And to the place of mylde reuenge,

with pleaſant chéere they went,

Where they were left alone:

the nurce is gone to reſt:

How can this bée? they reſtles lie,

ne yet they féele vnreſt.

I graunt that I enuie

the bliſſe they liued in:

Oh that I might haue found the like,

I wiſh it for no ſinne:

But that I might as well

with pen theyr ioyes depaint,

As heretofore I haue diſplayde

theyr ſecret hidden plaint.

Of ſhiuering care and dred,

I haue felt many a fit:

But Fortune ſuch delight as theyrs

did neuer graunt me yet.

By proofe no certaine truth

can I vnhappy write:

But what I geſſe by likelihood,

that dare I to endite.

The blindefolde Goddes, that

with frowning face doth fray,

And from theyr ſeate the mighty kings

throwes downe with headlong ſwaye,

Beginneth now to turne

to theſe her ſmyling face:

Néedes muſt they taſt of great delight,

ſo much in Fortunes grace.

If Cupid, God of loue,

be God of pleaſant ſport:

I thinke, O Romeus, Mars himſelfe

enuies thy happie ſort.

Ne Venus iuſtly might,

(as I ſuppoſe) repent,

If in thy ſtead, O Iuliet,

this pleaſant time ſhée ſpent.

Thus paſſe they foorth the night,

in ſport, in ioly game:

The haſtines of Phoebus ſtéeds

in great deſpite they blame.

And now the virgins fort

hath warlike Romeus got:

In which as yet no breache was made,

by force of canon ſhot.

And now in eaſe he doth

poſſeſſe the hoped place.

How glad was hée? ſpeake you that may

your louers parts embrace?

The mariage thus made vp,

and both the parties pleaſd:

The nigh approche of dayes retoorne

theſe ſeely foles diſeaſd.

And, for they might no while

in pleaſure paſſe theyr time,

Ne leaſure had they much to blame

the haſtie mornings crime:

With frendly kiſſe in armes

of her his leaue hee takes:

And eu’ry other night to come

a ſolemne oth he makes,

By one ſelfe meane, and eke

to come at one ſelfe howre:

And ſo he doth till Fortune liſt

to ſawſe his ſweete with ſowre.

But who is he that can

his preſent ſtate aſſure?

And ſay vnto himſelfe, thy ioyes

ſhall yet a day endure.

So wauering Fortunes whéele,

her chaunges be ſo ſtraunge:

And eu’ry wight y=thralled is

by ſate vnto her change:

Who raignes ſo ouer all,

that eache man hath his part:

(Although not aye perchaunce alike)

of pleaſure and of ſmart.

For, after many ioyes,

ſome feele but litle paine:

And from that litle griefe they turne

to happy ioy agayne.

But other ſome there are,

that liuing long in woe,

At length they be in quiet eaſe,

but long abide not ſo.

Whoſe greefe is much increaſt

by myrth that went before:

Becauſe the ſodaine chaunge of things

doth make it ſéeme the more.

Of this vnlucky ſort

our Romeus is one:

For all his hap turnes to miſhap,

and all his myrth to mone.

And ioyfull Iuliet,

an other leafe muſt turne:

As wont ſhée was (her ioyes bereft)

ſhe muſt begin to moorne.

The ſummer of their bliſſe,

doth laſt a month or twayne:

But winters blaſt with ſpéedy foote,

doth bring the fall agayne.

Whom glorious Fortune erſt

had heaued to the ſkies,

By enuious Fortune ouer throwne

on earth now groueling lies.

Shée payd theyr former griefe,

with pleaſures doubled gayne:

But now for pleaſures vſerie,

ten folde redoubleth payne.

The Prince could neuer cauſe

thoſe houſholds ſo agrée,

But that ſome ſparkles of their wrath,

as yet remaining bée.

Which lie this while rak’d vp,

in aſhes pale and ded:

Till time do ſerue that they againe

in waſting flame may ſpred.

At holieſt times (men ſay)

moſt haynous crimes are done:

The morow after Eaſter day

the miſchiefe new begon.

A band of Capilets

did méete (my heart it rewes)

Within the walles,by Purſers gate,

a band of Montagewes.

The Capilets, as chiefe,

a yong man haue choſe out:

Beſt exerciſde in feates of armes,

and nobleſt of the rowte:

Our Iuliets vnkles ſonne

that cleped was Tybalt.

He was of body tall and ſtrong,

and of his courage halt.

They néed no trompet ſounde,

to bid them giue the charge:

So lowde he cryde with ftrayned voice,

and mouth outſtretched large:

Now, now, (quoth he) my frendes,

our ſelfe ſo let vs wreake,

That of this dayes reuenge,and vs,

our childrens heyres may ſpeake.

Now once for all, let vs

theyr ſwelling pride aſſwage:

Let none of them eſcape aliue:

then he with furious rage,

And they with him gaue charge,

vpon they preſent foes:

And then forthwith a ſkyrmiſhe great

vpon this fray aroſe.

For loe, the Montagewes

thought ſhame away to flie:

And rather then to liue with ſhame,

with praiſe did chooſe to die.

The wordes that Tybalt vſde,

to ſtir his folke to ire,

Haue in the breſtes of Montegewes

kindled a furious fyre.

With Lyons heartes they fight,

warely themſelfe defend:

To wound his foe, his preſent wit

and force eche one doth bend.

This furious fray is long,

on eache ſide ſtoutly fought:

That whether part had got the woorſt,

full doubtfull were the thought.

The noyſe hereof, anon

throughout the towne doth flie:

And partes are taken on eche ſide.

both kinreds thether hie.

Here one doth gaſpe for breath,

his frend beſtrideth him:

And he hath loſt a hand, and he

an other maymed limme.

His leg is cut, whilſt he

ſtrikes at an other full:

And whoome hee would haue thruſt quite through,

hath cleft his cracked ſkull.

Theyr valiant harts forbode

theyr foote to giue the grounde:

With vnappaled chéere they tooke

full deepe and doubtful wound.

Thus foote by foote long while,

and ſhield to ſhield ſet faſt:

One foote doth make another faynt

but makes him not agaſt.

And whilſt this noyſe is rife,

in eu’ry townes mans eare:

Eke walking with his frends, the noyſe

doth wofull Romeus heare.

With ſpéedy foote he ronnes

vnto the fray apace:

With him thoſe few that were with him

he leadeth to the place.

They pitie much to ſee

the ſlaughter made ſo greate,

That wetſhod they might ſtand in bloud

on eyther ſide the ſtréete.

Part friendes (ſayd he) part frends,

helpe frendes to part the fray:

And to the reſt, enough he cries,

now time it is to ſtay.

Gods farther wrath you ſtir,

beſide the hurt you feele:

And with this new vprore confounde

all this our common weele.

But they ſo buſie are

in fight ſo egar and fierce:

That through their eares his ſage aduiſe

no leaſure had to pearce.

Then lept he in the throng,

to parte, and barre the blowes,

As well of thoſe that were his friendes,

as of his deadly foes.

As ſoone as Tybalt had

our Romeus eſpide:

He threw a thruſt at him,that would

haue paſt from ſide to ſide.

But Romeus euer went,

(doubting his foes) well armde:

So that the ſword (kept out by mayle)

hath nothing Romeus harmde.

Thou doeſt me wrong (quoth he)

for I but part the fraye:

Not dread, but other waighty cauſe

my haſty hand doth ſtay.

Thou art the chiefe of thine,

the nobleſt eke thou art:

Wherfore leaue off thy malice now,

and helpe theſe folke to parte.

Many are hurt, ſome ſlaine,

and ſome are like to die:

No, coward traytor boy (quoth he)

ſtraight way I mende to trie

Whether thy ſugred talke,

and tongue ſo ſmotely filde:

Againſt the force of this my ſworde,

ſhall ſerue thée for a ſheeld.

And then at Romeus head,

a blowe he ſtrake ſo hard:

That might haue cloue him to the braine,

but for his cunning warde.

It was but lent to him,

that could repay agayne:

And giue him death for intereſt,

a well forborne gaine.

Right as a foreſt Bore,

that lodged in the thicke,

Pinched with dog, or els with ſpeare

y=pricked to the quicke:

His bréeſtles ſtiffe vpright

vpon his backe doth ſet,

And in his fomy mouth, his ſharp

and crooked tuskes doth whet:

Or as a Lyon wilde

that rampeth in his rage,

His whelpes bereft,whoſe fury can

no weaker beaſt aſſwage:

Such ſéemed Romeus,

in euery others ſight:

When he him ſhope, of wrong receiude

t’auenge him ſelfe by fight.

Euen as two thunderboltes,

throwne downe out of the ſkie:

That through the ayre the maſſy earth

and ſeas haue power to flie:

So met theſe two, and while

they chaunge a blowe or twayne:

Our Romeus thruſt him through the throte,

and ſo is Tybalt ſlaine.

Loe,here the ende of thoſe

that ſtirre a deadly ſtrife:

Who thirſteth after others death,

himſelfe hath loſt his life.

The Capilets are quailde,

by Tybalts ouerthrowe:

The courage of the Mountagewes,

by Romeus ſight doth growe,

The townes men waren ſtrong,

the Prince doth ſend his force:

The fray hath ende, the Capilets

doe bring the breathles corſe,

Before the Prince: and craue,

that cruell deadly paine

May bee the guerdon of his fault,

that hath their kinſman ſlaine.

The Montagewes doe pleade,

theyr Romeus voyde of fault:

The lookers on doe ſay,the fight

begunne was by Tybalt.

The prince doth pawſe, and then

giues ſentence in a while,

That Romeus, for ſlaying him

ſhould goe into exyle.

His foes would haue him hangde,

or ſterue in priſon ſtrong:

His friendes do thinke (but dare not ſay)

that Romeus hath wrong.

Both houſholdes ſtraight are chargde

on paine of looſing life:

Their bloudy weapons laide aſide,

to ceaſe the ſtirred ſtrife.

This common plague is ſpred,

through all the towne anon:

From ſide to ſide the towne is filde,

with murmour and with mone.

For Tybalts haſtie death,

bewayled was of ſome:

Both for his ſkill in feates of armes,

and for in time to come,

He ſhould (had this not chaunced) haue

béen riche, and of great powre:

To helpe his frendes,and ſerue the ſtate:

which hope within an houre

Was waſted quite, and he

thus yéelding vp his breath:

More than he holpe the towne in life,

hath harmde it by his death.

And other ſome bewaile,

(but Ladies moſt of all)

The luckles lot by Fortunes gylt,

that is ſo late befall,

Without his fault,vnto

the ſéely Romeus:

For whilſt that he from natiue land

ſhall liue exiled thus.

From heauenly beauties light,

and his wel ſhaped parts:

The ſight of which, was wōt (faire dames)

to glad your youthfull hearts,

Shall you be baniſht quite:

and till he do returne,

What hope haue you to ioy?

what hope to ceaſe to mourne?

This Romeus was borne

ſo much in heauens grace:

Of Fortune,and of Nature ſo

belou’d, that in his face

(Beſide the heauenly bew=

ty gliſtring ay ſo bright:

And ſéemely grace,that wonted ſo

to glad the ſéers ſight)

A certaine charme was graude

by Natures ſecret Arte:

That vertue had to drawe to it,

the loue of many a heart.

So euery one doth wiſh,

to beare a part of payne:

That he releaſed of exile,

might ſtraight returne againe.

But how doth mourne emong

the mourners Iuliet?

How doth ſhe bath her breſt in teares?

what déepe ſighes doth ſhe fet?

How doth ſhe tear her heare?

her weede how doth ſhe rent?

How fares the louer hearing of

her louers baniſhment?

How wayles ſhe Tibalts death,

whom ſhe had loued ſo well?

Her hearty greefe and piteous plaint,

cunning I want to tell

For deluing depely now

in depth of depe diſpayre:

With wretched ſorowes cruell ſound

ſhe fils the empty ayre.

And to the loweſt hell,

downe falles her heauy crye,

And vp vnto the heauens haight

her piteous plaint doth flye.

The waters and the woods,

of ſighes and ſobs reſounde:

And from the hard reſounding rockes

her ſorowes do rebounde.

Eke from her teary eyne,

downe rayned many a ſhowre:

That in the garden where ſhe walkd

might water herbe and flowre.

But when at length ſhe ſaw

her ſelfe outraged ſo:

Unto her chaumber ſtraight ſhe hide

there ouercharged with wo.

Upon her ſtately bed,

her painfull parts ſhe threw:

And in ſo wondrous wiſe began

her ſorrowes to renewe,

That ſure no hart ſo hard,

(but it of flint had byn)

But would haue rude the piteous plaint

that ſhe did languiſh in.

Then rapt out of her ſelfe,

whilſt ſhe on euery ſide

Did caſt her reſtles eye, at length

the windowe ſhe eſpide,

Through which ſhe had with ioy

ſéene Romeus many a time:

Which oft the ventrous knight was wont

For Iuliets ſake to clime.

She cride, O curſed windowe,

accurſt be euery pane,

Through which (alas) to one I raught

the cauſe of life and bane.

If by thy meane I haue

ſome ſlight delight receiued,

Or els ſuch fading pleaſure as

by Fortune ſtraight was reaude:

Haſt thou not made me pay

a tribute rigorous?

Of heaped griefe, and laſting care?

and ſorrowes dolorous?

That theſe my tender partes,

which néedefull ſtrength doe lacke,

To beare ſo great vnweldy lode?

vpon ſo weake a backe:

Oppreſt with waight of cares,

and with theſe ſorrowes rife:

At length muſt open wide to death,

the gates of lothed life.

That ſo my weary ſprite,

may ſome where els vnlode

His dedly lode, and frée from thrall

may ſeeke els where abrode:

For pleaſant quiet eaſe,

and for aſſured reſt:

Which I as yet could neuer finde,

but for my more vnreſt.

O Romeus, when firſt

we both acquainted were:

When to thy painted promiſes

I lent my liſtning eare:

Which to the brinkes you filde

with many a ſolemne oath:

And I them iudg’d empty of guile,

and fraughted full of troth:

I thought you rather would

continue our good will,

And ſeeke t’appeaſe our fathers ſtrife,

which daily groweth ſtill.

I little wend you would

haue ſought occaſion, how

By ſuch an heynous act to breake

the peace, and eke the vow:

Whereby your bright renowne

all whole eclipſed is,

And I vnhappy huſbandles,

of comfort robd,and bliſſe.

But if you did ſo much

the bloud of Capels thyrſt,

Why haue you often ſpared mine:

mine might haue quencht it firſt:

Since that ſo many times,

and in ſo ſecret place

(Where you were wont with vaile of loue

to hide your hatreds face)

My doubtfull life hath hapt

by fatall doome to ſtand,

In mercie of your cruel hart,

and of your bloudy hand.

What? ſéemd the conqueſt, which

you got of me, ſo ſmall?

What? ſéemd it not enough that I

poore wretch, was made your thrall?

But that you muſt encreaſe

it with that kinſmans blood,

Which for his worth and loue to me,

moſt in my fauour ſtood?

Well? go hence=forth else where,

and ſéeke an other while,

Some other as vnhappy as I,

by flattry to beguile.

And where I come, ſée that

you ſhunne to ſhew your face:

For your excuſe within my heart

ſhall finde no reſting place.

And I that now too late

my former fault repent,

Will ſo the reſt of weary life

with many teares lament,

That ſoone my ioyceles corps

ſhall yéeld vp baniſht breath:

And where on earth it reſtles liu’d

in earth ſéeke reſt by death.

Theſe ſayd, her tender heart

by paine oppreſſed ſore

Reſtraind her teares, and forc’d her tong

to kéepe her talke in ſtore.

And then as ſtill ſhe was,

as if in ſounde ſhée lay:

And then againe wroth with her ſelfe,

with féeble voyce gan ſay:

Ah cruell murthring tongue,

murthrer of others fame:

How durſt thou once attempt to touche

the honour of his name,

Whoſe deadly foes doe yéelde

him due and yarned praiſe:

For though his fréedome be bereft,

his honour not decayes.

Why blamſt thou Romeus

for ſlaying of Tybalt,

Since he is guiltles quite of all,

and Tybalt beares the falt?

Whither ſhall hée (alas)

poore baniſhd man now flie?

What place of ſuccour ſhall he ſéeke

beneth the ſtarrie ſkye?

Synce ſhée purſueth him ,

and him defames by wrong,

That in diſtreſſe ſhould be his fort,

and onely rampire ſtrong.

Receiue the recompence

O Romeus of thy wife:

Who for ſhée was vnkinde her ſelfe,

doth offer vp her life,

In flames of yre, in ſighes,

in ſorrow, and in ruth:

So to reuenge the crime ſhe did

commit againſt thy truth.

