Enter Lady Capulet.

La. Cap. What noife is here?
Nurfe. O lamentable day!

La. Cap. What is the matter?
Nurfe. Look,oh heavy day!

La. Cap. Oh me, oh me, my child, my only life! Revive, look up, or I will die with thee: Help, help! call help.

Enter Capulet.

Cap. For fhame, bring Juliet forth; her lord is come. Nurfe. She's dead, deceas'd, fhe's dead: alack the day! Cap. Ha! let me fee her-Out, alas! fhe's cold; Her blood is fettled, and her joints are stiff;

Life and these lips have long been separated:
Death lies on her, like an untimely frost
Upon the sweetest flow'r of all the field.
Accurfed time! unfortunate old man!
Nurse. O lamentable day!

La. Cap. O woefull Time!

Cap. Death, that hath ta'en her hence to make me wail,

Tyes up my Tongue, and will not let me speak.

Enter Friar Lawrence, and Paris with Muficians.
Fri. Come, is the bride ready to go to church?
Cap. Ready to go, but never to return.

O fon, the night before thy wedding-day
Hath Death lain with thy wife: fee, there fhe lies,
Flower as she was, deflower'd now by him:
Death is my fon-in-law.

Par. Have I thought long to fee this morning's face, And doth it give me fuch a fight as this!

La. Cap. Accurs'd, unhappy, wretched, hateful day! Most miserable hour, that Time e'er saw

In lafting labour of his pilgrimage!

But one, poor one, one poor and loving child,
But one thing to rejoice and folace in,

And cruel death hath catch'd it from my fight.

Nurfe.

Nurfe. O woe! oh woful, woful, woful day!
Most lamentable day! most woful day!
That ever, ever, I did yet behold.

Oh day! oh day! oh day! oh hateful day!
Never was feen fo black a day as this:
Oh woful day, oh woful day!

Par. Beguil'd, divorced, wronged, fpighted, flain,
Moft deteftable Death, by Thee beguil'd,

By cruel, cruel Thee quite over-thrown:
O Love, O Life, not Life, but Love in Death!-
Cap. Defpis'd, diftreffed, hated, martyr'd, kill'd,
Uncomfortable Time! why cam'ft thou now
To murther, murther our Solemnity?

O Child! O Child! My Soul, and not my Child!
Dead art Thou! dead; alack! my Child is dead,
And with my Child my Joys are buried.

Fri. Peace, ho, for Shame! Confufion's Cure lives not (26)

In these Confufions: Heaven and Yourfelf

Had Part in this fair Maid; now Heav'n hath All,

And All the better is it for the Maid.

Your Part in her you could not keep from Death,
But Heav'n keeps his Part in eternal Life.
The most, you fought, was her Promotion;
For 'twas your Heaven, fhe fhould be advanc'd:
And weep you now, feeing she is advanc'd,
Above the Clouds, as high as Heav'n himself?

(26) Peace ho for fhame, confufions: Care lives not in these Confufions,] This Speech, tho' it contains good Chriftian Doctrine, tho it is perfectly in Character for the Friar, and not the most despicable for its Poetry, Mr. Pope has curtail'd to little or nothing, because it has not the Sanction of the firft old Copy. By the fame Rule, had he pursued it throughout, we might have loft fome of the finest additional Strokes in the two Parts of K. Henry IV. But there was another Reason, I fufpect, for curtailing: Certain Corrup tions ftarted, which requir'd the indulging his private Senfe to make them intelligible, and this was an unreafonable Labour. As I have reform'd the Paffage above quoted, I dare warrant, I have reftor'd our Poet's Text; and a fine fenfible Reproof it contains, against immoderate Grief: for the Friar begins with telling them, that the Cure of thofe Confufions, into which the melancholy Accident had thrown 'em, did not live in the confus'd and inordinate Exclamations which they ex prefs'd on that Account.

Oh

Oh, in this Love you love your Child fo ill,
That you run mad, feeing, that she is well.
She's not well married, that lives married long;
But she's best married, that dyes married young.
Dry up your Tears, and stick your Rosemary
On this fair Coarfe; and as the Cuftom is,
And in her beft Array, bear her to Church.
For tho fond Nature bids us all lament, (27)
Yet Nature's Tears are Reafon's Merriment.

