Scene II. A Room in Capulet's House.
Gallop apace, you fiery-footed steeds,
Towards Phoebus' lodging; such a waggoner
As Phaeton would whip you to the west
And bring in cloudy night immediately. —
Spread thy close curtain, love-performing night!
That rude eyes may wink, and Romeo
Leap to these arms, untalk'd of and unseen. —
Lovers can see to do their amorous rites
By their own beauties: or, if love be blind,
It best agrees with night. — Come, civil night,
Thou sober-suited matron, all in black,
And learn me how to lose a winning match,
Play'd for a pair of stainless maidenhoods:
Hood my unmann'd blood, bating in my cheeks,
With thy black mantle; till strange love, grown bold,
Think true love acted simple modesty.
Come, night; — come, Romeo; — come, thou day in night;
For thou wilt lie upon the wings of night
Whiter than new snow upon a raven's back. —
Come, gentle night; — come, loving, black-brow'd night,
Give me my Romeo; and, when he shall die,
Take him and cut him out in little stars,
And he will make the face of heaven so fine
That all the world will be in love with night,
And pay no worship to the garish sun. —
O, I have bought the mansion of a love,
But not possess'd it; and, though I am sold,
Not yet enjoy'd: so tedious is this day
As is the night before some festival
To an impatient child that hath new robes,
And may not wear them. O, here comes my nurse,
And she brings news; and every tongue that speaks
But Romeo's name speaks heavenly eloquence. —
[Enter Nurse, with cords.]
Now, nurse, what news? What hast thou there? the cords
That Romeo bid thee fetch?
Ay, ay, the cords.
[Throws them down.]
Ah me! what news? why dost thou wring thy hands?
Ah, well-a-day! 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!
Can heaven be so envious?
Though heaven cannot. — O Romeo, Romeo! —
Who ever would have thought it? — Romeo!
What devil art thou, that dost torment me thus?
This torture should be roar'd in dismal hell.
Hath Romeo slain himself? say thou but I,
And that bare vowel I shall poison more
Than the death-darting eye of cockatrice:
I am not I if there be such an I;
Or those eyes shut that make thee answer I.
If he be slain, say I; or if not, no:
Brief sounds determine of my weal or woe.
I saw the wound, I saw it with mine eyes, —
God save the mark! — here on his manly breast.
A piteous corse, a bloody piteous corse;
Pale, pale as ashes, all bedaub'd in blood,
All in gore-blood; — I swounded at the sight.
O, break, my heart! — poor bankrout, break at once!
To prison, eyes; ne'er look on liberty!
Vile earth, to earth resign; end motion here;
And thou and Romeo press one heavy bier!
O Tybalt, Tybalt, the best friend I had!
O courteous Tybalt! honest gentleman!
That ever I should live to see thee dead!
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