Romeo and Juliet Act 4 Scene 1

Thursday, sir? That's very little time.

My father-in-law Capulet wants it that way,

and I'm not inclined to slow him down.

You say you don't know how the lady feels.

That's an unsteady way to proceed. I don't like it.

She's crying uncontrollably over Tybalt's death,

so I've barely mentioned love —

the goddess of love doesn't smile in a house of tears.

Her father thinks it's dangerous

for her to let grief take over so completely,

so in his wisdom he's rushing our marriage

to stop the flood of tears.

Dwelling on it alone makes it worse;

company might take her mind off it.

Now you know why the rush.

(to himself) I wish I didn't know why it should be slowed down.

Look, sir — here comes the lady now.

Well met, my lady and my wife!

That may be true, sir — when I may be a wife.

That 'may be' must be, love — on Thursday.

What must be will be. (Every answer she gives him is technically true and completely evasive.)

That's a certainty.

Have you come to confess to the good father?

Answering that would mean confessing to you.

Don't deny to him that you love me.

I'll confess to you that I love him. (Meaning the Friar. Or meaning Romeo. Paris hears neither.)

And you'll confess, I'm sure, that you love me.

If I do, it'll be worth more

said behind your back than to your face.

Poor thing — your face is badly damaged by crying.

The tears didn't achieve much —

my face was bad enough before they went to work.

You insult it more with that remark than the tears did.

It isn't slander, sir, if it's true.

And what I said, I said about my own face.

Your face belongs to me, and you've slandered it.

That may be true — it certainly isn't mine anymore.

Do you have time now, holy father,

or should I come back at evening mass?

I have time now, my thoughtful daughter.

My lord, we must ask you to leave us alone.

God forbid I should interrupt prayer!

Juliet, I'll wake you early on Thursday.

Until then, goodbye — and keep this holy kiss.

Shut the door! And when you have,

come and cry with me. I'm past hope, past cure, past help.

Ah, Juliet, I already know your trouble.

It's stretching me beyond the limits of my wits.

I hear you must, and nothing can postpone it,

marry the Count on Thursday.

Don't tell me you've heard about it, friar,

unless you can tell me how to stop it.

If all your wisdom can't help,

then just call my decision a wise one

and I'll solve it right now with this knife.

God joined my heart to Romeo's; you joined our hands.

And before this hand, sealed to Romeo by you,

becomes the seal on another contract,

or my true heart treacherously

turns to someone else — this knife will kill them both.

So, out of all your long experience,

give me some advice right now — or look:

between my desperation and me, this bloody knife

will be the referee, settling what

all your years and skill

couldn't bring to an honourable conclusion.

Don't take so long to answer. I'm longing to die

if what you say isn't a solution.

Wait, daughter — I see a kind of hope,

but it requires something as desperate

as the thing we're trying to prevent.

If you have the strength of will to kill yourself

rather than marry Count Paris,

then you'll probably be willing to attempt

something like death to escape this disgrace —

since you're ready to face death itself to avoid it.

And if you dare, I'll give you a solution.

Tell me to jump, rather than marry Paris,

from the top of that tower.

Or walk down streets full of thieves. Or lurk

in a snake pit. Chain me up with roaring bears.

Shut me in a bone-house every night,

buried under dead men's rattling bones,

with stinking shinbones and yellow jawless skulls.

Or tell me to climb into a fresh grave

and hide with a dead man in his burial cloth —

things that make me shake just hearing them described.

I'll do any of it without fear or hesitation

to stay a faithful wife to my love.

All right, then. Go home, act cheerful, agree

to marry Paris. Tomorrow is Wednesday.

Tomorrow night make sure you sleep alone —

don't let the Nurse stay in your room.

Once you're in bed, take this vial

and drink the whole distilled liquid.

Immediately a cold, drowsy fluid

will run through all your veins. Your pulse

will stop its normal beat and cease.

No warmth, no breath will show you're alive.

The pink in your lips and cheeks will fade

to pale ash. Your eyelids will fall shut

the way death closes the daylight of life.

Every limb, robbed of its suppleness,

will be stiff and cold, looking exactly like death.

And in this borrowed appearance of death

you'll stay for forty-two hours,

then wake as if from a pleasant nap.

Now, when the bridegroom comes in the morning

to wake you, he'll find you dead.

Then, as our custom is,

dressed in your best clothes on an open bier,

you'll be carried to the ancient vault

where all the Capulets are buried.

Meanwhile, before you wake,

Romeo will learn our plan by my letters

and come here. He and I

will watch you wake, and that very night

Romeo will take you away to Mantua.

This will free you from your present disgrace —

as long as no sudden whim or womanly fear

weakens your courage when it comes to doing it.

Give it to me, give it to me! Don't talk to me about fear!

Here. Now go, and be strong and successful

in this plan. I'll send a friar quickly

to Mantua with my letters to your husband.

Let love give me strength — and strength will see it through.

Goodbye, dear father!