Theſe ſayd, ſhe could no more,

her ſences all gan fayle:

And deadly pangs began ſtraight way

her tender heart aſſaile:

Her limmes ſhée ſtretched forth,

ſhe drew no more her breath:

Who had béen there, might well haue ſéene

the ſignes of preſent death.

The nurce that knew no cauſe,

why ſhe abſented her:

Did doubt leſt that ſome ſodaine gréefe

too much tormented her.

Eache where, but where ſhe was

the carefull Beldam ſought:

Laſt, of the chamber where ſhe lay

ſhe haply her bethought.

Where ſhe with piteous eye,

her nurce-childe did beholde:

Her limmes ſtretcht, out her ovtward parts

as any marble colde.

The nurce ſuppoſde that ſhe

had payde to death her det:

And then as ſhe had loſt her wits,

ſhe cride to Iuliet.

Ah my deare heart (quoth ſhe)

how gréeueth me thy death?

Alas what cauſe haſt thou, thus ſoone

to yéeld vp liuing breath?

But while ſhe handled her,

and chafed eu’ry part,

She knew there was ſome ſparke of life

by beating of her hart.

So that a thouſand times

ſhe cald vpon her name:

There is no way to helpe a traunce,

but ſhe hath tride the ſame.

She opneth wide her mouth,

ſhe ſtoppeth cloſe her noſe:

She bendeth downe her breſt, ſhe wrings

her fingers and her toes.

And on her boſome colde,

ſhe layeth clothes hot:

A warmed and a holſome iuyce

ſhe powreth downe her throte.

At length doth Iuliet,

heaue faintly vp her eyes:

And then ſhe ſtretcheth forth her arme,

and then her nurce ſhe ſpies.

But when ſhe was awak’d,

from her vnkindly traunce:

Why doſt thou trouble me (quoth ſhe)

what draue thee with miſchaunce

To come to ſée my ſprite,

forſake my brethles corce?

Goe hence, and let me dye,if thou

haue on my ſmart remorce.

For who would ſée her frend

to liue in dedly paine?

Alas, I ſee my griefe begon

for euer will remayne.

Or who would ſéeke to liue,

all pleaſure being paſt?

My myrth is done, my moorning mone

for aye is like to laſt.

Wherfore, ſince that there is

none other remedie,

Come gentle death, and ryue my heart,

at once, and let my die.

The nurce, with tricling teares,

to witnes inward ſmart,

With hollow ſigh fet from the depth

of her appaled hart:

Thus ſpake to Iuliet,

y=clad with ougly care:

Good lady mine, I do not know

what makes you thus to fare.

Ne yet the cauſe of your

vnmeaſurde heauines:

But of this one I you aſſure,

for care and ſorowes ſtreſſe,

This howre large and more,

I thought (ſo God me ſaue)

That my ded corps ſhould wayte on yours,

to your vntimely graue.

Alas my tender nource,

and truſtie friend (quoth ſhée)

Art thou ſo blinde, that with thine eye,

thou canſt not eaſely ſée

The lawfull cauſe I haue,

to ſorow and to moorne,

Since thoſe the which I held moſt déere

I haue at once forlorne?

Her nurce then anſwerd thus:

Me thinkes it ſits you ill,

To fall in theſe extremities

that may you guiltles ſpill.

For when the ſtormes of care,

and troubles do ariſe:

Then is the time for men to know

the fooliſh from the wiſe.

You are accounted wiſe,

a foole am I your nurce:

But I ſée not how in like caſe

I could behaue me woorſe.

Tybalt your frend is ded:

What? wéene you by your teares

To call him backe agayne? thinke you

that hee your crying heares?

You ſhall perceiue, the fault

(if it be iuſtly tride)

Of his ſo ſodayn death, was in

his raſhnes and his pride.

Would you that Romeus

himſelfe had wronged ſo,

To ſuffer himſelfe cauſeles to be

outraged of his foe?

To whom in no reſpect

he ought a place to giue.

Let it ſuffiſe to thée fayre dame,

that Romeus doth liue.

And that there is good hope

that hée within a while,

With greater glory ſhall be cald

home from his hard exile.

How wel y=borne he is

thy ſelfe I know canſt tell:

By kindred ſtrong, and well alied,

of all beloued well.

With patience arme thy ſelfe,

for though that Fortunes crime

Without your fault, to both your gréefes,

depart you for a time,

I dare ſay, for amendes

of all your preſent paine,

She will reſtore your owne to you,

within a month or twaine.

With ſuch contented eaſe,

as erſt you neuer had:

Wherefore reioyce a while in hope,

and be ne more ſo ſad.

And that I may diſcharge

your heart of heauie care,

A certaine way I haue found out,

my paynes ne will I ſpare,

To learne his preſent ſtate,

and what in time to come

He mindes to doe:which known by me,

you ſhall know all and ſome.

But that I dread the whilſt

your ſorowes will you quell,

Straight would I hie, where he doth lurk,

to Fryer Lawrence cell.

But if you gin eftſones

(as erſt you did) to moorne

Whereto go I? you will be dead

before I doe retoorne.

So I ſhall ſpend in waſte

my time and buſie paine:

So vnto you (your life once loſt)

good comfort comes in vaine.

So ſhall I rid my ſelfe,

with this ſharp poynted knife:

So ſhall you cauſe your parents deere

wax weary of theyr life.

So ſhall your Romeus,

(deſpyſing liuely breath)

With haſty foote (before his time)

runne to vntimely death.

Where if you can a while,

by reaſon, rage ſuppreſſe:

I hope at my returne to bring

the ſalue of your diſtreſſe.

Now chooſe to haue me héere

a partner of your payne:

Or promiſe me,to feede on hope,

till I returne againe.

Her miſtreſſe ſendes her forth,

and makes a graue beheſt:

With reaſons raine to rule the thoughts

that rage within her breſt.

When hugy heapes of harmes,

are heapt before her eyes:

Then vaniſh they by hope of ſcape,

and thus the Lady lies,

Twixt well aſſured truſt.

and doubtfull lewd diſpayre:

Now blacke and ougly be her thoughts,

now ſéeme they white and fayre.

As oft in ſommer tide,

blackecloudes doe dimme the Sun:

And ſtraight againe in cleareſt ſkie

his reſtles ſtéedes doe run:

So Iuliets wandring mind

y=clowded is with woe:

And by and by her haſty thought

the woes doth ouergoe.

But now is time to tell

whilſt ſhe was toſſed thus,

What windes did driue or hauen did hold

her louer Romeus.

When he had ſlaine his foe,

that gan this dedly ſtrife:

And ſaw the furious fray had end,

by ending Tybalts life:

He fled the ſharpe reuenge

of thoſe that yet did liue:

And doubting much what penall doome

the troubled Prince might giue,

He ſought ſome where vnſeene,

to lurke a little ſpace:

And truſty Lawrence ſecrete cell,

he thought the ſureſt place.

In doubtfull hap ay beſt

a truſty friend is tride:

The frendly Fryre in his diſtreſſe,

doth graunt his frend to hide.

A ſecret place he hath,

well ſéeled rounde about:

The mouth of which, ſo cloſe is ſhut,

that none may finde it out.

Both roome there is to walke,

and place to ſitte and reſt:

Beſide, a bed to ſleape vpon,

full ſoft and trimly dreſt.

The floare is planked ſo

with mattes, it is ſo warme.

That neither winde, nor ſmoky dams

haue powre him ought to harme.

Where he was wont in youth,

his faire friendes to beſtowe:

There now he hideth Romeus

whilſt forth he goeth to know

Both what is ſaid and done,

and what appointed paine,

Is publiſhed by trumpets ſound,

then home he hies againe.

By this, vnto his cell,

the nurſe with ſpedy pace

Was come the nereſt way:ſhe ſought

no idel reſting place.

The Fryre ſent home the newes

of Romeus certaine health:

And promiſe made (what ſo befell)

he ſhould that night by ſtelth,

Come to his wonted place,

that they in néedfull wiſe

Of their affayres in time to come,

might thorowly deuiſe.

Thoſe ioyfull newes,the nurſe

brought home with mery ioy:

And now our Iuliet ioyes to thinke

ſhe ſhall her loue enioy.

The Fryre ſhuts faſt his doore,

and then to him beneth.

That waites to heare the doubtfull newes

of life or els of death:

Thy hap, quoth he, is good,

daunger of death is none:

But thou ſhalt liue, and doe full well,

in ſpite of ſpitefull fone.

This onely payne for thée

was erſt proclaimde aloud:

A baniſht man, thou mayſt thée not

within Verona ſhroude.

Theſe heauy tydinges heard,

his golden lockes he tare:

And like a franticke man, hath torne

the garmentes that he ware.

And as the ſmitten Déere,

in brakes is weltring found:

So weltreth he, and with his breſt

doth heate the troden grounde.

He riſeth oft, and ſtrikes

his head againſt the wals,

He falleth downe againe,and loude

for haſty death he cals.

Come ſpéedy death (quoth he)

the readieſt leeche in loue,

Since nought can els beneath the Sun

the grounde of griefe remoue:

Of lothſome life breake downe

the hated ſtaggering ſtayes:

Deſtroy, deſtroy at once the life

that faintly yet decays.

But you (fayre dame) in whom

dame Nature did deuiſe,

With cunning hande to woorke, that might

ſéeme wondrous in our eyes:

For you I pray the Gods,

your pleaſures to increaſe:

And all miſhap, with this my death,

for euermore to ceaſe.

And mighty Ioue, with ſpéede,

of iuſtice bring them lowe:

Whoſe lofty pryde (without our guilt)

our bliſſe doth ouerblowe.

And Cupid graunt to thoſe,

theyr ſpéedy wrongs redreſſe:

That ſhall bewayle my cruell death,

and pity her diſtreſſe.

Therewith, a cloude of ſighes,

he breathd into the ſkies:

And two great ſtreames of bitter teares,

ran from his ſwollen eyes.

Theſe thinges, the auncient Fryre,

with ſorow ſaw, and heard:

Of ſuch begynning eke, the ende

the wiſe man greatly feard.

But loe, he was ſo weake,

by reaſon of his age:

That he ne could by force repreſſe

the rigour of his rage.

His wiſe and frendly woordes,

he ſpeaketh to the ayre:

For Romeus ſo vexed is,

with care and with diſpayre,

That no aduiſe can pearce,

his cloſe forſtopped eares:

So now the Fryre doth take his part,

in ſhedding ruthfull teares.

With colour pale and wan,

with armes full hard y=fold,

With wofull cheere,his wayling frend,

he ſtandeth to beholde.

And then our Romeus.

with tender handes y=wrong:

With voyce, with plainte, made horce, with

and with a foltring tongue, (ſobs,

Renewde with nouel mone

the dolours of his heart:

His outward dréery chéere bewrayde

his ſtore of inward ſmart.

Fyrſt, Nature did he blame,

the author of his life,

In which his ioyes had béene ſo ſcant,

and ſorowes ay ſo rife.

The time and place of byrth

he fiercely did reproue,

He cryed out (with open mouth)

againſt the ſtarres aboue.

The fatall ſiſters thrée,

he ſaid, had done him wrong,

The thréed yt ſhould not haue béene ſponne,

they had drawne foorth too long.

He wiſhed that he had

before this time béene borne:

Or that as ſoone as he wan light,

his life he had forlorne.

His nurſe he curſed, and

the hand that gaue him pappe:

The midwife eke with tender gripe

that held him in her lappe.

And then did he complaine,

on Venus cruel ſonne:

Who led him firſt vnto the rockes,

which he ſhould warely ſhunne.

By meane wherof he loſt,

both lyfe and libertie:

And dy’d a hundred times a day,

and yet could neuer die.

Loues troubles laſten long,

the ioyes he geues are ſhort:

He forceth not a louers paine,

their erneſt is his ſport.

A thouſand thinges and more,

I here let paſſe to write:

Which vnto loue this wofull man,

did ſpeake in great deſpite.

On Fortune eke he railde,

he calde her deafe, and blinde,

Unconſtant, fond, deceitfull, raſhe,

vnruthfull, and vnkinde.

And to himſelfe he laide,

a great part of the falt:

For that he ſlewe,and was not ſlaine,

in fighting with Tybalt.

He blamed all the world,

and all he did defie

But Iuliet, for whom he liu’d:

for whom eke would he die.

When after raging fits,

appeaſed was his rage:

And when his paſſions (powred forth)

gan partly to aſſwage:

So wiſely did the Fryre,

vnto his tale replie:

That he ſtraight 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 wéeping eyes,

denote a womans heart.

For manly reaſon is

quite from thy mind outchaſ’d,

And in her ſtead affections lewde,

and fanſies highly plac’d.

So that, I ſtoode in doubt

this howre (at the leaſt)

If thou a man,or woman wert,

or els a brutiſh beaſt.

A wiſe man in the midſt

of troubles and diſtreſſe,

Still ſtandes not wayling preſent harme,

but ſeekes his harmes redreſſe.

As when the winter flawes,

with dredfull noyſe ariſe,

And heaue the fomy ſwelling waues

vp to the ſtarry ſkies,

So that the brooſed barke

in cruell ſeas betoſt,

Diſpayreth of the happie hau’n

in daunger to be loſt:

The pylate bold at helme,

cryes, mates ſtrike now your ſayle:

And turnes her ſtemme into the waues,

that ſtrongly her aſſayle.

Then driuen harde vpon

the bare and wrackfull ſhore,

In greater daunger to be wract,

than he had béen before:

He ſets his ſhip full right

againſt the rocke to runne,

But yet he doth what ly’th in him

the perilous rocke to ſhunne.

Some times the beaten boate,

by cunning gouernment,

The anchors loſt, the cables broke,

and all the tackle ſpent:

The roder ſmitten off,

and ouerboord the maſte,

Doth win the long deſired port,

the ſtormy daunger paſt.

But if the maiſter dread,

and ouerpreſt with woe,

Begin to wring his hands,and lets

the guiding rodder goe.

The ſhip rents on the rocke,

or ſinketh in the déepe,

And eke the coward drenched is:

So if thou ſtill bewéepe

And ſéeke not how to helpe

the chaunges that do chaunce,

Thy cauſe of ſorow ſhall increaſe,

thou cauſe of thy miſchaunce.

Other account thée wiſe,

prooue not thy ſelfe a foole:

Now put in practiſe leſſons learnd

of olde in wiſedomes ſchoole.

The wiſe man ſaith,beware

thou double not thy payne:

For one perhaps thou maiſt abide,

but hardly ſuffer twaine.

As wel we ought to ſeeke

things hurtfull to decreaſe,

As to endeuour helping things

by ſtudie to increaſe.

The prayſe of true fréedome,

in wiſedomes bondage lies:

He winneth blame whoſe déeds be fond,

although his words be wiſe.

Sicknes the bodies gaile,

gréefe, gayle is of the minde:

If thou canſt ſcape from heauie gréefe,

true fréedome ſhalt thou finde.

Fortune can fill nothing

ſo full of hearty gréefe,

But in the ſame a conſtant minde

findes ſolace and releefe,

Uertue is alwayes thrall,

to troubles and annoye,

But wiſdome in aduerſitie,

findes cauſe of quiet ioye.

And they moſt wretched are,

that know no wretchednes:

And after great extremitie,

miſhaps aye waxen leſſe.

Like as there is no weale,

but waſtes away ſometime:

So eu’ry kinde of wayled woe,

will weare away in time.

If thou wilt maiſter quite,

the troubles that thée ſpill:

Endeuour fir ſt by reaſons helpe,

to maſter witles will.

A ſondry medcine hath,

eache ſondry faint diſeaſe:

But patience a common ſalue,

to eu’ry wound giues eaſe.

The world is alway full

of chaunces and of chaunge:

Wherefore the change of chaunce muſt not

ſéeme to a wiſe man ſtraunge.

For fickle Fortune doth,

in chaunging, but her kind:

But all her chaunges cannot chaunge

a ſteady conſtant minde.

Though wauering Fortune turne

from thée her ſmyling face,

And ſorrow ſéeke to ſet himſelfe,

in baniſht pleaſures place:

Yet may thy marred ſtate

be mended in a while:

And ſhée eftſones that frowned now,

with pleaſant chéere ſhall ſmile.

For as her happy ſtate,

no long while ſtandeth ſure:

Euen ſo the heauie plight ſhée brings,

not alwayes doth endure.

What néede ſo many woordes,

to thée that art ſo wiſe?

Thou better canſt aduiſe thy ſelfe,

then I can thée aduiſe.

