Romeo and Juliet Act 4 Scene 5
Juliet's chamber. Morning.
The Original
Plain Modern English
Enter the Nurse.
Nurse
Mistress! what, mistress! Juliet! fast, I warrant her, she:
Why, lamb! why, lady! fie, you slug-a-bed!
Why, love, I say! madam! sweet-heart! why, bride!
What, not a word? you take your pennyworths now;
Sleep for a week; for the next night, I warrant,
The County Paris hath set up his rest,
That you shall rest but little. God forgive me,
Marry, and amen, how sound is she asleep!
I must needs wake her. Madam, madam, madam!
Ay, let the county take you in your bed;
He'll fright you up, i' faith. Will it not be?
Nurse
Mistress! Mistress! Juliet! Fast asleep, I'll bet.
Come on, lamb! Lady! Shame on you, lie-abed!
Come on, love! Madam! Sweetheart! Bride!
What, not a word? Getting your money's worth of sleep now —
sleep for a week, because tomorrow night, I promise you,
Count Paris has made up his mind
that you'll get very little rest. God forgive me —
goodness, how soundly she's sleeping!
I'll have to wake her. Madam! Madam! Madam!
Fine — let the Count find you in your bed.
He'll startle you awake, all right. — Won't you wake?
She opens the bed curtains.
Nurse
What, dress'd! and in your clothes! and down again!
I must needs wake you; Lady! lady! lady!
Alas, alas! Help, help! my lady's dead!
O, well-a-day, that ever I was born!
Some aqua vitae, ho! My lord! my lady!
Nurse
What — dressed? In your clothes? And lying down again?
I must wake you. Lady! Lady! Lady!
Oh no — help! Help! My lady's dead!
Oh, what a day — I wish I'd never been born!
Someone bring brandy! My lord! My lady!
Enter Lady Capulet.
Lady Capulet
What noise is here?
Lady Capulet
What's all this noise?
Nurse
O lamentable day!
Nurse
Oh, terrible day!
Lady Capulet
What is the matter?
Lady Capulet
What's the matter?
Nurse
Look, look! O heavy day!
Nurse
Look! Look! Oh, dreadful day!
Lady Capulet
O me, O me! My child, my only life,
Revive, look up, or I will die with thee!
Help, help! Call help.
Lady Capulet
Oh no, oh no! My child, my only life —
wake up, look at me, or I'll die with you!
Help! Help! Someone call for help!
Enter Capulet.
Capulet
For shame, bring Juliet forth; her lord is come.
Capulet
For heaven's sake, bring Juliet out — her husband's here.
Nurse
She's dead, deceased, she's dead; alack the day!
Nurse
She's dead, she's gone, she's dead. What an awful day!
Lady Capulet
Alack the day, she's dead, she's dead, she's dead!
Lady Capulet
What a terrible day — she's dead, she's dead, she's dead!
Capulet
Ha! let me see her: out, alas! she's cold:
Her blood is settled, and her joints are stiff;
Life and these lips have long been separated:
Death lies on her like an untimely frost
Upon the sweetest flower of all the field.
Capulet
Let me see her — oh God, she's cold.
Her blood has settled and her joints are stiff.
Life left these lips a long while ago.
Death lies on her like an early frost
on the sweetest flower in the field.
Nurse
O lamentable day!
Nurse
Oh, terrible day!
Lady Capulet
O woful time!
Lady Capulet
Oh, miserable hour!
Capulet
Death, that hath ta'en her hence to make me wail,
Ties up my tongue, and will not let me speak.
Capulet
Death, which has taken her away to make me weep,
ties my tongue and won't let me speak.
Enter Friar Laurence and Paris, with Musicians.
Friar Laurence
Come, is the bride ready to go to church?
Friar Laurence
Well — is the bride ready to go to church?
Capulet
Ready to go, but never to return.
O son! the night before thy wedding-day
Hath Death lain with thy wife. There she lies,
Flower as she was, deflowered by him.
Death is my son-in-law, Death is my heir;
My daughter he hath wedded: I will die,
And leave him all; life, living, all is Death's.
Capulet
Ready to go, but never to come back.
Oh, son — the night before your wedding day
Death slept with your bride. There she lies,
a flower, deflowered by him.
Death is my son-in-law; Death is my heir.
He's married my daughter. I'll die
and leave him everything — life, property, all of it is Death's.
Paris
Have I thought long to see this morning's face,
And doth it give me such a sight as this?
