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Come, gentle night; come, loving, black-brow'd


Give me my Romeo, and, when he shall die,
Take him and cut him out in little ftars,
And he will make the face of heaven so fine,
That all the world fhall be in love with night,
And pay no worship to (1) the gairifh fun.
O, I have bought the manfion of a love,
But not poffefs'd it; and though I am fold,
Not yet enjoy'd fo tedious is this day,

As is the night before fome feftival,

To an impatient child that hath new robes,
And may not wear them. O, here comes my nurfe!

Enter Nurfe with cords.

And the brings news; and every tongue, that speaks
But Romeo's name, fpeaks heavenly eloquence;
Now, nurse, what news? what haft thou there ?
The cords that Romeo bid thee fetch ?

Nurfe. Ay, ay, the cords.

Jul. Ah me, what news?

Why doft 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
thus ?

This torture fhould be roar'd in difmal hell.
Hath Romeo flain himfelf? fay thou but, I;


(1) The gairifh fun.] Milton had this fpeech in his thoughts

when he wrote Il Penferofo.

Civil night,

Thou fober-fuited matron.

Till civil-fuited morn appear.

Pay no worship to the gairish fun,
Hide me from Day's gairish eye.


Milton. Shakespeare.


(2) And

(2) And that bare vowel, I, fhall poison more
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.
À 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!

ful. What ftorm is this, that blows fo contrary!
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?

(2) And that bare vervel, ay, fball poifon more

Than the death-darting eye of cockatrice.] I queftion much whe ther the grammarians will take this new wewel on truft from Mr. Pope, without fufpecting it rather for a diphthong, Infhort, we must restore the fpelling of the old books, or we lose the Poet's conceit. At his time of day, the affirmative adverb ay was generally written, I: and by this means it both becomes a vowel, and anfwers in found to eye, upon which the conceit turns in the fecond line. THEOBALD.

-death darting eye of cockatrice.] The ftrange lines that follow here in the common books are not in the old edition. POPE. The ftrange lines are thefe :

I am not I, if there be fuch an I,

Or thefe eyes foot, that makes thee answer I;

If be be flain, fay I; or if not,


Brief found determine of my real or woe.

Thefe lines hardly deferve emendation, yet it may be proper to obferve, that their meannefs has not placed them below the malice of fortune, the two first of them being evidently transpofed we fhould read,


That one vowel, I, fhall poifon more,

Than the death darting eye of cockatrice,

Or thofe eyes foot that make thee anfver, I.

I am not I, &c.


Nurfe. Tybalt is dead, and Romeo banished, Romeo, that kill'd him, he is banished.

ful. 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!

(3) Dove feather'd raven! wolvish rav'ning Lamb!
Defpifed fubftance, of divineft show !
Juft oppofite to what thou juftly feem'st,
A damned Saint, an honourable villain!!
O nature! what hadst thou to do in hell,
When thou didst bower the Spirit of a fiend
In mortal Paradife of fuch fweet 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, these forrows make me old !
Shame come to Romeo!

Jul. Blifter'd be thy tongue,

For fuch a wifh! he was not born to fhame;
Upon his brow fhame is afham'd to fit :

For 'tis a throne where honour may be crown'd

Sole monarch of the univerfal earth.

O,, what a beaft, was I to chide him fo?

(3) In old editions.

Ravenous Dove, feather'd Raven, &c.) The four following lines not in the first edition, as well as fome others which I have omitted..


Ravenous Dove, feather'd Raven, Wolvifh ravening Lamb!] This paffage Mr. Pope has thrown out of the text, because these two noble bemiftichs are inharmonious: But is there no fuch thing as a crutch for a labouring, halting verfe? F'll venture to reftore to the Poet a line that is in his own mode of thinking, and truly worthy of him. Ravenous was blunderingly coin'd out of raven and ravening; and, if we only throw it out, we gain at once an harmonious verfe, and a proper contraft of epithets and images.

Dove feather'd Raven ! welvish-rav'ning Lamb THEOBALD. Nurse.

Nurfe. Will you speak well of him, that kill'd

coufin ?


Jul. Shall I speak 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 hufband. 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 presses to my memory,

Like damned guilty deeds to finners' minds.
Tybalt is dead, and Romeo banished!

That banished, that one word banished,

(4) Hath flain ten thoufand 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?

(5) Which modern lamentation might have mov'd;
But with a rear-ward following Tybalt's death,
Romeo is banif'd -to fpeak that word,
Is, father, mother, Tybalt, Romeo, Juliet,
All flain, all dead!- -Romeo is banished!
There is no end, no limit, measure, bound,
In that word's death; no words can that woe found.
Where is my father, and my mother, nurse?
Nurfe. Weeping and wailing over Tybalt's coarse,
Il you go to them? I will bring you thither.


(4) Hath flain ten thoufand Tybalts.] Hath put Tybalt out of my mind as if out of being.

(5) Which modern lamentation, &c.] This line is left out of the latter editions, I fuppofe because the editors did not remember that Shakespeare ufes modern for common, or flight: I believe it was in his time confounded in colloquial language with moderate.


ful. Wafh they his wounds with tears? mine shall

be spent,

When theirs are dry, for Romeo's banishment.

Take up thofe Cords


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poor Ropes, you are be

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 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 last farewel. [Exeunt.


Changes to the Monastery.

Enter Friar Lawrence and Romeo.

Fri. Romeo, come forth; come forth, thou fearful


Affliction is enamour'd of thy parts,

And thou art wedded to calamity.

Rom. Father, what news? what is the Prince's doom?

What forrow craves acquaintance at my hand,

That I yet know not?

Fri. Too familiar

Is dear fon with fuch fow'r company


I bring thee tidings of the Prince's doom?

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


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