Wiſedome I ſée is vaine,

if thus in time of néede,

A wiſe mans wit vnpractiſed,

doth ſtand him in no ſtéede.

I know thou haſt ſome cauſe

of ſorow and of care:

But well I wot thou haſt no cauſe

thus frantickly to fare.

Affections foggy miſt

thy féebled ſight doth blynde:

But if that reaſons beames agayne

might ſhine into thy minde:

If thou wouldſt view thy ſtate,

with an indifferent eye:

I thinke thou wouldſt condemne thy plaint,

thy ſighing ,and thy crie.

With valiant hand thou madſt

thy foe to yéeld vp breath:

Thou haſt eſcapt his ſword, and eke

the lawes that threaten death.

By thine eſcape, thy frends

are fraughted full of ioy:

And by his death thy deadly foes

are laden with annoy.

Wilt thou with truſtie frendes

of pleaſure take ſome part?

Or elſe to pleaſe thy hatefull foes,

be partner of theyr ſmart?

Why cry’ſt thou out on loue?

why doſt thou blame thy fate?

Why doſt thou ſo cry after death?

thy life why doſt thou hate?

Doſt thou repent the choyce,

that thou ſo late didſt chooſe?

Loue is the Lord thou oughteſt obay,

and not thy Prince accuſe.

For thou haſt found (thou knowſt)

great fauour in his ſight:

He graunted thee at thy requeſt

thy onely hearts delight.

So that the Gods enuide

the bliſſe thou liuedſt in:

To giue to ſuch vnthankfull men,

is folly and a ſinne.

Me thinkes I heare thée ſay

the cruell baniſhment

Iſ onely cauſe of thy vnreſt:

onely thou doſt lament,

That from thy native land,

and frendes thou muſt depart,

Enforc’d to flie from her that hath

the kéeping of thy heart.

And ſo oppreſt with waight

of ſmart that thou doſt féele,

Thou doſt complayne of Cupids brand,

and Fortunes turning whéele.

Unto a valiant heart,

there is no baniſhment:

All countries are his natiue ſoyle

beneath the firmament.

As to the fiſhe, the ſea:

as to the fowle the ayre:

So is like pleaſant to the wiſe,

eche place of his repayre.

Though froward Fortune chaſe

thee hence into exile:

With doubled honour ſhall ſhée call

thée home within a while.

Admit thou ſhouldſt abide

abroad a yere or twaine:

Should ſo ſhort abſence cauſe ſo long

and eke ſo gréeuous paine?

Though thou ne mayſt thy frends,

here in Verona ſee:

They are not baniſhd Mantua,

where ſafely thou maſt bee.

Thether they may reſort,

though thou reſort not hether:

And there in ſuretie may you talke

of your affayres together.

Yea, but this whyle (alas)

thy Iuliet muſt thou miſſe,

The onely piller of thy health,

and an chor of thy bliſſe.

Thy heart thou leau’ſt with her,

when thou doſt hence depart:

And in thy breſt incloſed bearſt,

her tender frendly heart.

But if thou rue ſo much,

to leaue the reſt behind:

With thought of paſſed ioyes, content

thy vncontented minde.

So ſhall the mone decreaſe,

wherewith thy minde doth melt,

Compared to the heau’nly ioyes,

which thou haſt often felt.

He’s too nice a weakeling,

that ſhrinketh at a ſhowre:

And he vnworthie of the ſwéete,

that taſteth not the ſowre.

Call now againe to minde

thy firſt conſuming flame:

How didſt thou vainely burne in loue

of an vnlouing dame.

Hadſt thou not welnigh wept

quite out thy ſwelling eyne:

Did not thy parts fordone with payne,

languiſh away and pyne.

Thoſe gréefes and others like,

were happly ouerpaſt:

And thou in haight of Fortunes whéele,

well placed at the laſt.

From whence thou art now falne,

that rayſed vp agayne,

With greater ioy a greater while

in pleaſure mayſt thou raigne.

Compare the preſent while,

with times y=paſt before,

And thinke that Fortune hath for thée,

great pleaſure yet in ſtore.

The whilſt, this little wrong,

receiue thou patiently:

And what of force muſt néedes be done,

that doe thou willingly.

Foly it is to feare

that thou canſt not auoyd:

And madnes to deſire it much

that cannot be enioyde.

To giue to Fortune place,

not aye deſerueth blame:

But ſkill it is according to

the times, thy ſelfe to frame.

Whilſt to this ſkilfull lore,

he lent his liſtning eares:

His ſighes are ſtopt, and ſtopped are

the conduits of his teares.

As blackeſt clouds are chaſ’d,

by winters nimble winde:

So haue his reaſons chaſed care,

out of his carefull mynde.

As of a morning fowle,

enſues an euening fayre:

So baniſht hope returneth home,

to baniſh his diſpayre.

Now is affections vayle,

remoued from his eyes:

He ſéeth the path that he muſt walke,

and reaſon makes him wiſe.

For very ſhame, the blood

doth flaſh in both his cheekes:

He thankes the father for his lore,

and farther ayde he ſéekes.

He ſayth that ſkilleſſe youth,

for counſell is vnfit:

And anger oft with haſtines

are ioynd to want of wit.

But ſound aduiſe aboundes

in heades with hoariſhe heares:

For wiſedome is by practiſe wonne,

and perfect made by yeares.

But aye from this time forth,

his ready bending will

Shalbe in awe, and gouerned,

by Fryre Lawrence ſkill.

The gouernor is nowe,

right carefull for his charge:

To whom he doth wiſely diſcourſe

of his affaires at large.

He telles him how he ſhall,

depart the towne vnknowne:

Both mindfull of his frendes ſafety,

and carefull of his owne.

How he ſhall guide himſelfe,

how he ſhall ſéeke to winne,

The frendſhip of the better ſort,

how warely to créepe in

The fauour of the Mantuan Prince:

and how he may

Appeaſe the wrath of Eſcalus:

and wipe the fault away.

The choller of his foes,

by gentle meanes t’aſſwage:

Or els by force and practiſes,

to brydle quite their rage.

And laſt he chargeth him,

at his appointed howre,

To goe with manly mery chéere,

vnto his Ladies bowre.

And there with holeſome wordes,

to ſalue her ſorowes ſmart:

And to reuiue (if néede require)

her faint and dying hart:

The old mans woreds haue fild

with ioy, our Romeus breſt:

And eke the olde wiues talke, hath ſet

our Iuliets heart at reſt.

Whereto may I compare,

(O louers) this your day:

Like dayes the painfull Mariners,

are wonted to aſſay.

For, beat with tempeſt great,

when they at length, eſpie

Some little beame of Phoebus light,

that pearceth through the ſkie:

To cleare the ſhadowde earth,

by clearenes of his face:

They hope that dreadleſſe they ſhall runne,

the remnant of their race.

Yea, they aſſure them ſelfe,

and quite behinde their backe,

They caſt all doubt, and thanke the Gods,

for ſcraping of the wracke.

But ſtraight the boyſtrous windes,

with greater fury blowe:

And ouer boorde the broken maſt,

the ſtormy blaſtes doe throwe.

The heauens large are clad

with cloudes as darke as hell:

And twiſe as hye, the ſtriuing waues

begin to roare,and ſwell.

With greater daungers dred,

the men are vexed more:

In greater perill of their life,

than they had béene before.

The golden Sune was gone

to lodge him in the weſt:

The full moone eke in yonder South,

had ſent moſt men to reſt:

When reſtles Romeus,

and reſtles Iuliet:

In wonted ſort, by wonted meane,

in Iuliets chamber met.

And from the windowes top,

downe hath he leaped ſcarce,

When ſhe with armes out ſtretched wide,

ſo harde did him embrace,

That welnigh had the ſprite

(not forc’d by deadly force)

Flowne vnto death, before the time

abandoning the corce.

Thus muet ſtood they both,

the eight part of an howre:

And both would ſpeake, but neither had

of ſpeaking any powre:

But on his breſt her head

doth ioyles Iuliet lay,

And on her ſlender necke,his chin

doth ruthfull Romeus ſtay.

Their ſcalding ſighes aſcende,

and by their chéekes downe fall,

Their trickling teares, as chriſtall cleare,

but bitterer farre then gall.

Then he to ende the griefe,

which both they liued in,

Did kiſſe his loue, and wiſely thus

his tale he did begin.

My Iuliet, my loue,

my onely hope and care:

To you I purpoſe not as now,

with length of woords declare,

The diuerſnes, and eke

the accidents ſo ſtraunge,

Of fraile vnconſtant Fortune, that

delighteth ſtill in chaunge.

Who in a moment heaues

her friendes vp to the height,

Of her ſwift turning ſlipprie whéele,

then fleetes her frendſhip ſtreight,

O wondrous chaunge, euen with

the twinkling of an eye:

Whom erſt her ſelfe had raſhly ſet,

in pleaſaunt place ſo hye:

The ſame in great deſpite,

downe hedlong doth ſhe throwe:

And while ſhe treades and ſpurneth at

the lofty ſtate laid lowe,

More ſorow doth ſhe ſhape

within an howres ſpace,

Then pleaſure in an hundred yeares:

ſo geyſon is her grace.

The proofe whereof in me

(alas) too plaine appeares:

Whom tenderly my carefull frendes

haue foſtred with my féers,

In proſprous high degree,

maintayned ſo by fate:

That (as your ſelfe did ſée) my foes

enuyde my noble ſtate.

One thing there was, I did

aboue the reſt deſire,

To which, as to the ſoueraigne good,

by hope I would aſpire:

That by our maryage meane,

we might within a while,

(To worke our perfect happines)

our parentes reconſile.

That ſafely ſo we might

not ſtopt by ſturdy ſtrife,

Unto the boundes that God hath ſet,

guide forth our pleaſaunt life.

But now (alacke) too ſoone

my bliſſe is ouerblowne,

And vpſide downe my purpoſe and

my enterpriſe are throwne.

And driuen from my frendes,

of ſtraungers muſt I craue,

(O graunt it God) from daungers dread,

that I may ſuertie haue.

For loe, henceforth I muſt,

wander to landes vnknowne:

(So hard I finde the Princes doome)

exyled from mine owne.

Which thing I haue thought good,

to ſet before your eyes:

And to exhort you now to proue

your ſelfe a woman wiſe.

That patiently you beare

my abſent long abode:

For, what aboue by fatall doomes

decréed is, that God:

And more then this, to ſay

it ſeemed he was bent:

But Iuliet in deadly griefe,

with brackiſh teares beſprent,

Brake off his tale begunne:

and whilſt his ſpéech he ſtayde,

Theſe ſelfe ſame wordes,or like to theſe,

with dreery chere ſhee ſaide.

Why Romeus, can it be,

thou haſt ſo hard a hart?

So farre remou’d from ruth? ſo farre

from thinking on my ſmart?

To leaue me thus alone?

(thou cauſe of my diſtreſſe)

Beſeged with ſo great a campe,

of mortall wretchedneſſe,

That euery howere now,

and moment in a day,

A thouſand times death bragges, as he

would reaue my life away.

Yet ſuch is my miſhap,

(O cruell deſtenie)

That ſtill I liue, and wiſh for death,

but yet can neuer die.

So that iuſt cauſe I haue,

to thinke (as ſeemeth me)

That frowarde Fortune did of late,

with cruell death agree

To lengthen lothed life,

to pleaſure in my paine,

And triumph in my harme, as in

the greateſt hoped gaine.

And thou the inſtrument

of Fortunes cruell will,

Without whoſe ayde ſhe can no way,

her tyrans luſt fulfill:

Art not a whit aſhamde,

(as farre as I can ſee)

To caſt me of, when thou haſt culd

the better part of me.

Whereby (alas) to ſoone,

I ſéely wretch doe proue,

That all the auncient ſacred lawes,

of frendſhip and of loue,

Are queld and quenched quite:

ſince he on whom alway,

My chiefe hope, and my ſteady truſt,

was wonted ſtill to ſtay:

For whom I am become,

vnto my ſelfe a foe,

Diſdaineth me his ſtedfaſt friend,

and ſcornes my frendſhip ſo.

Nay Romeus, nay, thou mayſt

of two things chooſe the one:

Either to ſée thy caſt=away

as ſoone as thou art gone,

Hedlong to throw her ſelfe

downe from the windowes haight,

And ſo to breake her ſlender necke,

with all the bodies waight:

Or ſuffer her to be

companion of thy paine:

Whereſo thou goe (Fortune thée guide)

till thou returne agayne.

So wholy into thine,

tranſformed is my heart:

That eu’n as oft as I do thinke

that you and I ſhall part:

So oft (me thinks) my life

withdrawes it ſelfe away,

Which I retaine, to no end elſe,

but to the end I may

In ſpite of all thy foes

thy preſent partes enioy,

And in diſtreſſe to beare with thee

the halfe of thine annoy.

Wherefore in humble ſort

(Romeus) I make requeſt,

If euer tender pitie yet

were lodgde in gentle breſt,

O let it now haue place,

to reſt within thy hart:

Receiue me as thy ſeruant, and

the fellow of thy ſmart.

Thy abſence is my death,

thy ſight ſhall giue me life:

But if perhaps thou ſtand in dred,

to leade me as a wife,

Art thou all counſelleſſe?

canſt thou no way deuiſe?

What letteth but in other wéede

I may my ſelfe diſguyſe?

What, ſhall I he the firſt?

hath none done ſo ere this,

To ſcape the daunger of theyr frends?

thy ſelfe canst aunſwer yes.

Or doſt thou ſtand in doubt,

that I thy wife ne can

By ſeruice pleaſure thée as much,

as may thy hyred man?

Or iſ my loyaltie

of both accounted leſſe?

Perhaps thou fearſt leſt I for gaine,

forſake thée in diſtreſſe.

What, hath my beautie now,

no powre at all on you?

Whoſe highnes, force, and praiſe ſomtime,

vp to the ſkies you blew?

My teares, my frendſhip, and

my pleaſures done of olde,

Shall they be quite forgot in déede?

when Romeus did behold

The wildenes of her looke,

her colourr pale and ded:

The worſt of all that might betide

to her, he gan to dred.

And once againe he did

in armes his Iuliet take:

And kiſt her with a louing kiſſe,

and thus to her he ſpake.

Ah Iuliet (quoth he)

the maſtreſſe of my hart,

For whom (eu’n now) thy ſeruant doth

abide in deadly ſmart:

Eu’n for the happie dayes

which thou deſir’ſt to ſée,

And for the feruent frendſhips ſake

that thou doſt owe to me:

At once theſe fanſies vaine

out of thy minde roote out:

Except perhaps vnto thy blame

thou fondly go about

To haſten forth my death,

and to thine owne to ronne:

Which Natures law, and wiſedooms lore

teache eu’ry wight to ſhunne.

For but thou chaunge thy minde,

I do foretell the ende:

Thou ſhalt vndoo thy ſelfe for aye,

and me thy truſtie frende.

For why, thy abſence knowne,

thy father will be wroth,

And in his rage ſo narrowly

he will purſue vs both:

That we ſhall trie in vaine

to ſcape away by flight:

And vainely ſéeke a loorking place,

to hide vs from his ſight.

Then we found out and caught,

quite voyde of ſtrong defence,

Shall cruelly be puniſhed

for thy departure hence.

I, as a rauiſhor,

thou, as a careles childe,

I, as a man who doth defile,

thou as a mayde defilde.

Thinking to leade in eaſe,

a long contented life,

Shall ſhort our dayes by ſhamefull death.

But (if my louing wife)

Thou baniſh from thy minde,

two foes that counſell hath,

That wont to hinder ſound aduiſe,

raſhe haſtines and wrath:

If thou be bent to bey

the lore of reaſons ſkill,

And wiſely by her princely powre

ſuppreſſe rebelling will:

If thou our ſafetie ſéeke,

more then thine owne delight,

Since ſueretie ſtands in parting, and

thy pleaſures growe of ſight:

For heare the cauſe of ioy,

and ſuffer for a while:

So ſhall I ſafely liue abrode,

and ſafe turne from exile.

So ſhall no ſlaunders blot,

thy ſpotles life diſtaine:

So ſhall thy kinſmen be vnſtird,

and I exempt from paine.

And thinke thou not that aye

the cauſe of care ſhall laſt:

Theſe ſtormy broils ſhal ouerblow,

much like a winters blaſt.

For Fortune chaungeth more

then fickle fantaſie:

In nothing Fortune conſtant is,

ſaue in vnconſtancie.

Her haſty ronning whéele,

is of a reſtles coorſe,

That turnes the clymers headlong down,

from better to the woorſe.

And thoſe that are beneath,

ſhe heaueth vp againe:

So we ſhall riſe to pleaſures mount,

out of the pit of paine.