Paris
Have I waited so long for this morning to come,
only for it to show me a sight like this?
Lady Capulet
Accursed, unhappy, wretched, hateful day!
Most miserable hour that e'er time saw
In lasting labour of his pilgrimage!
But one, poor one, one poor and loving child,
But one thing to rejoice and solace in,
And cruel death hath catch'd it from my sight!
Lady Capulet
Cursed, miserable, wretched, hateful day!
The most miserable hour time has ever seen
in its whole long journey!
Only one, just one, one poor loving child —
one single thing to take joy and comfort in —
and cruel death has snatched her from my sight!
Nurse
O woe! O woful, woful, woful day!
Most lamentable day, most woful day,
That ever, ever, I did yet behold!
O day! O day! O day! O hateful day!
Never was seen so black a day as this:
O woful day, O woful day!
Nurse
Oh, grief! Oh, miserable, miserable, miserable day!
The most terrible day, the most wretched day
I have ever, ever seen!
Oh, day! Oh, day! Oh, hateful day!
There was never such a black day as this.
Oh, wretched day! Oh, wretched day!
Paris
Beguiled, divorced, wronged, spited, slain!
Most detestable death, by thee beguil'd,
By cruel cruel thee quite overthrown!
O love! O life! not life, but love in death!
Paris
Cheated, separated, wronged, spited, killed!
Most hateful death, tricked by you,
utterly destroyed by cruel, cruel you!
Oh, love! Oh, life! Not life — love in death!
Capulet
Despised, distressed, hated, martyr'd, kill'd!
Uncomfortable time, why camest thou now
To murder, murder our solemnity?
O child! O child! my soul, and not my child!
Dead art thou! Alack! my child is dead;
And with my child my joys are buried.
Capulet
Despised, distressed, hated, martyred, killed!
Cruel hour, why did you come now
to murder, murder our celebration?
Oh, child! Oh, child! My soul, not just my child!
You're dead! My child is dead,
and my joys are buried with her.
Friar Laurence
Peace, ho, for shame! confusion's cure lives not
In these confusions. Heaven and yourself
Had part in this fair maid; now heaven hath all,
And all the better is it for the maid:
Your part in her you could not keep from death,
But heaven keeps his part in eternal life.
The most you sought was her promotion;
For 'twas your heaven she should be advanced:
And weep ye now, seeing she is advanced
Above the clouds, as high as heaven itself?
O, in this love, you love your child so ill,
That you run mad, seeing that she is well:
She's not well married that lives married long;
But she's best married that dies married young.
Dry up your tears, and stick your rosemary
On this fair corse; and, as the custom is,
In all her best array bear her to church:
For though fond nature bids us an lament,
Yet nature's tears are reason's merriment.
Friar Laurence
Quiet, for shame! The cure for disaster isn't found
in this hysteria. Heaven and you
both had a share in this girl. Now heaven has all of her,
and that's better for her.
You couldn't keep your share of her from death,
but heaven keeps its share in eternal life.
All you wanted was to see her raised up in the world;
her advancement was your idea of heaven.
And now you're weeping, when she's been raised
above the clouds, as high as heaven itself?
In loving her this way you love her so badly
that you go mad when you see she's well off.
A woman isn't well married by staying married long;
she's best married who dies married young. (The Friar knows she's alive. Every word here is a performance.)
Dry your tears, and lay your rosemary
on this lovely body. As custom requires,
carry her to church in her finest clothes.
Foolish human nature makes us all grieve,
but reason laughs at nature's tears.
Capulet
All things that we ordained festival,
Turn from their office to black funeral;
Our instruments to melancholy bells,
Our wedding cheer to a sad burial feast,
Our solemn hymns to sullen dirges change,
Our bridal flowers serve for a buried corse,
And all things change them to the contrary.
Capulet
Everything we arranged for a celebration
must be turned to a black funeral instead.
Our instruments become mournful bells,
our wedding feast a sad burial dinner,
our joyful hymns become gloomy funeral songs,
our wedding flowers decorate a corpse,
and everything turns into its opposite.
Friar Laurence
Sir, go you in; and, madam, go with him;
And go, Sir Paris; every one prepare
To follow this fair corse unto her grave:
The heavens do lour upon you for some ill;
Move them no more by crossing their high will.
Friar Laurence
Sir, go inside; madam, go with him;
and you too, Sir Paris. Everyone prepare
to follow this poor girl to her grave.
Heaven is frowning on you for some wrongdoing —
don't provoke it further by resisting its will.
