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Now, nurfe, what news? what haft thou there?
The cords that Romeo bid thee fetch?

Nurfe. Ay, ay, the cords.

ful. Ah me, what news? Why dost thou wring thy hands?

Nurfe. Ah welladay, he's dead, he's dead, he's dead! 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. O Romeo! Romeo!

Who ever would have thought it, Romeo?

Jul. What devil art thou, that doft torment me thus ? This torture fhould be roar'd in dismal hell. Hath Romeo flain himself? fay thou but, I; And that bare vowel, I, fhall poifon more (11) 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 coarse, 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!-poor bankrupt, break at once! 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 ftorm is this, that blows so contrary!


(11) And that bare vowel, ay, fhall poifon 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 fulpecting it rather for a Dipthong. 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 geneTally written, I: and by this means it both becomes a Vowal, and anfwers in Sound to Eye, upon which the Conceit turns in the Second Line.

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 banished,
Romeo, that kill'd him, he is banished.

Jul. O God! did Romeo's hand fhed Tybalt's blood?
Nurfe. It did, it did, alas, the day! it did.
Jul. O ferpent-heart, hid with a flow'ring face!
Did ever dragon keep fo fair a cave?

Beautiful tyrant, fiend angelical!

Dove feather'd raven! wolvish-rav'ning lamb! (12)
Defpifed fubftance, of divineft show!
Juft oppofite to what thou juftly feem'ft,
A damned faint, 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 honefty, in men; all perjur'd;
All, all forfworn; all naught; and all diffemblers.
Ah, where's my man? give me fome Aqua vita-
These griefs, thefe woes, thefe forrows make me old!
Shame come to Romeo!

(12) 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 firft view.] But is there no fuch Thing as a Crutch for a labouring, halting, Verfe? I'll venture to reftore to the Poet a Line that was certainly his, that is in his own Mode of Thinking, and truly worthy of him. The firft word, ravenous, I have no doubt, was blunderingly coined 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 Epi thets and Images.

Dove-feather'd Raven! Wolvish-rav'ning Lamb↓


Jul. Blifter'd be thy tongue,

For fuch a wish! he was not born to shame;
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 beast was I to chide him fo?

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

Jul. Shall I fpeak ill of him, that is my husband? Ah, poor my Lord, what tongue shall smooth thy name, When I, thy three-hours-wife, have mangled it! But wherefore, villain, didst thou kill my coufin? That villain coufin would have kill'd my husband. Back, foolish tears, back to your native spring; Your tributary drops belong to woe,

Which you, miftaking 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 murder'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 thousand 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 thy Mother, nay, or both?
But with a rear-ward following Tybalt's death,
Romeo is banished to fpeak that word,
Is, father, mother, Tybalt, Romeo, Juliet,
All flain, all dead!Romeo is banished!
There is no end, no limit, meafure, 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. Wafh they his wounds with tears? mine fhall be spent,

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, die maiden widowed.

Come, cord; come, nurfe; I'll to my wedding-bed:
And Death, not Romeo, take my maidenhead!
Nurfe. 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. Oh find him, give this ring to my true knight, And bid him come, to take his laft farewel.



SCENE changes to the Monaftery.

Enter Friar Lawrence and Romeo.

Omeo, 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 doon? What forrow craves acquaintance at my hand,

That I yet know not?

Fri. Too familiar

Is my dear on with fuch fow'r company.

I bring thee tidings of the Prince's doom?

Rom. What lefs than dooms-day is the Prince's doom? Fri. A gentler jugdment 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: the Be patient, for the world is broad and wide.

Rom. There is no world without Kerona's walls,


But purgatory, torture, hell itself.

Hence banished, is banifh'd from the world;
And world-exil'd, is death. That banifhed
Is death mif-term'd calling death banishment,
Thou cut'ft my head off with a golden ax,
And fmil'ft upon the stroke that murders me. AN
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 seeft 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 feize
On the white wonder of dear Juliet's hand,
And steal immortal bleffings from her lips;
(Which ev'n in pure and veftal modesty
Still bluth, as thinking their own kiffes fin.)
may flies do, when I from this muft fly;
fay'ft thou yet, that exile is not death?)
Bat Romeo may not; he is banished.

Hadft tho no poifon mixt, no fharp-ground knife,
No fuddenean 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 ghoftly confeffor,

A fin-abfolver, and my friend profeft,
To mangle me with that word, banishment ? .
Fri. Fond mad-man, hear me fpeak..

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

To comfort thee, tho' thou art banished.

Rom. Yet, banished hang up philofophy:

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