Ere fowre months ouerpaſſe,

ſuch order will I take:

And by my letters and my frendes,

ſuch meanes I minde to make,

That of my wandring race

ended ſhall be the toyle:

And I cald home with honor great

vnto my natiue ſoyle.

But if I be condemnd

to wander ſtill in thrall,

I will returne to you mine owne,

befall what may befall.

And then by ſtrength of frends,

and with a mighty hand,

From Verone will I cary thée,

into a foreyne land.

Not in mans wéede diſguiſd,

or as one ſcarcely knowne:

But as my wife and onely féere,

in garment of thyne owne.

Wherfore, repreſſe at once

the paſſions of thy hart:

And where there is no cauſe of géefe,

cauſe hope to heale thy ſmart.

For of this one thing thou

maiſt well aſſured be:

That nothing elſe but onely death

ſhall ſunder mee from thee.

The reaſons that he made,

did ſéeme of ſo great waight,

And had with her ſuch force, that ſhe

to him gan aunſwer ſtraight:

Deere ſyr, nought els wiſh I,

but to obey your will:

But ſure whereſo you go, your heart

with me ſhall tarrie ſtill

As ſigne and certaine pledge,

till heere I ſhall you ſée,

Of all the powre that ouer you

your ſelfe did graunt to mee.

And in his ſtead take mine,

the gage of my good will:

One promeſſe craue I at your hand,

that graunt me to fulfill.

Faile not to let me haue

at Fryer Laurence hand,

The tidinges of your health,and how

your doubtfull caſe ſhall ſtand.

And all the weary while

that you ſhall ſpend abrode,

Cauſe me from time to time to know

the place of your abode.

His eyes did guſh out teares,

a ſigh brake from his breſt,

When he did graunt, and with an oth

did vow to kéepe the heſt.

Thus theſe two louers paſſe

away the weary night

In paine and plaint, not (as they wont)

in pleaſure and delight.

But now ſomewhat too ſoone

in fartheſt Eaſt aroſe

Fayre Lucifer the golden ſtarre

that Lady Venus choſe.

Whoſe courſe appoynted is,

with ſpéedy race to runne,

A meſſenger of dawning day,

and of the riſing ſonne.

Then freſh Aurora, with

her pale and ſiluer glade

Did cleare the ſkies, and from the earth

had chaſed ougly ſhade,

When thou ne lookeſt wide,

ne cloſely doſt thou winke,

When Phoebus from our hemyſphere,

in weſterne waue doth ſinke:

What colour then the heau’ns

do ſhew vnto thine eyes:

The ſame, (or like) ſaw Romeus,

in fartheſt Eaſterne ſkies.

As yet, he ſaw no day,

ne could he call it night:

With equall force decreaſing darke

fought with increaſing light.

Then Romeus in armes

his Lady gan to folde,

With frendly kiſſe: and ruthfully

ſhe gan her Knight beholde.

With ſolemne oth they both

theyr ſorowfull leaue do take:

They ſweare no ſtormie troubles ſhall

theyr ſteady frendſhip ſhake.

Then carefull Romeus

againe to cell retoornes:

And in her chamber ſecretly

our ioyles Iuliet moornes.

Now hugy cloudes of care,

of ſorrow and of dread:

The clearenes of their gladſome hearts

hath wholy ouerſpread,

When golden creſted Phoebus

boaſt himselfe in ſkie:

And vnder earth, to ſcape reuenge,

his deadly foe doth flie:

Then hath theſe louers day

an ende, their night begunne:

For eche of them to other is,

as to the world the Sunne.

The dawning they ſhall ſée,

ne ſommer any more:

But blackfac’d night with winter rough,

ah beaten ouer ſore.

The weary watch diſcharg’d,

did hie them home to ſléepe:

The warders and the ſcouts were chargde

their place and courſe to kéepe.

And Veron gates awide,

the porters had ſet open:

When Romeus had of his affairs

with Fryer Lawrence ſpoken:

Warely he walketh forth,

vnknowne of frend or foe:

Clad like a merchant venterer,

from top euen to the toe.

He ſpurd apace, and came

withouten ſtop or ſtay,

To Mantua gates, where lighted downe

he ſent his man away,

With words of comfort, to

his olde afflicted fyre:

And ſtraight in mind to ſoiourne there,

a lodging doth he hire.

And with the nobler ſort

he doth himſelfe acquaint,

And of his open wrong receiu’d,

the Duke doth heare his plaint.

He practiſeth by frendes,

for pardon of exile:

The whilſt, he ſéeketh euery way,

his ſorrowes to beguile.

But who forgets the cole

that burneth in his breſt?

Alas his cares, denie his hart

the ſwéete deſired reſt.

No time findes he of myrth,

he findes no place of ioy:

But euery thing occaſion giues,

of ſorrow and annoy.

For when in turning ſkies,

the heauens lampes are light:

And from the other hemyſphere,

fayre Phoebus chaſeth night:

When euery man and be aſt,

hath reſt from painefull toyle,

Then in the breſt of Romeus,

his paſſions gin to boyle.

Then doth he wet with teares

the couche wheron he lyes,

And then his ſighes the chamber fils,

and out aloude he cries

Againſt the reſtles ſtarres,

in rolling ſkies that raunge?

Againſt the fatall ſiſters thrée,

and Fortune full of chaunge.

Eche night a thouſand times

he calleth for the day:

He thinketh Titans reſtles ſtéedes,

of reſtines do ſtay.

Or that at length they haue

ſome baiting place found out,

Or (guided yll) haue loſt their way,

and wandred farre 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 accompanyde?

is he in place alone?

In cumpany he wayles his harme,

apart be maketh mone.

For if his féeres reioyce,

what cauſe hath he to ioy?

That wanteth ſtill his cheefe delight,

while they their loues enioy?

But if with heauy chéere,

they ſhewe their inward griefe:

He waileth moſt his wretchedneſſe,

that is of wretches chiefe.

When he doth heare abroade,

the praiſe of Ladies blowne:

Within his thought he ſcorneth them,

and doth preferre his owne.

When pleaſaunt ſonges he heares,

while others do reioyce:

The melody of muſicke doth

ſtirre vp his mourning voyce.

But if in ſecret place,

he walke ſome=where alone:

The place it ſelfe and ſecretnes

redoubleth all his mone.

Then ſpeakes he to the beaſts

to fethered fowles and trees:

Unto the earth, the clowdes,and to

what ſo beſide he ſees.

To them he ſhewes his ſmart,

as though they reaſon had:

Eche thing may cauſe his heauines,

but nought may make him glad.

And wearie of the day,

againe he calleth night:

The Sunne he curſeth, and the howre,

when firſt his eys ſaw light.

And as the night and day,

their courſe do enterchaunge:

So doth our Romeus nightlie cares,

for cares of day, exchaunge.

In abſence of her Knight,

the Ladie no way could

Keepe trewe betwéene her griefes and her,

though nere ſo faine ſhe would.

And though with greater payne

ſhe cloked ſorrowes ſmart:

Yet did her paled face diſcloſe

the paſſions of her hart.

Her ſighing euery howre,

her weeping euery where,

Her rechles héed of meate, of ſléepe,

and wearing of her geare,

The carefull mother markes,

then of her health afrayde,

Becauſe the gieefes increaſed ſtill,

thus to her child ſhe ſayde.

Déere daughter, if you ſhould

long languiſh in this ſort:

I ſtand in doubt that ouerſoone

your ſorrowes will make ſhort

Your louing fathers life,

and mine, that loue you more

Then our owne proper breath, and life.

Bridle henceforth therefore

Your griefe, and payne your ſelfe

on ioy your thought to ſet:

For time it is that now you ſhould

our Tybalts death forget.

Of whom, ſince God hath claimde

the lyfe, that was but lent:

He is in bliſſe, ne is there cauſe

why you ſhould thus lament:

You cannot call him backe

with teares and ſhrikinges ſhrill:

It is a fault thus for to grudge

at Gods appointed will.

The ſéely ſoule had now

no longer powre to fayne:

Ne longer could ſhe hide her harme,

but anſwerde thus againe.

With heauy broken ſighes,

with viſage pale and ded:

Madame, the laſt of Tybalts teares,

a great while ſince I ſhed:

Whoſe ſpring hath béene ere this

ſo laded out by me,

That empty quite and moyſtureles,

I geſſe it now to be.

So that my payned heart

by conduites of the eyne,

No more henceforth (as wont it was)

ſhal guſh forth dropping brine.

The wofull mother knew

not, what her daughter ment:

And loth to vexe her childe by wordes,

her peace ſhe warely hent.

But when from howre to howre,

from morrow to the morrow,

Still more and more ſhe ſaw increaſt

her daughters wonted ſorrow:

All meanes ſhe ſought of her,

and houſhold folke, to know

The certaine roote, whereon her greefe

and booteles mone doth growe.

But lo, ſhe hath in vaine

her time, and labor lore:

Wherefore without all meaſure, is

her heart tormented ſore.

And ſith her ſelfe could not

finde out the cauſe of care:

She thought it good to tell the ſyre,

how ill his childe did fare.

And when ſhe ſaw her time,

thus to her féere ſhe ſaide:

Syr, if you marke our daughter well,

the countenance of the mayde:

And how ſhe fareth, ſince

that Tybalt vnto death,

(Before his time, forc’d by his foe)

did yéeld his liuing breath:

Her face ſhall ſéeme ſo chaungde,

her doinges eke ſo ſtraunge:

That you will greatly wonder at

ſo great and ſodaine chaunge.

Not onely ſhe forbeares,

her meate, her drinke, and ſléepe,

But now ſhe tendeth nothing els

but to lament and wéepe.

No greater ioy hath ſhe,

nothing contentes her heart

So much, as in her chaumber, cloſe

to ſhut her ſelfe apart

Where ſhe doth ſo torment

her poore afflicted minde,

That much in daunger ſtandes her lyfe,

except ſome helpe we finde.

But (out alas) I ſée

not how it may be founde:

Unleſſe that firſt, we might find whence

her ſorrowes thus abounde.

For though with buſie care,

I haue imployde my wit,

And vſed all the wayes I knew,

to learne the truth of it:

Neither extremitie,

ne gentell meanes could boote:

She hideth cloſe within her breſt

her ſecret ſorrowes roote.

This was my firſt conceit,

that all her ruth aroſe

Out of her coſin Tybalts death,

late ſlaine of deadly foes.

But now my heart doth hold

a new repugnant thought:

Some greater thing, not Tybalts death,

this chaunge in her hath wrought.

Her selfe aſſured me,

that many dayes agoe:

She ſhed the laſt of Tybalts teares,

which word amaſ’d me ſo,

That I then could not geſſe

what things els might her gréeue.

But now at length I haue bethought

me, and I doe beléeue

The only crop and roote

of all my daughters paine,

Is grudging enuies faint diſeaſe.

Perhaps ſhe doth diſdaine

To ſée in wedlocke yoke

ſo many of her féeres,

Whilſt onely ſhée vnmaried,

doth looſe ſo many yéeres.

And more perchaunce ſhe thinks

you minde to keepe her ſo:

Wherefore diſpairing doth ſhe weare

her ſelfe away with wo.

Therefore (deere ſyr) in time,

take on your daughter ruth:

For why, a brittle thing is glaſſe,

and fraile is fraylleſſe youth.

Ioyne her at once to ſome,

in linke of mariage,

That may be fit for your degrée,

and much about her age.

So ſhall you baniſh care,

out of your daughters breſt:

So we her parents, in our age,

ſhall liue in quiet reſt.

Whereto gan eaſilie

her huſband to agree:

And to the mothers ſkilfull talke,

thus ſtraight way anſwerde hée.

Oft haue I thought (deare wife)

of all theſe things ere this:

But euermore my minde me gaue

it ſhould not be amiſſe

By farther leyſure had

a huſband to prouide.

Scarce ſaw ſhe yet full xvi. yéeres:

too yong to be a bryde.

But ſince her ſtate doth ſtande,

on termes ſo perilous,

And that a mayden daughter is

a treaſure daungerous:

With ſo great ſpéede I will

endeuour to procure

A huſband for our daughter yong,

her ſicknes faint to cure.

That you ſhall reſt content,

(ſo warely will I chooſe)

And ſhée recouer ſoone enough

the time ſhe ſeemes to looſe.

The whilſt, ſéeke you to learne,

if ſhe in any parte,

Already hath (vnware to vs)

fixed her frendly hart.

Leſt we haue more reſpect

to honour and to wealth,

Than to our doughters quiet life,

and to her happie health.

Whom I do holde as deare,

as th’apple of mine eye,

And rather with in poore eſtate,

and daughterles to die:

Than leaue my goods and her

y-thrald to ſuch a one,

Whoſe chorliſh dealing (I once dead)

ſhould be her cauſe of mone.

This pleaſant anſwere heard,

the Lady parts againe:

And Capilet the maydens ſire,

within a day or twaine,

Conferreth with his frends,

for mariage of his daughter:

And many gentlemen there were,

with buſie care that ſought her.

Both for this mayden was

well ſhaped, yong, and fayre,

As alſo well brought vp, and wiſe,

her fathers onely heyre.

Emong the reſt was one

inflamde with her deſire,

Who Counte Paris cleped was,

an Earle he had to ſire.

Of all the ſuters, him

the father liketh beſt:

And eaſily vnto the Earle

he maketh hiſ beheſt,

Both of his owne good will,

and of his frendly ayde,

To winne his wife vnto his will,

and to perſwad the mayde.

The wife did ioy, to heare

the ioyfull huſband ſay,

How happy and how méete a matche

he had found out that day.

Ne did ſhe ſéeke to hide

her ioyes within her heart:

But ſtraight ſhe hies to Iuliet,

to her ſhe telles apart,

What happy talke (by meane

of her) was paſt no rather,

Betwéene the wooing Paris, and

her carefull louing father.

The perſon of the man,

the fewters of his face,

His youthful yeares, his fayrenes, and

his port and ſéemly grace,

With curious words ſhe paintes

before her daughters eyes:

And then with ſtore of vertues praiſe,

ſhée heaues him to the ſkies.

She vauntes his race, and giftes,

that Fortune did him giue:

Wherby ſhe ſaith, both ſhe & hers,

in great delight ſhall liue.

When Iuliet conceiu’d

her parents whole intent,

Whereto both loue and reaſons right,

forbode her to aſſent.

Within her ſelfe ſhe thought,

rather then be forſworne,

With horſes wilde her tender parts

in péeces ſhould be torne.

Not now with baſhfull brow

(in wonted wiſe) ſhe ſpake:

But with vnwonted boldnes, ſtraight

into theſe words ſhe brake.

Madame, I maruaile much,

that you ſo lauaſſe are,

Of me your childe (your iewell once,

your onely ioy and care,)

As thus to yéelde me vp,

at pleaſure of an other,

Before you know if I do like,

or els miſlike my louer.

Do what you liſt, but yet

of this aſſure you ſtill:

If you do as you ſay you will,

I yéeld not there vntill.

For, had I choyſe of twaine,

far rather would I chooſe,

My part of all your goods, and eke

my breath and life to loſe,

Then graunt that he poſſeſſe

of me the ſmalleſt part:

Firſt, weary of my painfull life,

my cares ſhall kill my hart.

Els will I perce my breſt,

with ſharpe and bloodie knife:

And you my mother ſhall become

the murdreſſe of my life:

In giuing me to him,

whom I ne can, ne may,

Ne ought to loue. Wherefore on knées,

deare mother I you pray

To let me liue henceforth,

as I haue liu’d tofore:

Ceaſſe all your troubles for my ſake,

and care for me no more.

But ſuffer Fortune fierce,

to worke on me her will:

In her it ly’th to do me boote,

in her it ly’th to ſpill.

For whilſt you for the beſt,

deſire to place me ſo:

You haſt away my lingring death,

and double all my wo.

So déepe this anſwere made

the ſorrowes downe to ſinke,

Into the mothers breſt, that ſhe

ne knoweth what to thinke

Of theſe her daughters words,

but all appald ſhe ſtandes:

And vp vnto the heau’ns ſhe throwes

her wondring head and handes.

And nigh beſide her ſelfe

her huſband hath ſhe ſought:

She telles him all, ſhe ne forgets,

nor yet ſhe hideth ought.

The teſtie old man wroth,

diſdainfull without meaſure,

Sends forth his folks in haſte for her,

and byds them take no leyſure.

Ne on her teares or plaint,

at all to haue remorſe:

But if they can not with her will,

to bring the miyde perforce.

The meſſage heard, they part,

to fetche that they muſt fet:

And willingly with them walkes foorth

obedient Iuliet.

