Friar Lawrence’s cell.
(Friar Lawrence; County Paris; Juliet)
Paris has come to ask Friar Laurence to officiate at his wedding. He admits that things are moving quickly, but explains that Capulet doesn’t think Juliet should mourn as much as she is doing. Juliet arrives, and Paris speaks kindly if possessively to her. Juliet replies with double meanings. Paris leaves her to confess, and she begs Laurence for a solution, threatening to kill herself if he can’t find one. He suddenly finds one: if she has the courage, he can give her a sleeping potion that will make her seem dead to everyone. She will then be buried in the Capulet tomb, and he and Romeo could rescue her later. She agrees. (127 lines)
Enter Friar Lawrence and County Paris.
On Thursday, sir? The time is very short.
My father Capulet will have it so,
And I am nothing slow to slack his haste.
You say you do not know the lady’s mind?
Uneven is the course, I like it not.
Immoderately she weeps for Tybalt’s death,
And therefore have I little talk’d of love,
For Venus smiles not in a house of tears.
Now, sir, her father counts it dangerous
That she do give her sorrow so much sway;
And in his wisdom hastes our marriage,
To stop the inundation of her tears,
Which, too much minded by herself alone,
May be put from her by society.
Now do you know the reason of this haste.
I would I knew not why it should be slowed.—
Look, sir, here comes the lady toward my cell.
Happily met, my lady and my wife!
That may be, sir, when I may be a wife.
That may be must be, love, on Thursday next.
What must be shall be.
That’s a certain text.
Come you to make confession to this father?
To answer that, I should confess to you.
Do not deny to him that you love me.
I will confess to you that I love him.
So will ye, I am sure, that you love me.
If I do so, it will be of more price,
Being spoke behind your back, than to your face.
Poor soul, thy face is much abus’d with tears.
The tears have got small victory by that,
For it was bad enough before their spite.
Thou wrong’st it more than tears with that report.
That is no slander, sir, which is a truth,
And what I spake, I spake it to my face.
Thy face is mine, and thou hast sland’red it.
It may be so, for it is not mine own.
Are you at leisure, holy father, now,
Or shall I come to you at evening mass?
My leisure serves me, pensive daughter, now.
My lord, we must entreat the time alone.
God shield I should disturb devotion!
Juliet, on Thursday early will I rouse ye;
Till then adieu, and keep this holy kiss.
O, shut the door, and when thou hast done so,
Come weep with me, past hope, past cure, past help!
O Juliet, I already know thy grief,
It strains me past the compass of my wits.
I hear thou must, and nothing may prorogue it,
On Thursday next be married to this County.
Tell me not, friar, that thou hearest of this,
Unless thou tell me how I may prevent it.
If in thy wisdom thou canst give no help,
Do thou but call my resolution wise,
And with this knife I’ll help it presently.
God join’d my heart and Romeo’s, thou our hands,
And ere this hand, by thee to Romeo’s seal’d,
Shall be the label to another deed,
Or my true heart with treacherous revolt
Turn to another, this shall slay them both.
Therefore, out of thy long-experienc’d time,
Give me some present counsel, or, behold,
’Twixt my extremes and me this bloody knife
Shall play the umpire, arbitrating that
Which the commission of thy years and art
Could to no issue of true honor bring.
Be not so long to speak, I long to die,
If what thou speak’st speak not of remedy.
Hold, daughter! I do spy a kind of hope,
Which craves as desperate an execution
As that is desperate which we would prevent.
If rather than to marry County Paris,
Thou hast the strength of will to slay thyself,
Then is it likely thou wilt undertake
A thing like death to chide away this shame,
That cop’st with Death himself to scape from it;
And if thou darest, I’ll give thee remedy.
O, bid me leap, rather than marry Paris,
From off the battlements of any tower,
Or walk in thievish ways, or bid me lurk
Where serpents are; chain me with roaring bears,
Or hide me nightly in a charnel-house,
O’ercover’d quite with dead men’s rattling bones,
With reeky shanks and yellow chapless skulls;
Or bid me go into a new-made grave,
And hide me with a dead man in his shroud—
Things that, to hear them told, have made me tremble—
And I will do it without fear or doubt,
To live an unstain’d wife to my sweet love.
Hold then. Go home, be merry, give consent
To marry Paris. We’n’sday is tomorrow;
Tomorrow night look that thou lie alone,
Let not the nurse lie with thee in thy chamber.
Take thou this vial, being then in bed,
And this distilling liquor drink thou off,
When presently through all thy veins shall run
A cold and drowsy humor; for no pulse
Shall keep his native progress, but surcease;
No warmth, no breath shall testify thou livest;
The roses in thy lips and cheeks shall fade
To wanny ashes, thy eyes’ windows fall,
Like death when he shuts up the day of life;
Each part, depriv’d of supple government,
Shall, stiff and stark and cold, appear like death,
And in this borrowed likeness of shrunk death
Thou shalt continue two and forty hours,
And then awake as from a pleasant sleep.
Now when the bridegroom in the morning comes
To rouse thee from thy bed, there art thou dead.
Then, as the manner of our country is,
In thy best robes, uncovered on the bier,
Thou shall be borne to that same ancient vault
Where all the kindred of the Capulets lie.
In the mean time, against thou shalt awake,
Shall Romeo by my letters know our drift,
And hither shall he come, an’ he and I
Will watch thy waking, and that very night
Shall Romeo bear thee hence to Mantua.
And this shall free thee from this present shame,
If no inconstant toy, nor womanish fear,
Abate thy valor in the acting it.
Give me, give me! O, tell not me of fear!
Hold, get you gone. Be strong and prosperous
In this resolve. I’ll send a friar with speed
To Mantua, with my letters to thy lord.
Love give me strength! And strength shall help afford.
Farewell, dear father!