ン

We are undone, lady, we are undone.

Alack, the day! he's gone, he's kill'd, he's dead.
Jul. Can heaven be fo envious?

Nurfe. Romeo can,

Though heav'n cannot,

Q Romeo! Romeo!

Who ever would have thought it, Romeo?

ful. What devil art thou, that doft torment me thus ? This torture fhould be roar'd in difmal hell.

Hath Romeo flain himself? fay thou but, I;

And that bare vowel, I, fhall poifon more (23)
Than the death-darting eye of cockatrice.

Nurfe. I faw the wound, I faw it with mine eyes,
(God fave the mark,) here on his manly breast.
A piteous coarfe, a bloody piteous coarse;
Pale, pale as afhes, all bedawb'd in blood,
All in gore blood; I fwooned at the fight,
Jul. O break, my heart! -

at once!

poor bankrupt, break

To prifon, eyes! ne'er look on liberty;

Vile earth to earth refign, end motion here,
And thou and Romeo prefs one heavy bier!
Nurfe. O Tybalt, Tybalt, the best friend I had:
O courteous Tybalt, honeft gentleman,
That ever I fhould live to fee thee dead!

Jul. What storm is this, that blows fo contrary?

Is Romeo flaughter'd? and is Tybalt dead?

My dear-lov'd coufin, and my dearer lord?

Then let the trumpet found the general Doom,

For who is living, if thofe two are gone ?
Nurfe. Tybalt is dead, and Romeo banifhed,
Romeo, that kill'd him, he is banished.

Jul. O God! did Romeo's hand fhed Tybalt's blood?

(23) And that bare Vowel, ay, shall poyfon more

Than the death-darting Eye of Cockatrice.] I queftion much, whether the Grammarians will take this new Vowel on Truft from Mr. Pope, without fufpecting it rather for a Dyphthong. In fhort, we must reftore the Spelling of the Old Books, or We lofe the Poet's Conceit. At his Time of day, the affirmative Adverb Ay was generally written,. 4 and by this means it both becomes a Kowels and answers in Sound to Eye, upon which the Conceit turns in the Second Line.

Nurfe

Nurfe. It did, it did, alas, the day! it did. Jul. O ferpent heart, hid with a flowring face, Did ever dragon keep fo fair a cave?

Beautiful tyrant, fiend angelical!

Dove-feather'd raven! Wolvifh-rav'ning Lamb! (24)
Despised fubftance of divinest show!

Juft oppofite to what thou justly feem'lt,
A damned Saint, an honourable villain!
O nature what hadft thou to do in hell,
When thou didst bower the Spirit of a fiend
In mortal Paradife of fuch sweet flesh?
Was ever book containing fuch vile matter
So fairly bound? O that deceit should dwell
In fuch a gorgeous palace!

Nurfe. There's no truft,

No faith, no honesty in men; all perjur'd;
All, all forfworn; all naught; and all diffemblers.
Ah, where's my man? give me fome Aqua vite
These griefs, these woes, thefe forrows make me old!
Shame come to Romeo!

Jul. Blifter'd be thy tongue,

For fuch a wifh! he was not born to fhame;
Upon his brow fhame is afham'd to fit:

For 'tis a throne where honour may be crown'd

Sole monarch of the universal earth.

O, what a beaft was I to chide him fo?

Nurfe. Will you speak well of him that kill'd your coufin?

Jul. Shall I fpeak ill of him, that is my husband?

(24) Ravenous Dove, feather'd Raven,

Wolvifh ravening Lamb.] This paffage Mr. Pope has thrown out of the Text, partly, I prefume, because these two noble Hemiftichs are, indeed, inharmonious: [but chiefly, because they are obfcure and unintelligible at the first View.] But is there no fuch Thing as a Crutch for a labour ing, halting, Verfe? I'll venture to restore to the Poet a Line that was certainly his, that is in his own Mode of Thinking, and truly worthy of him. The first word, ravenous, I have no Doubt, was blunderingly coin'd out of Raven and ravening, which follow; and if we only throw it out, we gain at once an harmonious Verfe, and a proper Contraft of Epithets and Images.