Arriued in the place,

when ſhe her father ſaw,

Of whome (as much as dutie would)

the daughter ſtoode in awe:

The ſeruants ſent away,

(the mother thought it méete)

The wofull daughter all bewept,

fell groueling at his féete.

Which ſhe doth waſhe with teares,

as ſhe thus groueling lyes:

So faſt,and eke ſo plenteouſly

diſtill they from her eyes.

When ſhe to call for grace:

her mouth doth think to open,

Muet ſhe is: for ſighes and ſobs

her fearfull talke haue broken.

The ſyre, whoſe ſwelling worth

her teares could not aſſwage,

With fiery eyen, and skarlet chéekes,

thus ſpake her in his rage.

Whilſt ruthfully ſtood by

the maydens mother mylde:

Liſten (quoth he) vnthankfull and

thou diſobedient childe.

Haſt thou ſo ſoone let ſlip

out of thy minde the worde,

That thou ſo often times haſt heard

rehearſed at my boorde?

How much the Romaine youth

of parents ſtood in awe:

And eke what powre vpon theyr ſéede

the parents had by lawe?

Whom they not onely might

pledge,alienate,and ſell,

(When ſo they ſtood in néede) but more,

if children did rebell,

The parents had the power

of life and ſodaine death.

What if thoſe good men ſhould againe

receiue the liuing breth?

In how ſtraight bonds would they

thy ſtubberne body binde?

What weapons would they ſéeke for thée?

what torments would they finde.

To chaſten (if they ſaw)

the lewdenes of thy life,

Thy great vnthankfulnes to me,

and ſhamefull ſturdie ſtrife?

Such care thy mother had,

ſo déere then wert to me:

That I with long and earneſt ſute,

prouided haue for thee.

One of the greateſt Lordes,

that wonnes about this towne:

And for his many vertues ſake,

a man of great renowne.

Of whom both thou and I,

vnworthie are too much,

So rich ere long he ſhalbe left,

his fathers welth is ſuch:

Such is the noblenes,

and honor of the race,

From whence his father came: and yet

thou playeſt in this caſe,

The daintie foole,and ſtubborne

gyrle, for want of ſkill,

Thou doſt refuſe thy offred weale,

and diſobey my will.

Euen by his ſtrength I ſweare,

that firſt did giue me life:

And gaue me in my youth the ſtrength

to get thée on my wife:

Unles by wendneſday next,

thou bend as I am bent:

And at our caſtell calde Free Towne,

thou fréely doe aſſent

To Counte Paris ſute:

and promiſe to agrée

To what ſoeuer then ſhall paſſe,

twixt him, my wife, and me:

Not onely will I giue

all that I haue away,

From thée, to thoſe that ſhall me loue,

me honor and obay:

But alſo to ſo cloſe,

and to ſo hard a gaile,

I ſhall thée wed for all thy life,

that ſure thou ſhalt not faile,

A thouſand times a day

to wiſh for ſodaine death:

And curſe the day, and howre when firſt

thy lunges did giue thée breath.

Aduiſe thée well, and ſay

that thou art warned now:

And thinke not that I ſpeake in ſport,

or mynd to breake my vowe.

For were it not that I

to County Paris gaue

My faith, which I muſt kéepe vnfalc’d,

my honor ſo to ſaue:

Ere thou goe hence, my ſelfe

would ſée thee chaſtned ſo,

That thou ſhouldſt once for all be taught,

thy duety how to knowe,

And what reuenge of olde,

the angry ſyres did finde

Againſt their children that rebeld,

and ſhewd themſelfe vnkinde.

Theſe ſayde, the olde man ſtraight

is gone in haſt a way,

Ne for his daughters anſwere, would

the teſty father ſtay.

And after him, his wife

doth follow out of doore:

And there they leaue theyr chidden childe

kneeling vpon the floore.

Then ſhe that oft had ſéene

the fury of her ſyre:

Dreading what might come of his rage,

nould farther ſtirre his ire.

Unto her chamber ſhe

withdrew her ſelfe aparte,

Where ſhe was wonted to vnlode

the ſorrowes of her hart.

There did ſhe not ſo much

buſy her eyes in ſléeping,

As ouerpreſt with reſtles thoughts

in piteous booteles weping.

The faſt falling of teares

make not her teares decreaſe:

Ne by the powring forth of plaint,

the cauſe of plaint doth ceaſe.

So that to th’end the mone

and ſorrow may decay:

The beſt is that ſhe ſeeke ſome meane

to take the cauſe away.

Her weary bed betime

the wofull wight forſakes,

And to ſainct Frauncis Church to Maſſe

her way deuoutly takes.

The Fryre forth is calde,

ſhe prayes him heare her ſhrift:

Deuocion is in ſo yong yeares,

a rare and precious gift.

When on her tender knées

the dainty lady kneeles,

In minde to powre forth all the greefe,

that inwardly ſhe féeles:

With ſighes and ſalted teares

her ſhriuing doth beginner:

For ſhe of heaped ſorrowes hath

to ſpeake, and not of ſinne.

Her voyce with piteous plaint

was made already horce:

And haſty ſobs, when ſhe should ſpeake,

breake off her wordes perforce.

But (as ſhe may) péece meale,

ſhe powreth in his lappe:

The maryage newes, a miſchiefe new,

prepared by miſhappe.

Her parentes promiſe erſt

to Counte Paris paſt,

Her fathers threats ſhe telleth him,

and thus concludes at laſt.

Once was I wedded wel,

ne will I wed agayne:

For ſince I know I may not be

the wedded wife of twayne,

For I am bound to haue

one God, one fayth, one make,

My purpoſe is as ſoone as I

ſhall hence my iorney take:

With theſe two handes which ioynde

vnto the heauens I ſtretch,

The haſty death which I deſire

vnto my ſelfe to reache.

This day (O Romeus)

this day thy wofull wife

Will bring the ende of all her cares,

by ending carefull life.

So my departed ſprite

ſhall witnesse to the ſkie,

And eke my bloud vnto the earth

beare record how that I,

Haue kept my faith vnbroke,

ſtedfaſt vnto my frende.

When this her heauy tale was tolde,

her vow eke at an ende:

Her gaſing here and there,

her feerce and ſtaring looke

Did witnes that ſome lewde attempt,

her hart had vndertooke.

Whereat, the Fryre astonde,

and gaſtfully afrayde,

Leaſt ſhe by déede perfourme her word,

thus much to her he ſayde.

Ah Lady Iuliet,

what néede the wordes you ſpake?

I pray you graunt me one requeſt

for bleſſed Maries ſake.

Meaſure ſomewhat your griefe,

holde heere a while your peace:

Whilſt I bethinke me of your caſe,

your plaint and ſorrowe ceaſe.

Such comfort will I giue

you, ere I passe from hence:

And for th’aſſaultes of Fortunes ire,

prepare ſo ſure defence:

So holeſome ſalue will I

for your afflictions finde,

That you ſhall hence depart againe

with well contented minde.

His wordes haue chaſed ſtraight

out of her hart deſpayre:

Her blacke and ougly dredfull thoughts

by hope are waxen fayre.

So Fryer Lawrence now

hath left her there alone:

And he out of the Church in haſte

is to his chamber gone.

Where ſundrie thoughts within

his carefull head ariſe:

The old mans foreſight diuers doubts

hath ſet before his eyes.

His conſcience one while

condemns it for a ſinne,

To let her take Paris to ſpouſe,

ſince he himſelfe had bin

The chiefeſt cauſe that ſhe

vnknowne to father or mother,

Not fiue months paſt in that ſelfe place

was wedded to another.

An other while an hugy

heape of daungers dred,

His reſtles thought hath heaped vp,

within his troubled hed.

Eu’n of it ſelfe th’attempt

he iudgeth perillous,

The execution eke he déemes

ſo much more daungerous ,

That to a womans grace

he muſt himſelfe commit,

That yong is, ſimple and vnware,

for waighty affaires vnfit.

For if the fayle in ought

the matter publiſhed,

Both ſhe and Romeus were vndone,

himſelfe eke puniſhed,

When too and fro in minde

he diuers thoughts had caſt:

With tender pity and with ruth

his hart was wonne at laſt:

He thought he rather would

in haʒard ſet his fame:

Then ſuffer ſuch adultery,

reſoluing on the ſame,

Out of his cloſet ſtraight,

he tooke a litele glaſſe:

And then with double haſt returnde

where wofull Iuliet was.

Whom he hath found welnigh

in traunce, ſcarce drawing breath,

Attending ſtill to heare the newes

of life or else of death.

Of whom he did enquire

of the appointed day.

On wendneſday next (qd Iuliet)

ſo doth my father ſay,

I muſt giue my conſent:

but (as I doe remember)

The ſolemne day of maryage is,

the tenth day of September.

Déere daughter (quoth the Fryre)

of good chéere ſée thou be:

For loe, S. Frauncis of his grace

hath ſhewde a way to me,

By which I may both thée,

and Romeus together,

Out of the bondage which you feare

aſſuredly deliuer.

Euen from the holy font

thy huſband haue I knowne:

And ſince he grew in yeares, haue kept

his counſelles as mine owne.

For from his youth he would

vnfold to me his hart:

And often haue I cured him,

of anguiſh and of ſmart.

I know that by deſert

his frendſhip I haue wonne:

And I hold him as deare, as if

he were my proper ſonne.

Wherefore my frendly heart,

can not abide, that hee

Should wrongfully in ought be harmde,

if that it lay in me,

To right or to reuenge

the wrong by my aduiſe:

Or timely to preuent the ſame

in any other wiſe.

And ſith thou art his wife,

thée am I bound to loue

For Romeus frindſhips ſake, and ſéeke

thy anguiſh to remoue,

And dreadfull torments which

thy heart beſegen rounde:

Wherfore, my daughter, giue good eare,

vnto my counſels ſounde.

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 thréed doth hang

thy death and eke thy life,

My fame or ſhame, his weale or woe,

that choſe thée to his wyfe.

Thou art not ignorant

(becauſe of ſuch renowne

As eu’ry where is ſpred of me,

but chefely in this towne.)

That in my youthfull days,

abroad I traueled

Through eu’ry land found out by men,

by men inhabited:

So twenty yeares from home,

in lands vnknowne, a geſt,

I neuer gaue my weary limmes

long time of quiet reſt .

But in the deſert woodes,

to beaſtes of cruell kinde:

Or on the ſeas to drenching waues

at pleaſure of the winde,

I haue committed them

to ruth of rouers hand,

And to a thouſand daungers more,

by water and by land.

But not in vayne (my childe)

hath all my wandring bin.

Beſide the great contentednes

my ſprite abideth in.

That by the pleaſant thought

of paſſed things doth grow,

One priuat fruit more haue I pluck’d,

which thou ſhalt ſhortly know.

What force the ſtones, the plants,

and metals haue to woorke,

And diuers other things that in

the bowels of earth do loorke,

With care I haue ſought out,

with paine I did them prooue:

With them eke can I helpe my ſelfe,

at times of my behoue,

(Although the ſcience be

againſt the lawes of men)

When ſodaine daunger forceth me,

but yet moſt chiefly when

The worke to do is leaſt

diſpleaſing vnto God:

Not helping to do any ſinne,

that wreckfull Ioue forbode.

For,ſince in life no hope

of long abode I haue,

But now am come vnto the brinke

of my appointed graue:

And that my death drawes nere

whoſe ſtripe I may not ſhonne,

But ſhal be calde to make account

of all that I haue donne:

Now ought I from hence=forth

more déeply print in minde

The iudgement of the Lorde, than when

youthes follie made me blinde:

When loue and fond deſire

were boyling in my breſt,

Whence hope & dred by ſtriuing thoughts

had baniſht frendly reſt.

Knowe therfore (daughter) that

with other gifts which I

Haue well attayned to by grace

and vertue of the ſkie,

Long ſince I did finde out,

and yet the way I know

Of certaine rootes and ſauory herbes

to make a kinde of dowe,

Which baked hard, and bet

into a powder fine,

And dronke with conduite water,or

with any kinde of wine,

It doth in halfe an howre

aſtone the taker ſo,

And maſtreth all his ſences, that

he féeleth weale nor wo.

And ſo it burieth vp

the ſprite and liuing breath,

That eu’n the ſkilfull leche would ſay,

that he is ſlaine by death.

One vertue more it hath,

as meruailous as this,

The taker by receiuing it

at all not gréeued is.

But painleſſe, as a man,

that thinketh nought at all,

Into a ſwéete and quiet ſleepe

immediatly doth fall.

From which (according to

the quantitie he taketh):

Longer or ſhorter is the time

before the ſléeper waketh.

And thence (theffect once wrought)

againe it doth reſtore

Him that receiude vnto the ſtate

wherein he was before.

Wherfore marke well the ende,

of this my tale begonne:

And thereby learne what is by thée

hereafter to be donne.

Caſt of from thée at once,

the wéede of womanniſh dread:

With manly courage arme thy ſelfe,

from héele vnto the head.

For onely on the feare

or boldnes of thy breſt,

The happie happe or ill miſhap

of thy affayre doth reſt.

Receiue this vial ſmall,

and kéepe it as thine eye:

And on the mariage day before

the ſunne do clear the ſkie,

Fill it with water full,

vp to the very brim,

Then drinke it of: and thou ſhalt féele,

through out eache vaine and lim

A pleaſant ſlumber ſlide,

and quite diſpred at length

On all the partes, from eu’ry part

reue all thy kindly ſtrength.

Withouten mouing thus

thy idle parts ſhall reſt:

No pulſe ſhall go, ne heart once beate

within thy hollow breſt.

But thou ſhalt lie as ſhe

that lyeth in a traunce:

Thy kinſmen and thy truſtie frendes

ſhall wayle the ſodaine chaunce.

Thy corps then will they bring

to graue, in this Church-yarde:

Where thy forefathers long ago

a coſtly tombe prepared ,

Both for them=ſelues, and eke

for thoſe that ſhall come after:

Both déepe it is, and long and large,

where thou ſhalt reſt, my daughter,

Til I to Mantua ſend

for Romeus thy Knight:

Out of the tombe both he and I

will take thee foorth that night.

And when out of thy ſléepe

thou ſhalt awake againe,

Then maiſt thou go with him from hence,

and healed of thy paine

In Mantua lead with him

vnknowne, a pleaſaunt 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,

My ſelfe may finde ſo fit a time

theſe ſecrets to diſcloſe,

Both to my prayſe, and to

thy tender parentes ioy:

That daungerles without reproche

thou ſhalt thy loue enioy.

When of his ſkilfull tale,

the Fryre had made an end,

To which our Iuliet ſo well

her eare and wits did bend,

That ſhe hath heard it all,

and hath forgotten nought,

Her fainting hart was comforted,

with hope and pleaſant thought.

And then to him ſhe ſayd:

doubt not but that I will

With ſtout and vnappaled heart ,

your happie heſt fulfill.

Yea, if I wiſt it were

a venimous deadly drinke:

Rather would I that through my throte

the certaine bane ſhould ſinke,

Then I (not drinking it)

into his hand ſhould fall,

That hath no part of me as yet,

ne ought to haue at all.

Much more I ought with bolde

and with a willing heart,

To greteſt daunger yéeld my ſelfe

and to the deadly ſmart,

To come to him,on whome

my life doth wholy ſtay,

That is my onely hartes delight,

and ſo he ſhall be aye.

Then goe my childe (quoth he)

I pray that God on hye,

Direct thy foote, and by thy hand

vpon the way thee gye.

God graunt he ſo confirme

in thée thy preſent will,

That no inconſtant toy thée lett,

thy purpoſe to fulfill.

A thouſand thanks and more,

our Iuliet gaue the Fryer:

And homeward to her fathers houſe,

ioyfull ſhe doth retire.

And as with ſtately gate

ſhe paſſed through the ſtréete,

She ſaw her mother in the doore,

that with her there would méete.

In minde to aſke if ſhe

her purpoſe yet did holde:

In minde alſo a part twixt them,

her dutie to haue tolde.

Wherefore, with pleaſant face,

and with vnwonted chéere,

As ſoone as ſhe was vnto her

ſomewhat approched néere,

Before the mother ſpake,

thus did ſhe fyrſt beginne:

Madame at S. Frauncis Church

this morning haue I been:

Where I did make abode,

alonger while (percaſe)

Then duety would,yet haue I not

béene abſent from this place,

So long a while, whithout

a great and iuſt cauſe why.

This fruite haue I receiued there,

my hart erſt like to dye,

Is now reuiu’d againe:

and my afflicted breſt

Releaſed from affliction,

reſtored is to reſt.

