The Quintessential Shakespeare: 11 Most Famous Plays in One Edition. William Shakespeare
But I will write again to Mantua,
And keep her at my cell till Romeo come;—
Poor living corse, clos’d in a dead man’s tomb!
[Exit.]
SCENE III. A churchyard; in it a Monument belonging to the Capulets.
[Enter Paris, and his Page bearing flowers and a torch.]
Paris.
Give me thy torch, boy: hence, and stand aloof;—
Yet put it out, for I would not be seen.
Under yond yew tree lay thee all along,
Holding thine ear close to the hollow ground;
So shall no foot upon the churchyard tread,—
Being loose, unfirm, with digging up of graves,—
But thou shalt hear it: whistle then to me,
As signal that thou hear’st something approach.
Give me those flowers. Do as I bid thee, go.
Page.
[Aside.] I am almost afraid to stand alone
Here in the churchyard; yet I will adventure.
[Retires.]
Paris.
Sweet flower, with flowers thy bridal bed I strew:
O woe! thy canopy is dust and stones!
Which with sweet water nightly I will dew;
Or, wanting that, with tears distill’d by moans:
The obsequies that I for thee will keep,
Nightly shall be to strew thy grave and weep.
[The Page whistles.]
The boy gives warning something doth approach.
What cursed foot wanders this way tonight,
To cross my obsequies and true love’s rite?
What, with a torch! muffle me, night, awhile.
[Retires.]
[Enter Romeo and Balthasar with a torch, mattock, &c.]
Romeo.
Give me that mattock and the wrenching iron.
Hold, take this letter; early in the morning
See thou deliver it to my lord and father.
Give me the light; upon thy life I charge thee,
Whate’er thou hear’st or seest, stand all aloof
And do not interrupt me in my course.
Why I descend into this bed of death
Is partly to behold my lady’s face,
But chiefly to take thence from her dead finger
A precious ring,—a ring that I must use
In dear employment: therefore hence, be gone:—
But if thou, jealous, dost return to pry
In what I further shall intend to do,
By heaven, I will tear thee joint by joint,
And strew this hungry churchyard with thy limbs:
The time and my intents are savage-wild;
More fierce and more inexorable far
Than empty tigers or the roaring sea.
Balthasar.
I will be gone, sir, and not trouble you.
Romeo.
So shalt thou show me friendship.—Take thou that:
Live, and be prosperous: and farewell, good fellow.
Balthasar.
For all this same, I’ll hide me hereabout:
His looks I fear, and his intents I doubt.
[Retires.]
Romeo.
Thou detestable maw, thou womb of death,
Gorg’d with the dearest morsel of the earth,
Thus I enforce thy rotten jaws to open,
[Breaking open the door of the monument.]
And, in despite, I’ll cram thee with more food!
Paris.
This is that banish’d haughty Montague
That murder’d my love’s cousin,—with which grief,
It is supposed, the fair creature died,—
And here is come to do some villanous shame
To the dead bodies: I will apprehend him.—
[Advances.]
Stop thy unhallow’d toil, vile Montague!
Can vengeance be pursu’d further than death?
Condemned villain, I do apprehend thee;
Obey, and go with me; for thou must die.
Romeo.
I must indeed; and therefore came I hither.—
Good gentle youth, tempt not a desperate man;
Fly hence and leave me:—think upon these gone;
Let them affright thee.—I beseech thee, youth,
Put not another sin upon my head
By urging me to fury: O, be gone!
By heaven, I love thee better than myself;
For I come hither arm’d against myself:
Stay not, be gone;—live, and hereafter say,
A madman’s mercy bid thee run away.
Paris.
I do defy thy conjurations,
And apprehend thee for a felon here.
Romeo.
Wilt thou provoke me? then have at thee, boy!
[They fight.]
Page.
O lord, they fight! I will go call the watch.
[Exit.]
Paris.
O, I am slain! [Falls.] If thou be merciful,
Open the tomb, lay me with Juliet.
[Dies.]
Romeo.
In faith, I will.—Let me peruse this face:—
Mercutio’s kinsman, noble County Paris!—
What said my man, when my betossed soul
Did not attend him as we rode? I think
He told me Paris should have married Juliet:
Said he not so? or did I dream it so?
Or am I mad, hearing him talk of Juliet,
To think it was so?—O, give me thy hand,
One writ with me in sour misfortune’s book!
I’ll bury thee in a triumphant grave;—
A grave? O, no, a lanthorn, slaught’red youth,
For here lies Juliet, and her beauty makes
This vault a feasting presence full of light.
Death, lie thou there, by a dead man interr’d.
[Laying Paris in the monument.]
How oft when men are at the point of death
Have they been merry! which their keepers call
A lightning before death: O, how may I
Call this a lightning?—O my