Cap. All Things, that we ordained festival,
Turn from their Office to black Funeral;
Our Inftruments to melancholy Bells,
Our Wedding Chear to a fad Funeral Feaft;
Our folemn Hymns to fullen Dirges change,
Our bridal Flow'rs ferve for a buried Coarse;
And all things change them to the contrary.

Fri. Sir, go you in, and, Madam, go with him; And go, Sir Paris; ev'ry one prepare

To follow this fair Coarfe unto her Grave.

The Heav'ns do low'r upon you, for fome Ill; Move them no more, by croffing their high Will. [Exeunt Capulet, Lady Capulet, Paris, and Friar.

Manent Muficians, and Nurse.

Muf. Faith, we may put up our pipes and be gone. Nurfe. Honeft good fellows: ah, put up, put up;

For, well you know, this is a pitiful cafe.

[Exit Nurfe Muf. Ay, by my troth, the cafe may be amended.

Enter Peter.

Pet. Muficians, oh musicians, heart's ease, heart's ease: Oh, an you will have me live, play heart's eafe. Muf. Why, heart's ease?

(27) For the fome Nature bids us all lament.] Some Nature? Sure, it is the general Rule of Nature, or fhe could not bid us all lament. I have ventur'd to fubftitute an Epithet, which I fufpect, was loft in the idle, corrupted Word, Some; and which admirably quadrates with the Verfe fucceeding this; that tho' the Fondness of Nature lay fuch an Injunction upon us, yet that Reafon does but mock our unavailing Sorrow.

Pet. O musicians, because my heart it felf plays, my heart it felf is full of woe. O, play me fome merry dump, to comfort me!

Muf. Not a dump we, 'tis no time to play now.

Pet. You will not then?

Muf. No.

Pet. I will then give it you foundly.

Muf. What will you give us?

Pet. No mony, on my faith, but the gleek: I will give you the Minstrell.

Muf. Then will I give you the Serving Creature.

Pet. Then will I lay the Serving Creature's Dagger on your Pate. I will carry no Crochets. I'll re you, I'll fa you, do you note me?

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

2 Muf. Pray you, put up your dagger, and put out your wit.

Pet. Then have at you with my wit: I will dry-beat you with an iron Wit, and put up my iron dagger :anfwer me like men:

When griping griefs the heart doth wound,

Then mufic with her filver found

Why, filver found? why, mufick with her filver found? Why fay you, Simon Catling?

Muf. Marry, Sir, because filver hath a sweet found. Pet. Pretty! what fay you, Hugh Rebeck?

2 Muf. I fay, filver found, because musicians found for filver.

Pet. Pretty too! what fay you, Samuel Sound-board? 3 Muf. Faith, I know not what to say.

Pet. O, I cry you mercy, you are the finger, I will fay for you. It is mufick with her filver found, because fuch fellows, as you, have no gold for founding.

The Mufick with her filver Sound

Doth lend Redress.

Muf. What a peftilent knave is this fame?

[Exit, finging.

2 Muf. Hang him, Jack; come, we'll in here, tarry

for the mourners, and stay dinner,

[Exeunt.

ACT

I

ACT V.

SCENE, in MANTUA.

Enter Romeo.

FI may truft the flattering Truth of
Sleep, (18)

My dreams prefage fome joyful news at
hand:

My bofom's Lord fits lightly on his Throne,

And, all this day, an unaccuftom'd spirit

Lifts me above the ground with chearful thoughts.
I dreamt, my lady came and found me dead,
(Strange dream! that gives a dead man leave to think)
And breath'd fuch life with kiffes in my lips,
That I reviv'd, and was an Emperor.
Ah me! how sweet is love it felf poffeft,
When but love's fhadows are fo rich in joy?

Enter Balthazar.

News from Verona-How now, Balthazar ?
Doft thou not bring me letters from the Friar?
How doth my lady? is my father well?
How doth my Juliet? That I ask again;

For nothing can be ill, if the be well.

Balth. Then fhe is well, and nothing can be ill;
Her body fleeps in Capulet's Monument,
And her immortal part with angels lives:

I faw her laid low in her kindred's vault,

(28) If I may truft the flatt'ring Truth of Sleep.] i. e. If I may believe thofe Dreams; if I may confide in their flattering Tenour, as in a Promife of Truth.

VOL. VII.

O

And