For lo, my troubled ghoſt

(alas to ſore diſeaſde,)

By ghoſtly counſell and aduiſe,

hath Fryer Laurence eaſde.

To whome I did at large

diſcourſe my former life,

And in confeſſion did I tell

of all our paſſed ſtrife.

Of Counte Paris ſute,

and how my Lord my ſyre,

By my vngrate and ſtubborne ſtrife,

I ſtyrred vnto yre.

But lo, the holy Fryer

hath by his ghoſtly lore,

Made me another woman now,

then I had béene before,

By ſtrength of argumentes

he charged ſo my minde,

That (though I ſought) no ſure defence

my ſerching thought could finde.

So forc’d I was at length

to yéelde vp witles will,

And promiſt to be orderd by

the Fryers prayſed ſkill,

Wherefore albeit I

had raſhly long before,

The bed and rytes of maryage,

for many yéeres forſwore:

Yet mother now behold,

your daughter at your will,

Ready (if you commaund her ought)

your pleaſure to fulfill.

Wherefore in humble wiſe

déere Madam I you pray,

To goe vnto my Lord and ſyre,

withouten long delay:

Of him firſt pardon craue

of faultes already paſt,

And ſhew him (if it pleaſeth you)

his child is now at laſt

Obedient to his luſt

and to his ſkilfull heſt:

And that I will (God lending life)

on wenſday next be preſt.

To waite on him and you,

vnto th’appoynted place:

Where I will in your hearing and

before my fathers face,

Unto the Counte giue

my faith and whole aſſent,

To take him for my lorde and ſpouſe,

thus fully am I bent.

And that out of your minde

I may remoue all doubt.

Unto my cloſet fare I now,

to ſearche and to chooſe out

The braueſt garments and

the richeſt iewels there,

Which (better him to pleaſe) I minde

on wenſday next to weare.

For if I did excell

the famous Grecian rape,

Yet might attyre helpe to amende

my bewty and my ſhape.

The ſimple mother was

rapt in to great delight,

Not halfe a worde could ſhe bring forth,

but in this ioyfull plight:

With nimble foote ſhe ran

and with vnwonted pace,

Unto her penſiue huſband: and

to him with pleaſant face

She tolde what ſhe had heard,

and prayſeth much the Fryer,

And ioyfull teares ranne downe the cheekes

of this gray headed ſyer.

With handes and eyes heau’d vp,

he thankes God in his hart:

And then he ſayth, this is not (wife)

the Fryers firſt deſart.

Oft hath he ſhewde to vs,

great frendſhip heretofore:

By helping vs at néedefull times,

with wiſedomes precious lore:

In all our common weale,

ſcarce one is to be founde:

But is for ſome good torne vnto

this holy father bounde.

Oh that the third part of

my goods (I doe not fayne)

But twenty of his paſſed yeares

might purchaſe him againe.

So much in recompence

of frendſhip would I giue:

So much (in faith) his extreme age

my frendly heart doth grieue.

Theſe ſaide, the glad olde man,

from home go’th ſtraight abrode:

And to the ſtately Palace hy’th,

where Paris made abode.

Whom he deſires to be

on wendneſday next his geaſt:

At Free Towne, where he mindes to make

for him a coſtly feaſt.

But loe, the Earle saith

ſuch feaſting were but loſt:

And counſels him till maryage time

to ſpare ſo great a coſt.

For then he knoweth well,

the charges wilbe great:

The whilſt his heart deſireth ſtill

her ſight, and not his meate.

He craues of Capylet,

that he may ſtraight goe ſée

Fayre Iuliet, whereto he doth

right willingly agrée.

The mother warnde before,

her daughter doth prepare:

She warneth and ſhe chargeth her

that in no wiſe ſhe ſpare

Her curteous ſpéeche, her pleaſant

lookes, and comely grace:

But liberally to giue them forth

when Paris comes in place.

Which ſhe as cunningly

could ſet forth to the ſhewe,

As cunning crafteſmen to the ſale

do ſet their wares on rew:

That ere the County did

out of her ſight depart,

So ſecretly vnwares to him,

ſhe ſtale away his hart,

That of his life and death

the wylie wench hath power:

And now his longing hart thinks long

for the appoynted howre.

And with importune ſute,

the parentes doth he pray,

The wedlocke knot to knit ſoone vp,

and haſt the maryage day.

The woer hath paſt forth

the firſt day in this ſort:

And many other more then this,

in pleaſure and diſport,

At length the wiſhed time

of long hoped delight,

(As Paris thought) drewe nere,but nere

approched heauy plight.

Againſt the brydall day

the parents did prepare,

Such rich attyre, and furniture,

ſuch ſtore of daintie fare:

That they which did beholde

the ſame the night before,

Did thinke and ſay, a man could ſcarce=

ly wiſh for any more.

Nothing did ſéeme too deere,

the déereſt thinges were bought:

And (as the written ſtory ſaith)

in deede there wanted nought

That long’d to his degrée

and honor of his ſtocke.

But Iuliet the whilſt her thoughts

within her breſt did locke.

Eu’n from the truſty nurſe,

whoſe ſecretnes was tryde,

The ſecret counſell of her hart

the nurce childe ſeekes to hide.

For ſith to mocke her dame

ſhe did not ſticke to lie,

She thought no ſinne with ſhew of truth,

to bleare her nurſes eye.

In chamber ſecretly

the tale ſhe gan renew:

That at the doore ſhe tolde her dame

as though it had béene true.

The flattring nurſe did praiſe

the Fryer for his ſkill:

And ſaid that ſhe had done right well

by wit to order will.

She ſetteth forth at large

the fathers furious rage:

And eke ſhe prayſeth much to her

the ſecond maryage.

And Counte Paris now

ſhe praiſeth ten times more,

By wrong,than ſhe her ſelfe by right,

had Romeus prayſ’d before.

Paris ſhall dwell there ſtill,

Romeus ſhall not retourne:

What ſhall it boote her life,

to languiſh ſtill and mourne.

The pleaſures paſt before,

ſhe muſt account as gaine:

But if he doe returne,what then?

for one ſhe ſhall haue twayne.

The one ſhall vſe her as

his lawfull wedded wiſe:

In wanton loue, with equall ioy

the other leade his lyfe:

And beſt ſhall ſhe be ſped

of any towniſh dame,

Of huſband and of paramour,

to finde her chaunge of game.

Theſe wordes and like, the nurſe

did ſpeake,in hope to pleaſe:

But greatly did theſe wicked wordes

the Ladies minde diſeaſe:

But ay ſhe hid her wrath,

and ſéemed well content:

When dayly dyd the naughty nurſe

new arguments inuent.

But when the Bride perceiu’d

her howre approched néere,

She ſought (the beſt ſhe could) to fayne,

and tempred ſo her chéere,

That by her outward looke,

no liuing wight could geſſe

Her inward woe, and yet a new

renewde is her diſtreſſe.

Unto her chaumber doth

the penſiue wight repayre:

And in her hand a percher light

the nurſe beares vp the ſtayre.

In Iuliets chamber was

her wonted vſe to lye:

Wherefore her maſtreſſe dreading that

ſhe ſhould her worke deſcrye,

As ſoone as ſhe began

her pallet to vnfold,

Thinking to lie that night,where ſhe

was wont to lie of olde:

Doth gently pray her ſéeke,

her lodging ſom=where else:

And leſt the craftie ſhould ſuſpect,

a ready reaſon telles.

Deare frend (quoth ſhe) you know,

to morrow is the day

Of new contract: wherefore this night

my purpoſe is to pray,

Unto the heau’nly mindes,

that dwell aboue the ſkies,

And order all the courſe of things

as they can beſt deuiſe:

That they ſo ſmyle vpon

the doings of to morrow,

That all the remnant of my life

may be exempt from ſorrow.

Wherefore I pray you, leaue

me heere alone this night:

But ſée that you to morrow come,

before the dawning light.

For you muſt coorle my heire,

and ſet on my attire.

And eaſily the willing nurce

did yéelde to her deſire.

For ſhe within he head

dyd caſt before no doubt,

She little knew the cloſe attempt,

her nurce=childe went about.

The nurce departed once,

the chamber doore ſhut cloſe,

Aſſured that no liuing wight,

her doing might diſcloſe,

She powred forth into

the viall of the Fryre

Water out of a ſiluer ewre,

that on the boord ſtoode by her.

The ſléepie mixture made,

fayre Iuliet doth it hide,

Under her bolſter ſoft, and ſo

vnto her bed ſhe hied:

Where diuers nouell thoughts

ariſe within her head,

And ſhe is ſo inuironed

about with deadly dred:

That what before ſhe had

reſolu’d vndoubtedly,

That ſame ſhe calleth into doubt.

And lying doubtfully,

Whilſt honeſt loue did ſtriue

with dread of deadly paine,

With hands y=wrong, & weeping eyes,

thus gan ſhe to complaine.

What, is there any one

beneeth the heauens hye,

So much vnfortunate as I,

ſo much paſt hope as I:

What, am not I my ſelfe

of all that yet were borne,

The déepeſt drenched in diſpayre,

and moſt in Fortunes ſcorne?

For lo, the world for me

hath nothing elſe to finde,

Beſide miſhap, and wretchednes,

and anguiſh of the minde,

Since that the cruell cauſe

of my vnhappines,

Hath put me to this ſodaine plonge,

and brought to ſuch diſtres,

As (to the end I may

my name and conſcience ſaue)

I muſt deuoure the mixed drinke,

that by me here I haue.

Whoſe working and whoſe force

as yet I do not know,

And of this piteous plaint began

An other doubt to grow.

What do I know (quoth ſhe)

if that this powder ſhall

Sooner or later than it ſhould,

or else not worke at all?

And then my craft deſcride

as open as the day,

The peoples tale and laughing ſtocke

ſhall I remaine for aye.

And what know I (quoth ſhe)

if ſerpentes odious,

And other beaſtes and wormes, that are

of nature venemous,

That wonted are to lurke,

in darke caues vnder grounde,

And commonly (as I haue heard)

in dead mens tombes are found,

Shall harme me yea or nay,

were I ſhall lie as ded .

Or how ſhall I that alway haue

in ſo freſhe ayre béen bred,

Endure the lothſome ſtinke

of ſuch an heaped ſtore

Of carkaſes not yet conſumde,

and bones that long before

Intombed were, where I

my ſléeping place ſhall haue,

Where all my aunceſtours do reſt,

my kindreds common graue.

Shall not the Fryer, and

my Romeus, when they come,

Fynd me (if I awake before)

y=ſtified in the tombe?

And whilſt ſhée in theſe thoughts

doth dwell ſom=what too long,

The force of her imagining,

anon did ware ſo ſtrong,

That ſhée ſurmiſde ſhe ſaw

out of the hollow vaulte,

A griefly thing to looke vpon,

the carkas of Tybalt,

Right in the ſelfe ſame ſort

that ſhée few daies before

Had ſéen him in his bloud embrewde,

to death eke wounded ſore.

And then, when ſhée againe

within her ſelfe had wayde,

That quicke ſhe ſhould be buried there,

and by his ſide be layde

All comfortless, (for ſhe

ſhall liuing féere haue none,

But many a rotten carkas, and

full many a naked bone.)

Her daintie tender partes

gan ſhiuer all for dread:

Her golden hayres did ſtand vpright,

vpon her chilliſh head.

Then preſſed with the feare

that ſhe there liued in,

A ſweat as colde as mountaine yſe,

pearſt through her tender ſkin,

That with the moyſture hath

wet eu’ry part of hers.

And more beſides, ſhe vainely thinks,

whilſt vainely thus ſhe feares,

A thouſand bodies dead

haue compaſt her about:

And,leſt they will diſmember her,

ſhe greatly ſtandes in doubt.

But when ſhe felt her ſtrength

began to weare away,

By litle and litle in her heart

her feare increaſed aye:

Dreading that weakenes might,

or fooliſh cowardiſe,

Hinder the execution of

the purpoſde enterpriſe,

As ſhe had frantike béen,

in haſt the glaſſe ſhe cought,

And vp ſhe dranke the mixture quite,

withouten farther thought.

Then on her breſt ſhe croſt

her armes long and ſmall:

And ſo her ſences fayling her,

into a traunce did fall.

And when that Phoebus bright

heau’d vp his ſéemely head,

And from the Eaſt in open ſkies

his gliſtring rayes diſpred,

The nurce vnſhut the dore,

(for ſhe the key did kéepe)

And doubting leſt ſhe had ſlept too long,

ſhe thought to breake her ſléepe.

Firſt, ſoftly did ſhe call,

then lowder thus did crye:

Lady, you ſléepe to long, the Earle

will raiſe you by and by.

But wele=away, in vaine

vnto the deafe ſhe calles:

She thinks to ſpeake to Iuliet,

but ſpeaketh to the walles.

If all the dredfull noyſe,

that might on earth be found,

Or on the roaring ſeas, or if

the dredfull thunders ſound

Had blowne into her eares,

I think they could not make,

The ſléeping wight, before the time,

by any meanes awake:

So were the ſprites of life

ſhut vp, and ſences thrald:

Wherwith the ſéely nurce,

was wondrouſly appalde.

She thought to draw her now,

as ſhe had done of olde:

But lo, ſhe found her parts were ſtiffe,

and more than marble colde.

Neyther at mouth nor noſe,

found ſhe recourſe of breath:

Two certaine arguments were theſe,

of her vntimely death.

Wherefore, as one diſtraught,

ſhe to her mother ran,

With ſcratched face, and hayre betorne,

but no word ſpeake ſhe can.

At laſt (with much a=doo)

dead (quoth ſhe) is my childe,

Now out alas (the mother cride)

and as a Tyger wilde,

Whoſe whelps whilſt ſhe is gone

out of her dene to pray,

The hunter gréedy of his game,

doth kill or cary away:

So, raging forth ſhe ran,

vnto her Iuliets bed:

And there ſhe found her dearling, and

her only comfort dead.

Then ſhrik’d ſhe out as lowde,

as ſerue her would her breath:

And then (that pity was to heare)

thus cryde ſhe out on death.

Ah cruell death (quoth ſhee)

that thus againſt all right

Haſt ended my felicitie,

and robd my hearts delight:

Do now thy worſt to me,

once wreake thy wrath for all:

Eu’n in deſpite I cry to thée

thy vengeance let thou fall.

Wherto ſtay I (alas)

ſince Iuliet is gone?

Where-to liue I, ſince ſhe is dead,

except to wayle and mone?

Alacke deare childe,my teares

for thée ſhall neuer ceaſe:

Eu’n as my dayes of life encreaſe,

ſo ſhall my plaint increaſe.

Such ſtore of ſorrow ſhall

afflict my tender hart.

That deadly pangs, when they aſſayle,

ſhall not augment my ſmart.

Then gan ſhe ſo to ſobbe,

it ſéemde her hart would braſt:

And while ſhe cryeth thus,behold

the father at the laſt,

The Counte Paris,and

of gentilmen a route,

And Ladies of Verona towne,

and country round about:

Both kindreds and alies,

thether a pace haue preaſt:

For by theyr preſence there they ſought,

to honor ſo the feaſt.

But when the heauy newes

the hidden geaſtes did heare,

So much they mournd, that who had ſéene

their countnance and theyr cheere,

Might eaſely haue iudgde,

by that that they had ſéene:

That day the day of wrath, and eke

of pity haue béene.

But more than all the reſt

the fathers hart was ſo

Smit with the heauie newes, and ſo

ſhut vp with ſodaine woe:

That he ne had the powre

his daughter to bewéepe,

Ne yet to ſpeake: but long is forc’d,

his teares and plaint to kéepe.

In all the haſt he hath

for ſkilfull léeches ſent,

And hearing of her paſſed life,

they iudge with one aſſent,

The cauſe of this her death

was inward care and thought:

And then with double force againe

the doubled ſorowes wrought.

If euer there hath béen

a lamentable day,

A day ruthfull, vnfortunate,

and fatall: then I ſay,

The ſame was it in which,

through Veron towne was ſpred,

The wofull newes how Iuliet

was ſterued in her bed.

For ſo ſhe was bemonde,

both of the yong and olde:

That it might ſéeme to him that would

the common plaint behold,

That all the common wealth

did ſtand in ieopardy:

So vniuerfall was the plaint,

ſo piteous was the cry.

For lo, beſide her ſhape,

and natiue bewties hewe,

With which, like as ſhe grew in age,

her vertues prayſes grewe:

She was alſo ſo wiſe,

ſo lowly, and ſo milde:

She wan the harts of al:

ſo that there was not one,

Ne great ne ſmall, but did that day

her wretched ſtate bemone.

Whilſt Iuliet ſlept, and whilſt

the other wéepen thus:

Our Fryer Laurence hath by this,

ſent one to Romeus.