Dove-feather'd Raven! Walvish-rav'ning Lamb 1

Ah, poor my lord, what tongue fhall fmooth thy name,
When I, thy three-hours-wife, have mangled it!
But wherefore, villain, didst thou kill my cousin?
That villain coufin would have kill'd my husband.
Back, foolish tears, back to your native fpring;
Your tributary drops belong to woe,
Which you, mistaking, offer up to joy.
My husband lives, that Tybalt would have flain;
And Tybalt's dead, that would have kill'd my husband;
All this is comfort; wherefore weep I then?
Some word there was, worfer than Tybalt's death,
That murther'd me; I would forget it, fain;
But, oh! it preffes to my memory,

Like damned guilty deeds to finners minds;
Tybalt is dead, and Romeo banished!
That banished, that one word banished,
Hath flain ten thoufand Tybalts: Tybalt's death
Was woe enough, if it had ended there:
Or if fow'r woe delights in fellowship,
And needly will be rank'd with other griefs,
Why follow'd not, when she said Tybalt's dead,
Thy Father or thý Mother, nay, or both?
But with a rear-ward following Tyball's death,
Romeo is banished - to speak that word,
Is, father, mother, Tybalt, Romeo, Juliet,
All flain, all dead!
Romeo is banished!

There is no end, no limit, measure, bound,
In that word's death; no words can that woe found.
Where is my father, and my mother, nurfe?

Nurfe. Weeping and wailing over Tybalt's coarse.
Will you go to them? I will bring you thither.

Jul. Wash they his wounds with tears? mine fhall be fpent,

When theirs are dry, for Romeo's banishment.

Take up thofe Cords; poor Ropes, you are beguil'd; Both You and I; for Romeo is exil'd.

He made You for a high way to my Bed:

But I, a Maid, dye Maiden widowed.

Come, Cord; come, Nurfe; I'll to my wedding Bed:

And Death, not Romeo, take my Maidenhead!

Nurfe.

Nurse. Hie to your chamber, I'll find Romeo To comfort you. I wot well, where he is. Hark ye, your Romeo will be here at night; I'll to him, he is hid at Lawrence' cell.

Jul. O find him, give this ring to my true knight, And bid him come, to take this laft farewel.

Fri.

R

SCENE changes to the Monastery.

Enter Friar Lawrence and Romeo.

[Exeunt.

O MEO, come forth; come forth, thou fearful

man;

Affliction is enamour'd of thy parts,

And thou art wedded to calamity.

Rom. Father, what news? what is the Prince's doom? What forrow craves acquaintance at my hand,

That I yet know not?

Fri. Too familiar

Is my dear fon with fuch fow'r company.

I bring thee tidings of the Prince's doom.

Rom. What lefs than doons-day is the Prince's doom? Fri. A gentler judgment vanish'd from his lips, Not body's death, but body's banishment.

Rom. Ha, banishment! be merciful, fay, death;
For exile hath more terror in his look,

Much more than death. Do not fay, banishment.
Fri. Here from Verona art thou banished:

Be patient, for the world is broad and wide.

Rom. There is no world without Verona's walls,
But purgatory, torture, hell it felf.

Hence banished, is banifh'd from the world;
And world-exil'd, is death. That banished
Is death mif-term'd calling death banishment,
Thou cut'ft my head off with a golden ax,
And fmil'ft upon the ftroak that murthers me,

Fri. O deadly fin! O rude unthankfulness !
Thy fault our law calls death; but the kind Prince,

Taking thy part, hath rufht afide the law,
And turn'd that black word death to banishment.
This is dear mercy, and thou feeft it not.

Rom. 'Tis torture, and not mercy heav'n is here,
Where Juliet lives; and every cat and dog
And little moufe, every unworthy thing,
Lives here in heaven, and may look on her;
But Romeo may not. More validity,
More honourable state, more courtship lives
In carrion flies, than Romeo: they may seize
On the white wonder of dear Juliet's hand,
And steal immortal bleffings from her lips;
(Which even in pure and veftal modefty
Still blush, as thinking their own kisses fin.)
This may flies do, when I from this muft fly;
(And fay'ft thou yet, that exile is not death?)
But Romeo may not; he is banished.

Hadft thou no Poifon mixt, no fharp-ground knife,
No fudden mean of death, tho' ne'er fo mean,
But banished to kill me? banished?

O Friar, the Damned ufe that word in hell;
Howlings attend it: how haft thou the heart,
Being a Divine, a ghostly Confeffor,
A fin-abfolver, and my friend profest,
To mangle me with that word, banishment?
Fri. Fond mad man, hear me fpeak.

Rom. O, thou wilt speak again of banishment.
Fri. I'll give thee armour to keep off that word,
Adverfity's fweet milk, philofophy,

To comfort thee, tho' thou art banished.

Rom. Yet, banished? hang up philofophy: Unless philofophy can make a Juliet,

Difplant a town, reverfe a Prince's doom,

It helps not, it prevails not, talk no more→→→
Fri. O, then I fee that mad men have no ears.

Rom. How fhould they, when that wife men have no eyes?

Fri. Let me difpute with thee of thy estate.

Rom. Thou canst not speak of what thou doft not feel; Wert thou as young as I, Juliet thy love,