1    Mistress! what, mistress! Juliet! fast, I warrant her, she:
2    Why, lamb! why, lady! fie, you slug-a-bed!
3    Why, love, I say! madam! sweet-heart! why, bride!
4    What, not a word? you take your pennyworths now;
5    Sleep for a week; for the next night, I warrant,
6    The County Paris hath set up his rest,
7    That you shall rest but little. God forgive me,
8    Marry, and amen, how sound is she asleep!
9    I must needs wake her. Madam, madam, madam!
10   Ay, let the county take you in your bed;
11   He'll fright you up, i' faith. Will it not be?
Undraws the curtains
12   What, dress'd! and in your clothes! and down again!
13   I must needs wake you; Lady! lady! lady!
14   Alas, alas! Help, help! my lady's dead!
15   O, well-a-day, that ever I was born!
16   Some aqua vitae, ho! My lord! my lady!

17   What noise is here?

18   O lamentable day!

19   What is the matter?

20   Look, look! O heavy day!

21   O me, O me! My child, my only life,
22   Revive, look up, or I will die with thee!
23   Help, help! Call help.

24   For shame, bring Juliet forth; her lord is come.

25   She's dead, deceased, she's dead; alack the day!

26   Alack the day, she's dead, she's dead, she's dead!

27   Ha! let me see her: out, alas! she's cold:
28   Her blood is settled, and her joints are stiff;
29   Life and these lips have long been separated:
30   Death lies on her like an untimely frost
31   Upon the sweetest flower of all the field.

32   O lamentable day!

33   O woful time!

34   Death, that hath ta'en her hence to make me wail,
35   Ties up my tongue, and will not let me speak.

36   Come, is the bride ready to go to church?

37   Ready to go, but never to return.
38   O son! the night before thy wedding-day
39   Hath Death lain with thy wife. There she lies,
40   Flower as she was, deflowered by him.
41   Death is my son-in-law, Death is my heir;
42   My daughter he hath wedded: I will die,
43   And leave him all; life, living, all is Death's.

44   Have I thought long to see this morning's face,
45   And doth it give me such a sight as this?

46   Accursed, unhappy, wretched, hateful day!
47   Most miserable hour that e'er time saw
48   In lasting labour of his pilgrimage!
49   But one, poor one, one poor and loving child,
50   But one thing to rejoice and solace in,
51   And cruel death hath catch'd it from my sight!

52   O woe! O woful, woful, woful day!
53   Most lamentable day, most woful day,
54   That ever, ever, I did yet behold!
55   O day! O day! O day! O hateful day!
56   Never was seen so black a day as this:
57   O woful day, O woful day!

58   Beguiled, divorced, wronged, spited, slain!
59   Most detestable death, by thee beguil'd,
60   By cruel cruel thee quite overthrown!
61   O love! O life! not life, but love in death!

62   Despised, distressed, hated, martyr'd, kill'd!
63   Uncomfortable time, why camest thou now
64   To murder, murder our solemnity?
65   O child! O child! my soul, and not my child!
66   Dead art thou! Alack! my child is dead;
67   And with my child my joys are buried.

68   Peace, ho, for shame! confusion's cure lives not
69   In these confusions. Heaven and yourself
70   Had part in this fair maid; now heaven hath all,
71   And all the better is it for the maid:
72   Your part in her you could not keep from death,
73   But heaven keeps his part in eternal life.
74   The most you sought was her promotion;
75   For 'twas your heaven she should be advanced:
76   And weep ye now, seeing she is advanced
77   Above the clouds, as high as heaven itself?
78   O, in this love, you love your child so ill,
79   That you run mad, seeing that she is well:
80   She's not well married that lives married long;
81   But she's best married that dies married young.
82   Dry up your tears, and stick your rosemary
83   On this fair corse; and, as the custom is,
84   In all her best array bear her to church:
85   For though fond nature bids us an lament,
86   Yet nature's tears are reason's merriment.

87   All things that we ordained festival,
88   Turn from their office to black funeral;
89   Our instruments to melancholy bells,
90   Our wedding cheer to a sad burial feast,
91   Our solemn hymns to sullen dirges change,
92   Our bridal flowers serve for a buried corse,
93   And all things change them to the contrary.

94   Sir, go you in; and, madam, go with him;
95   And go, Sir Paris; every one prepare
96   To follow this fair corse unto her grave:
97   The heavens do lour upon you for some ill;
98   Move them no more by crossing their high will.

99   Faith, we may put up our pipes, and be gone.

100  Honest goodfellows, ah, put up, put up;
101  For, well you know, this is a pitiful case.

102  Ay, by my troth, the case may be amended.

103  Musicians, O, musicians, 'Heart's ease, Heart's
104  ease:' O, an you will have me live, play 'Heart's ease.'

105  Why 'Heart's ease?'

106  O, musicians, because my heart itself plays 'My
107  heart is full of woe:' O, play me some merry dump,
108  to comfort me.

109  Not a dump we; 'tis no time to play now.

110  You will not, then?

111  No.

112  I will then give it you soundly.

113  What will you give us?

114  No money, on my faith, but the gleek;
115  I will give you the minstrel.

116  Then I will give you the serving-creature.

117  Then will I lay the serving-creature's dagger on
118  your pate. I will carry no crotchets: I'll re you,
119  I'll fa you; do you note me?

120  An you re us and fa us, you note us.

121  Pray you, put up your dagger, and put out your wit.

122  Then have at you with my wit! I will dry-beat you
123  with an iron wit, and put up my iron dagger. Answer
124  me like men:
125  'When griping grief the heart doth wound,
126  And doleful dumps the mind oppress,
127  Then music with her silver sound'--
128  why 'silver sound'? why 'music with her silver
129  sound'? What say you, Simon Catling?

130  Marry, sir, because silver hath a sweet sound.

131  Pretty! What say you, Hugh Rebeck?

132  I say 'silver sound,' because musicians sound for silver.

133  Pretty too! What say you, James Soundpost?

134  Faith, I know not what to say.

135  O, I cry you mercy; you are the singer: I will say
136  for you. It is 'music with her silver sound,'
137  because musicians have no gold for sounding:
138  'Then music with her silver sound
139  With speedy help doth lend redress.'

140  What a pestilent knave is this same!

141  Hang him, Jack! Come, we'll in here; tarry for the
142  mourners, and stay dinner.