A Fryer of his houſe,

there neuer was a better:

He truſted him euen as himſelfe,

to whom he gaue a letter:

In which, he written had,

of euery thing at length,

That paſt twixt Iuliet and him,

and of the powders ſtrength.

The next night after that,

he willeth him to come

To helpe to take his Iuliet

out of the hollow tombe.

For by that time, the drinke

(he ſaith) will ceaſe to woorke,

And for one night his wife and he

within his cell ſhall loorke.

Then ſhall he carry her

to Mantua away,

(Til ſickell Fortune fauour him)

diſguiſde in mans array.

This letter cloſde he ſends

to Romeus by his brother:

That euen from the horie head,

vnto the witles childe:

He chargeth him that in no caſe

he giue it any other,

Apace our Fryer Iohn

to Mantua him hyes,

And for becauſe in Italy

it is a wonted guiſe,

That Fryers in the towne

ſhould ſeldome walke alone:

But of their couent ay ſhould be

accompaide with one

Of his profeſſion, ſtraight

a houſe he findeth out:

In minde to take ſome Fryre with him,

to walke the towne about.

But entred once, he might

not iſſue out againe:

For that a brother of the houſe,

a day before or twayne,

Dy’d of the plague (a ſickeneſſe which

they greatly feare and hate)

So were the brethren chargde to kéepe

within thiyr couen gate,

Bard of theyr felowſhip,

that in the towne do woone:

The towne-folke eke commaunded are,

the Fryers houſe to ſhoone:

Till they that had the care of health,

theyr fréedome ſhould renewe:

Whereof, as you ſhall ſhortly heare,

a miſchiefe great there grewe.

The Fryer by this reſtraint,

beſet with dred and ſorrow,

Not knowing what the letters held,

diferd vntill the morowe.

And then he thought in time

to ſend to Romeus,

But whilſt at Mantua where he was,

theſe doings framed thus:

The towne of Iuliets byrth

was wholy buſied

About her obſequies, to ſée

their darling buried.

Now is the parents myrth

quite chaunged into mone:

And now to ſorow is retornde

the ioy of euery one.

And now the wedding wéedes

for mourning wéedes they chaunge,

And Hymine into a Dyrge,

alas it ſéemeth ſtraunge.

In ſteade of maryage gloues,

now funerall gloues they haue:

And whom they ſhould ſée maried,

they follow to the graue.

The feaſt that ſhould haue béene

of pleaſure and of ioy,

Hath euery diſh, and cup, fild full

of ſorow and annoy.

Now throughout Italy

this commen vſe they haue,

That all the beſt of euery ſtocke

are earthed in one graue.

For euery houſhold, if

it be of any fame,

Doth builde a tombe, or digge a vault

that beares the houſholdes name.

Wherein (if any of

that kindred hap to die)

They are beſtowde: els in the ſame

no other corps may lie.

The Capilets her corps

in ſuch a one did lay,

Where Tybalt ſlayne of Romeus,

was laide the other day:

An other vſe there is,

that whoſoeuer dyes:

Borne to their Church with open face

vpon the Béere he lyes,

In wonted wéede attyrde,

not wrapt in winding ſhéete:

So, as by chaunce he walk’d abrode,

our Romeus man did méete

His maiſters wiſe: the ſight

with ſorrow ſtraight did wounde

His honeſt hart: with teares he ſaw

her lodged vnder grounde.

And (for he had béene ſent

to Veron for a ſpye,

The doinges of the Capilets

by wiſedome to deſcrye)

And (for he knew her death

did tooch his maiſter moſt)

(Alas) too ſoone,with heauie newes

he hy’d away in poſt:

And in his houſe he founde

his maiſter Romeus,

Where he beſprent with many teares,

began to ſpeake him thus:

Syr, vnto you of late

iſ chaunc’d ſo great a harme,

That ſure except with conſtancie

you ſéeke your ſelfe to arme:

I feare that ſtraight you will

breth out your latter breath:

And I moſt wretched wight ſhalbe

th’occaſion of your death.

Know, ſyr, that yeſterday

my Lady and your wife,

I wot not by what ſodaine griefe,

hath made exchaunge of life.

And for becauſe on earth,

ſhe founde nought but vnreſt:

In heauen hath ſhe ſought to finde

a place of quiet reſt.

And with theſe wéeping eyes

my ſelfe haue ſeene her layde

Within the tombe of Capylets:

and herewithall he ſtayde,

This ſodaine meſſage ſounde

ſent forth with ſodaine teares,

Our Romeus receiued too ſoone

with open liſtining eares:

And thereby hath ſonke in

ſuch ſorrow in his hart,

That lo his ſprite annoyed ſore

with torment and with ſmart,

Was like to breake out of

his priſon houſe perforce:

And that he might fly after hers,

would leaue the maſſie corſe.

But earneſt loue that will

not faile him till his end,

This fond and ſodaine fantaſie

into his head did ſend:

That if nere vnto her

he offred vp his breath,

That then an hundred thouſand parts

more glorious were his death:

Eke ſhould his painfull heart

a great deale more be eaſed,

And more alſo he vainely thought

his Lady better pleaſed.

Wherefore, when he his face,

hath waſht with water cleene:

Leaſt that the ſtaynes of dryed teares,

might on his chéekes be ſéene:

And ſo his ſorrow ſhould

of euery one be ſpyde,

Which he with all his care did ſéeke

from eu’ry one to hide:

Straight weary of the houſe,

he walketh forth abrode,

His ſeruant at the maiſters heſt

in chamber ſtill abode.

And then fro ſtreate to ſtreate

he wandreth vp and downe,

To ſée if he in any place

may finde in all the towne,

A ſalue méete for his ſore,

an oyle fit for his wounde,

And ſéeking long, (alak too ſoone)

the thing he ſought, he founde.

An Apothecary ſate

vnbuſied at his doore,

Whom, by his heauie countenance

he geſſed to be poore,

And in his ſhop he ſaw

his boxes were but few,

And in his window of his of his wares

there was ſo ſmall a ſhew:

Wherfore, our Romeus

aſſuredly hath thought,

What for no frendſhip could be got,

for money might be bought.

For, néedy lacke is like

the poore man to compell,

To ſell that which the cities lawe

forbiddeth him to ſell.

Then by the hand he drew

the néedy man apart:

And with the ſight of glittring golde

inflamed hath his heart.

Take fiftie crownes of gold,

(quoth he) I giue them thee,

So that before I part from hence

thou ſtraight deliuer me

Somme poyſon ſtrong,that may

in leſſe than halfe an howre,

Kill him,whoſe wretched hap ſhall be

the potion to deuoure.

The wretch by couetiſe

is wonne, and doth aſſent,

To ſell the thing, whoſe ſale ere long

too late he doth repent.

In haſte he poyſon ſought,

and cloſely he it bounde,

And then began with whiſpring voyce

thus in his eare to rounde:

Fayre ſyr (quoth he) be ſure,

this is the ſpéeding gere:

And more there is than you ſhall néede,

for halfe of that is there,

Will ſerue, I vndertake,

in leſſe then half an howre,

To kill the ſtrongeſt man aliue,

ſuch is the poyſons power.

Then Romeus ſom=what eaſde

of one part of his care,

Within his boſome putteth vp

his deare vnthriftie ware.

Returning home againe,

he ſent his man away

To Veron town, & chargeth him,

that he without delay,

Prouide both inſtruments,

to open wide the toombe,

And lights to ſhew him Iuliet,

and ſtay (till he ſhall come)

Nere to the place whereas

his louing wife doth reſt,

And chargeth him not to bewray

the dolours of his breſt.

Peter, theſe heard, his leaue

both of his maiſter take:

Betime he commes to towne, ſuch haſte

the painefull man did make.

And then, with buſie care

he ſéeketh to fulfill,

(But doth dyſcloſe vnto no wight)

his wofull maiſters will.

Would God he had herein

broken his maiſters heſt:

Would God that to the Fryer he had

diſcloſed all his breſt:

But Romeus, the whyle,

with many a deadly thought,

Prouoked much, paper and ynke

hath cauſed to be brought.

And in few lynes he did

of all his loue diſcoorſe,

How by the Fryers helpe, and by

the knowledge of the noorſe

The wedlocke knot was knit,

and by what meane that night

And many moe he did enioy,

his happy heartes delight.

Where he the poyſon bought,

and how his life ſhould end:

And ſo his wailfull tragedie

the wretched man hath pend.

The letters cloſe and ſeald,

directed to his ſire,

He locketh in his purſe, and then

a poſt horse doth he hire.

When he approched nere,

he warely lighted downe:

And euen with the ſhade of night

he entred Veron towne.

Where he hath found his man,

wayting when he would come:

With lanterne and with inſtruments,

to open Iuliets tombe.

Helpe Peter, helpe (quoth he)

helpe to remoue the ſtone:

And ſtraight when I am gone fro thée

my Iuliet to bemone,

Sée that thou get thée hence:

and on the paine of death,

I charge thée that thou come not nere,

whyle I abide beneath.

Ne ſéeke thou for to let

thy maiſters enterpriſe,

Which he hath fully purpoſed

to doe, in any wiſe.

Take there a letter, which

as ſoone as he ſhall riſe,

Preſent it in the morning to

my louing fathers eyes.

Which vnto him perhaps

farre pleaſanter ſhall ſéeme,

Than eyther I do minde to ſay,

or thy groſe head can déeme.

Now Peter that knew not,

the purpoſe of his hart,

Obediently a litle way

withdrew himſelfe apart,

And then our Romeus,

(the vault-ſtone ſet vpright)

Deſcended downe,and in his hand

he bare the candle light.

And then,with piteous eye,

the body of his wyfe

He gan behold,who ſurely was

the organ of his life.

For whome vnhappie now

he is,but erſt was blyſſ:

He watred her with teares,and then

an hundred times her kyſt.

And in his folded armes,

full ſtraightly he her plight:

But no way could his gréedy eyes

be filled with her ſight.

His fearfull hands he layd

vpon her ſtomacke colde:

And then on diuers parts beſide,

the wofull wight did hold.

But when he could not finde

the ſignes of life he ſought,

Out of his curſed box he drew

the poyſon that he bought.

Wherof, he gréedily

deuowrde the greater part,

And then he cride with tender ſigh,

fetcht from his mourning hart:

Oh Iuliet, of whome

the worlde vnwoorthie was,

From which, for worlds vnworthines

thy worthy ghoſt did paſſe:

What death more pleaſant could

my hart wiſh to abide,

Than that which here it ſuffreth now,

ſo nere thy frendly ſide.

Or els ſo glorious tombe

how could my youth haue craued,

As in one ſelfe ſame vaulte with thee,

haply to be ingraued?

What Epitaph more worth,

or halfe ſo excellent,

To conſecrate my memory,

could any man inuent,

As this our mutuall, and

our piteous ſacrifice,

Of lyfe ſet light for loue. But while

he talketh in this wiſe,

And thought as yet a while

his dolors to enforce:

His tender heart began to faint,

preſt with the venoms force:

Which litle and litle gan

to ouercome his hart:

And whilſt his buſie eyne he threwe

about to eu’ry part:

He ſaw hard by the corſe

of ſleeping Iuliet,

Bold Tybalt carkas dead, which was

not all conſumed yet:

To whom (as hauing life)

in this ſort ſpeaketh he:

Ah coſin deare, Tybalt,whereſo

thy reſtles ſprite now be,

With ſtretched hands to thee

for mercie now I cry,

For that before thy kindly howre

I forced thee to dye.

But if with quenched life,

not quenched be thine yre,

But with reuengeing luſt as yet

thy hart be ſet on fyre:

What more amends ,or cru=

ell wreke deſireſt thou?

To ſée on mée, than this which here

is ſhewde forth to thee now:

Who reft by force of armes

from thee thy liuing breath,

The ſame, with his owne hand thou ſéeſt

poyſoneth him ſelfe to death.

And, for he cauſed thée

in tombe too ſoon to lie,

Too ſoone alſo yonger than thou

him=ſelfe he layeth by.

Theſe ſayde,when he gan feele

the poyſons force preuayle,

And litle and litle maſtred life,

for aye began to faile ,

Knéeling vpon his knees,

he ſayde with voyce full loe,

Lord Chriſt, that ſo to ranſome me

deſcendedſt long agoe,

Out of thy fathers boſome,

and in the Virgins wombe,

Didſt put on fleſhe, Oh let my plaint

out of this hollow tombe,

Perce through the ayre, and graunt

my ſute may fauour finde:

Take pity on my ſinnfull and

my poore afflicted minde.

For well enough I know

this body is but clay,

Nought but a maſſe of ſinne, too fraile,

and ſubiect to decay.

Then preſſ’d with extreme griefe,

he threw with ſo great force

His ouerpreſſed parts vpon

his Ladies wayled corſe,

That now his weakened heart,

weakned with torments paſt,

Unable to abide this pang,

the ſharpeſt and the laſt:

Remained quite depriude

of ſence and kindly ſtrength:

And ſo the long impriſond ſoule,

hath fréedome wonne at length.

Ah cruel death, too ſoone,

too ſoone was this deuorce,

Twixt youthfull Romeus heauenly ſprite,

and his faire earthly corſe.

The Fryer that knew what time

the powder had beene taken,

Knew eke the very inſtant, when

the ſleeper ſhould awaken.

But wondring that he could

no kind of aunſwere heare,

Of letters, which to Romeus

his fellow Fryer did beare:

Out of S. Frauncis Church

hymſelfe alone did fare:

And for the opening of the tombe,

meete inſtrumentes he bare.

Approching nigh the place,

and ſeeing there the light:

Great horror felt he in his heart,

by ſtraunge and ſodaine ſight,

Tyll Peter (Romeus man)

his coward heart made bolde,

When of his maſters being there,

the certaine newes he tolde.

There hath he béene (quoth he)

this halfe howre at the leaſt:

And in this time I dare well ſay

his plaint hath ſtill increaſt.

Then both they entred in,

where they (alas) did fynde,

The brethles corps of Romeus,

forſaken of the minde.

Where they haue made ſuch mone,

as they may beſt conceiue,

That haue with perfect frendſhip lou’d,

whoſe frend feerce death did reue.

But whilſt with piteous plaint

they Romeus fate beweepe:

An howre too late fayre Iuliet

awaked out of ſléepe.

And much amaʒde to ſée

in tombe ſo great a light:

She wiſt not if ſhe ſaw a dreame,

or ſprite that walk’d by night.

But comming to her ſelfe,

ſhe knew them, and ſaid thus:

What Fryer Lawrence, is it you?

where is my Romeus?

And then the auncient Fryre,

that greatly ſtoode in feare,

Leſte if they lingred ouerlong,

they ſhould be taken theare:

In few plaine words, the whole

that was betyde he tolde:

And with his finger ſhewed his corps

out=ſtretched, ſtiffe, and colde,

And then perſwaded her

with patience to abyde

This ſodaine great miſchaunce, and ſayth

that he will ſoone prouide

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 wiſedomes meane,

meaſure her mourning breſt:

And vnto her tormented ſoule

call backe exiled reſt.

But loe, as ſoone as ſhe

had caſt her ruthfull eye

On Romeus face, that pale and wan,

faſt by her ſide did lie:

Straight way ſhe dyd vnſtop

the conduites of her teares,

And out they guſh, with cruell hand

ſhe tare her golden heares.

But when ſhe neither could

her ſwelling ſorow ſwage:

Ne yet her tender heart abyde

her ſickenes furious rage:

Falne on his corps, ſhe lay

long panting on his face:

And then with all her force and ſtrength,

the dead corps dyd imbrace:

As though with ſighes,with ſobs,

with force and buſie paine,

She would him rayſe, and him reſtore

from death to life againe.

A thouſand times ſhe kiſt

his mouth as cold as ſtone,

And it vnkiſt againe as oft,

then gan ſhe thus to mone.

Ah pleaſant prop of all

my thoughts, ah onely ground

Of all the ſwéete 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 Church=yarde thou haſt choſe?

Betwixt the armes of me,

thy perfect louing make?

And thus by meanes of me to ende

thy lyfe, and for my ſake:

Euen in the flowring of

thy youth, when vnto thee,

Thy lyfe moſt déere (as to the moſt)

and pleaſaunt ought to be?

How could theſe tender corps

withſtand the cruell fight

Of furious death, that wonts to fray

the ſtouteſt with his ſight?

How could thy dainty youth

agree with willing hart,

In this ſo fowle infected place

(to dwell) where now thou art.

Where ſpitefull Fortune hath

appointed thee to be,

The daintie foode of gréedie woormes,

vnworthie ſure of thée.