Exeunt Capulet, Lady Capulet, Paris, and Friar Laurence.
First Musician
Faith, we may put up our pipes, and be gone.
First Musician
Well, we might as well pack up our instruments and go.
Nurse
Honest goodfellows, ah, put up, put up;
For, well you know, this is a pitiful case.
Nurse
Yes, good fellows, pack up, pack up.
As you can see, this is a pitiful situation.
Exit Nurse.
First Musician
Ay, by my troth, the case may be amended.
First Musician
True enough — though the case might be mended. (A pun: 'case' also means an instrument case. Shakespeare is genuinely doing this over Juliet's body.)
Enter Peter.
Peter
Musicians, O, musicians, 'Heart's ease, Heart's
ease:' O, an you will have me live, play 'Heart's ease.'
Peter
Musicians — oh, musicians — play 'Heart's Ease,'
'Heart's Ease.' If you want me to live, play 'Heart's Ease.'
First Musician
Why 'Heart's ease?'
First Musician
Why 'Heart's Ease'?
Peter
O, musicians, because my heart itself plays 'My
heart is full of woe:' O, play me some merry dump,
to comfort me.
Peter
Because my heart is playing
'My Heart Is Full of Woe.' Play me a cheerful sad song
to cheer me up.
First Musician
Not a dump we; 'tis no time to play now.
First Musician
No sad songs from us. This is no time to be playing.
Peter
You will not, then?
Peter
You won't, then?
First Musician
No.
First Musician
No.
Peter
I will then give it you soundly.
Peter
Then I'll give it to you properly.
First Musician
What will you give us?
First Musician
Give us what?
Peter
No money, on my faith, but the gleek;
I will give you the minstrel.
Peter
No money, I promise — just an insult.
I'll call you a minstrel.
First Musician
Then I will give you the serving-creature.
First Musician
Then I'll call you a serving-creature.
Peter
Then will I lay the serving-creature's dagger on
your pate. I will carry no crotchets: I'll re you,
I'll fa you; do you note me?
Peter
Then I'll lay the serving-creature's dagger across
your skull. I'll take no nonsense — I'll 're' you,
I'll 'fa' you. Do you note me? (Musical puns. He is threatening them in scales.)
First Musician
An you re us and fa us, you note us.
First Musician
If you 're' us and 'fa' us, you're noting us.
Second Musician
Pray you, put up your dagger, and put out your wit.
Second Musician
Please put away your dagger and bring out your wit.
Peter
Then have at you with my wit! I will dry-beat you
with an iron wit, and put up my iron dagger. Answer
me like men:
'When griping grief the heart doth wound,
And doleful dumps the mind oppress,
Then music with her silver sound'—
why 'silver sound'? why 'music with her silver
sound'? What say you, Simon Catling?
Peter
Then here comes my wit! I'll thrash you
with an iron wit and put away my iron dagger. Answer
me like men:
'When gripping grief the heart doth wound,
and mournful sorrows crush the mind,
then music with her silver sound' —
why 'silver sound'? Why 'music with her silver
sound'? What do you say, Simon Catgut?
First Musician
Marry, sir, because silver hath a sweet sound.
First Musician
Well, sir, because silver has a sweet sound.
Peter
Pretty! What say you, Hugh Rebeck?
Peter
Nice! What do you say, Hugh Fiddle?
Second Musician
I say 'silver sound,' because musicians sound for silver.
Second Musician
I say 'silver sound' because musicians play for silver.
Peter
Pretty too! What say you, James Soundpost?
Peter
Also nice! What do you say, James Soundpost?
Third Musician
Faith, I know not what to say.
Third Musician
Honestly, I don't know what to say.
Peter
O, I cry you mercy; you are the singer: I will say
for you. It is 'music with her silver sound,'
because musicians have no gold for sounding:
'Then music with her silver sound
With speedy help doth lend redress.'
Peter
Oh, I beg your pardon — you're the singer. I'll answer
for you. It's 'music with her silver sound'
because musicians never get gold for playing:
'Then music with her silver sound
with speedy help doth lend redress.'
Exit Peter.
First Musician
What a pestilent knave is this same!
First Musician
What an infuriating little pest that man is!
Second Musician
Hang him, Jack! Come, we'll in here; tarry for the
mourners, and stay dinner.
Second Musician
Forget him, Jack. Come on, let's go inside, wait for the
mourners, and stay for dinner.
Exeunt. — End of Act Four.