Alas, alas, alas,

what néeded now anew,

My wonted ſorrowes doubled twiſe

againe thus to renewe:

Which both the time and eke

my patient long abode

Should now at length haue quenched quite

and vnder foote haue trode.

Ah wretch, and caytiue that

I am, euen when I thought

To find my painefull paſſions ſalue,

I miſt the thing I ſought,

And to my mortall harme,

the fatall knife I grounde,

That gaue to me ſo déepe, ſo wide,

ſo cruell deadly wounde.

Ah moſt fortunate,

and moſt vnhappy tombe,

For thou ſhalt héere from age to age,

witnes in time to come:

Of the moſt perfect leage,

betwixt a payre of louers,

That were the moſt vnfortunate,

and fortunate of others.

Receiue the latter ſigh,

receiue the latter pang

Of the moſt cruell of cruell ſlaues,

that wrath and death ay wrang.

And when our Iuliet would

continue ſtill her mone:

The Fryer and the ſeruant fled

and left her there alone.

For they a ſodayne noyſe

faſt by the place did heare:

And leaſt they might be taken there,

greatly they ſtoode in feare.

When Iuliet ſawe her ſelfe

left in the vaule alone:

That fréely ſhe might worke her will,

(for let or ſtay was none.)

Then once for all ſhe tooke

the cauſe of all her harmes,

The body dead of Romeus,

and claſp’d it in her armes:

Then ſhe with earneſt kiſſe,

ſufficiently did proue,

That more then by the feare of death,

ſhe was attaint by loue.

And then paſt deadly feare,

for life ne had ſhe care:

With haſty hand ſhe did drawe out,

the dagger that he ware.

O welcome death (quoth ſhe)

end of vnhappines:

That alſo art beginning of

aſſured happiness:

Feare not to darte me now,

thy ſtripe no longer ſtay:

Prolong no longer now my life,

I hate this long delay.

For ſtraight my parting ſprite,

out of this carkas fled,

At eaſe ſhall finde my Romeus ſprite,

emong ſo many ded.

And thou my louing Lord,

Romeus my truſty feer:

If knowledge yet doe reſt in thée,

if thou theſe wordes doſt heare:

Receiue thou her whom thou

didſt loue ſo lawfully,

That cauſde (alas) thy violent death

although vnwillingly:

And therfore willingly

offers to thee her goſt,

To th’end that no wight els but thou,

might haue iuſt cauſe to boſte

Th’inioying of my loue,

which ay I haue reſeru’d,

Frée from the reſt, bound vnto thée,

that haſt it well deſeru’d.

That ſo our parted ſprites,

from light that we ſée here,

In place of endleſſe light and bliſſe,

may euer liue y=fere.

Theſe ſaid, her ruthleſ hande

through gyrt her valiant hart:

Ah Ladies helpe with teares to wayle,

the Ladies deadly ſmart.

She grones ſhe ſtretcheth out

her limmes, ſhe ſhutts her eyes:

And from her corps the ſprite doth flie,

what ſhould I ſay? ſhe dyes.

The watchmen of the towne,

the whilſt are paſſed by,

And through the grates the candle light

within the tombe they ſpye.

Whereby they did ſuppoſe

inchaunters to be come,

That with prepared inſtrumentes

had opened wide the tombe:

In purpoſe to abuſe

the bodies of the dead,

Which by their ſcience ayde abuſde

do ſtand them oft in ſtead.

Their curious harts deſire

the truth hereof to know:

Then they by certaine ſteppes deſcend:

where they doe find below

In claſped armes y=wrapt

the huſband and the wife:

In whome as yet they ſéemd to ſée

ſome certaine markes of life.

But when more curiouſly

with leaſure they did vew:

The certaintie of both theyr deathes

aſſuredly they knew.

Then here and there ſo long

with carefull eye they ſought,

That at the length hidden they found

the murthrers, ſo they thought.

In dungeon déepe that night

they lodgde them vnder grounde:

The next day do they tell the Prince

the miſchefe that they founde.

The newes was by and by

throughout the towne diſpred

Both of the taking of the Fryer,

and of the two found ded.

Thether might you haue ſéen

whole houſholds foorth to ronne.

Unto the tombe, where they did here

this wonder ſtraunge was donne,

The great, the ſmall, the riche,

the poore, the yong, the olde,

With haſtie pace do run to ſée,

but rue when they beholde.

And that the murtherers

to all men might be knowne,

Like as the murthers bruite abrode

through all the towne was blowne,

The prince did ſtreight ordayne,

the corſes that wer founde

Should be ſet forth vpon a ſtage,

hye raiſed from the grounde,

Right in the ſelfe ſame forme,

(ſhewde forth to all mens ſight)

That in the hollow vault they had

béene found that other night.

And eke that Romeus man,

and Fryer Lawrence ſhould

Be openly examined,

for else the people woulde

Haue murmured, or faynde

there were ſome weightie cauſe,

Why openly they were not calde,

and ſo conuict by lawes.

The holy Fryer now,

and reuerend by his age,

In great reproche ſet to the ſhew

vpon the open ſtage,

(A thing that ill beſeemde,

a man of ſiluer heares)

His beard as whyte as milke he bathes,

with great faſt falling teares.

Whom ſtraight the dredfull Iudge

commaundeth to declare

Both how this murther hath béen done,

and who the murthrers are.

For that he nere the tombe

was found at howres vnfit,

And had with him thoſe yron tooles,

for ſuch a purpoſe fit.

The Fryer was of liue-

ly ſprite, and frée of ſpéeche,

The Iudges words appalde him not,

ne were his witts to ſéeke.

But with aduiſed héed,

a while fyrſt did he ſtay:

And then with bolde aſſured voyce,

alowde thus gan he ſay.

My Lords, there is not one

emong you ſet together,

So that (affection ſet aſide)

by wiſdome he conſider

My former paſſed life,

and this my extreme age,

And eke this heauie ſight, the wrecke,

of frantike Fortunes rage:

But that amaʒed much,

doth wonder at this chaunge,

So great, ſo ſodainly befalne,

vnloked for, and ſtraunge.

For I, that in the ſpace

of lx. yeares and ten,

Since firſt I did begin, too ſoone,

to leade my lyfe with men:

And with the worldes vaine things

my ſelfe I did acquaint,

Was neuer yet in open place

at any time attaint

With any crime, in waight,

as heauie as a ruſh:

Ne is there any ſtander by,

can make me guilty bluſhe,

(Although before the face

of God, I doe confeſſe.

My ſelfe to be the ſinfulſt wretch

of all this mighty preſſe)

When readieſt I am,

and likelieſt to make

My great account, which no man els

for me ſhall vndertake:

When wormes, the earth, and death

do cite me eu’ry howre,

T’appeare before the iudgement ſeat

of euerlaſting powre,

And falling ripe I ſtep

vpon my graues brinke:

Eu’n then am I moſt wretched wight,

(as eche of you doth thinke)

Through my moſt haynous déwde,

with hedlong ſway throwne downe

In greateſt daunger of my lyfe,

and domage of renowne.

The ſpring, whence in your head,

this new conceite doth riſe,

And in your hart increaſeth ſtill

your vaine and wrong ſurmiſe,

May be the hugenes of

theſe teares of mine (percaſe)

That ſo abundantly downe fall,

by eyther ſide my face.

As though the memorie

in ſcriptures were not kept,

That Chriſt our ſauiour himſelfe

for ruth and pitie wept.

And more, who ſo will reade,

y-written ſhal he finde,

That teares are as true meſſengers

of mans vngiltie minde,

Orels, a liker proofe

that I am in the crime,

You ſay theſe preſent yrons are,

and the ſuſpected time.

As though all howres alike

had not béen made aboue:

Did not Chriſt ſay the day had twelue?

Whereby he ſought to proue,

That no reſpect of howres,

ought iuſtly to be had:

But at all times men haue the choyce

of doing good or bad:

Eu’n as the ſprite of God

the hartes of men doth guide,

Or as it leaueth them to ſtray

from vertues path aſide.

As for the yrons that

were taken in my hand,

As now I déeme, I neede not ſéeke,

to make ye vnderſtand

To what vſe yron firſt

was made, when it began,

How of it ſelfe it hurteth not,

ne yet can helpe a man.

The thing that hurteth, is

the malice of his will,

That ſuch indifferent things is wont

to vſe and order ill.

Thus much I thought to ſay,

to cauſe you ſo to know,

That neither theſe my piteous teares,

(though nere ſo faſt they flow,)

Ne yet theſe yron tooles,

nor the ſuſpected time,

Can iuſtly proue the murther donne,

or damne me of the crime.

No one of theſe haue powre,

ne power haue all the three,

To make me other then I am,

how ſo I ſéeme to be.

But ſure my conſcience

(if ſo my gylt deſerue)

For an appeacher, witneſſe, and

a hangman eke ſhould ſerue.

For through mine age, whoſe hayres,

of long time ſince were hore,

And credyt great that I was in,

with you in time tofore,

And eke the ſoiorne ſhort

that I on earth muſt make,

That eu’ry day and howre do looke

my iourney hence to take:

My conſcience inwardly,

ſhould more torment me thriſe,

Then all the outward deadly paine

that all you could deuiſe.

But (God I prayſe) I féele

no worme that gnaweth me:

And from remorſes pricking ſting,

I ioy that I am frée.

I meane,as touching this,

wherwith you troubled are,

Wherwith you ſhould be troubled ſtill,

if I my ſpeeche ſhould ſpare.

But to the end I may

ſet all your harts at reſt,

And plucke out all the ſcruples that

are rooted in your breſt:

Which might perhaps henceforth

increaſing more and more,

Within your conſcience alſo,

increaſe your cureles ſore:

I ſweare by yonder heau’ns,

whither I hope to climbe,

And for a witnes of my words,

my heart atteſteth him,

Whoſe mighty hand doth welde

them in their violent ſway,

And on the rolling ſtormie ſeas

the heauie earth doth ſtay:

That I will make a ſhort

and eke a true diſcourſe

Of this moſt wofull tragedie,

and ſhew both thend and ſourſe

Of theyr vnhappie death:

which you perhaps no leſſe

Will wonder at, than they (alas)

poore louers in diſtreſſe,

Tormented much in minde,

not forcing liuely breath,

With ſtrong and patient heart did yéeld

themſelfe to cruell death.

Such was the mutuall loue,

wherin the burned both:

And of their promiſt frendſhips faith,

ſo ſteady was the troth.

And then the auncient Fryre

began to make dyſcourſe,

Eu’n from the firſt of Romeus

and Iuliets amours.

How firſt by ſodaine ſight,

the one the other chooſe:

And twixt themſelues did knit the knot

which oely death might looſe.

And how within a while,

with hotter loue oppreſt,

Under confeſſions cloake, to him,

themſelues they haue addreſt.

And how with ſolemne othes

they haue proteſted both,

That they in heart are maryed

by promiſe and by oth.

And that except he graunt

the rytes of Church to giue,

They ſhal be forc’d by earneſt loue,

in ſinnfull ſtate to liue.

Which thing when he had wayde,

and when he vnderſtoode,

That the agréement twixt them twayne

was lawfull, honeſt, good:

And all thinges peyſed well,

it ſéemed méete to be:

For like they were of nobleneſſe,

age, riches, and degree.

Hoping that ſo at length,

ended might be the ſtrife

Of Montagewes and Capilets,

that led in hate their life.

Thinking to worke a worke

well pleaſing in Gods ſight,

In ſecrete ſhrift he wedded them:

and they the ſelfe=ſame night

Made vp the maryage

in houſe of Capilet:

As well doth know (if ſhe be aſk’t)

the nurſe of Iuliet.

He tolde how Romeus fled,

for reuing Tybalts life:

And how the whilſt Paris the Earle

was offred to his wife.

And how the Lady did,

ſo great a wrong diſdayne:

And how to ſhrift vnto his Church

ſhe came to him againe:

And how ſhe fell flat downe

before his féete aground:

And how ſhe ſware, her hand,

and bloody knife ſhould wound

Her harmeles hart, except,

that he ſome meane did finde

To diſappoynt the Earles attempt,

and ſpotles ſaue her minde.

Wherefore he doth conclude,

(although that long before)

By thought of death, and age, he had

refuſde for euermore,

The hidden artes which he

delighted in, in youth,

Yet wonne by her importunenes,

and by his inward ruth:

And fearing leſt ſhe would

her cruell vowe diſcharge,

His cloſed conſcience he had

op’ned and ſet at large.

And rather did he chooſe

to ſuffer for one time,

His ſoule to be ſpotted ſome deale

with ſmall and eaſir crime:

Than that the Lady ſhould,

(weary of liuing breath)

Murther her ſelfe, and daunger much

her ſéely ſoule by death.

Wherfore, his auncient artes

againe he puts in vre:

A certaine powder gaue he her

that made her ſléepe ſo ſure,

That they her held for dead:

and how that Fryer Iohn

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 frend

within her kindreds tombe.

He thinkes with poyſon ſtrong,

for care the yong man ſtarued,

Suppoſing Iuliet dead,and how,

that Iuliet hath carued,

With Romeus dagger drawne,

her heart: and yéelded breath:

Deſirous to accompany

her louer after death.

And how they could not ſaue

her, ſo they were afeard:

And hid them-ſelfe, dreading the noyſe

of watchmen that they heard.

And for the proofe of this

his tale, he doth deſire

The Iudge, to ſend forth-with

to Mantua for the Fryer,

To learne his cauſe of ſtay,

and eke to reade his letter:

And more beſide, to th’end that they

might iudge his cauſe the better,

He prayeth them depoſe

the nurſe of Iuliet,

And Romeus man, whom at vnwares

beſide the tombe he met.

Then Peter, not ſo much

as erſt he was, diſmaide:

My Lordes (quoth he) too true is all

that Fryer Laurence ſaide.

And when my maiſter went

into my miſtresse graue,

This letter that I offer you,

vnto me then he gaue .

Which he himſelfe dyd write,

(as I doe vnderſtand)

And charged me to offer them

vnto his fathers hand.

The opened packet doth

containe in it the ſame,

That erſt the ſkilfull Fryer ſaide,

and eke the wretches name

That had at his requeſt,

the deadly poyſon ſolde,

The price of it, & why he bought,

his letters plaine haue tolde.

The caſe vnfolded ſo,

and open now it lyes,

That they could wiſh no better proofe,

ſaue ſéeing it with their eyes.

So orderly all things

were tolde and tryed out,

That in the preaſe there was not one,

that ſtoode at all in doubt.

The wiſer ſort to coun-

ſell calde by Eſcalus,

Haue giuen aduyſe,and Eſcalus

ſagely decreeth thus:

The nurſe of Iuliet,

is baniſht in her age:

Becauſe that from the parentes ſhe

did hide the maryage.

Which might haue wrought much good,

had it in time beene knowne,

Where now by her concealing it,

a miſchiefe great is growne.

And Peter, for he did

obey his maiſters heſt,

In wonted fréedome had good leaue

to leade his life in reſt.

Th’apothecary high

is hanged by the throate:

And for the paynes he tooke with him,

the hangman had his coate.

But now what ſhall betide

of this gray-bearded ſyre?

Of Fryer Lawrence thus araynde,

that good barefooted Fryre.

Becauſe that many times

he woorthely did ſerue

The common welth, and in his life

was neuer found to ſwerue:

He was diſcharged quite,

and no marke of defame

Did ſéeme to blot or touch at all

the honour of his name.

But of himſelfe he went,

into an Hermitage,

Two miles from Veron towne,where he

in prayers paſt forth his age:

Till that from earth to heauen,

his heauenly ſprite did flie:

Fiue yeares he liu’d an Hermit,and

an Hermit dyd he die.

The ſtraungenes of the chaunce,

when tryed was the truth

The Montagewes and Capylets

hath moued ſo to ruth:

That with their emptyde teares,

their choller and their rage,

Was emptyde quite:and they whoſe wrath

no wiſedom could aſſwage,

Nor threatning of the Prince,

ne minde of murthers done:

At length (ſo mighty Ioue it would)

by pitie they are wonne.

And leaſt that length of time

might from our mindes remoue

The memory of ſo perfect ſound,

and ſo approued loue:

The bodies dead remou’d

from vaulte where they did dye,

In ſtately tombes, on pillers great,

of marble rayſe they hye.

On euery ſide aboue,

were ſet and eke beneath,

Great ſtore of cunning Epitaphes,

in honour of their death.

And euen at this day

the tombe is to be ſéene.

So that among the monuments

that in Verona béene,

There is no monument

more worthy of the ſight:

Then is the tombe of Iuliet,

and Romeus her Knight.