La. Cap. Accurs'd, unhappy, wretched, hateful day! Most miserable hour, that Time e'er faw

In lafting labour of his pilgrimage!

But one, poor one, one poor and loving child,
But one thing to rejoice and folace in,
And cruel death hath catch'd it from my fight.
Nurfe. O woe! oh woful, woful, woful day!
Moft lamentable day! moft woful day!
That ever, ever, I did yet behold.

Oh day! oh day! oh day! oh hateful day!
Never was seen so black a day as this:
Oh woful day, oh woful day!

Par. Beguil'd, divorced, wronged, spighted, slain, Moft deteftable Death, by Thee beguil'd,

By cruel, cruel Thee quite over-thrown:
O Love, O Life, not Life, but Love in Death!
Cap. Defpis'd, diftreffed, hated, martyr'd, kill'd,
Uncomfortable Time! why cam'ft thou now
To murther, murther our Solemnity?

O Child! O Child! My Soul, and not my Child!
Dead art Thou! dead; alack! my Child is dead;
And, with my Child, my Joys are buried.

Fri. Peace, ho, for Shame! Confufion's Cure lives not

In these Confufions: Heaven and Yourself

Had Part in this fair Maid; now Heav'n hath All And All the better is it for the Maid.

Your Part in her you could not keep from Death;
But Heav'n keeps his Part in eternal Life.
The moft, you fought, was her Promotion
For 'twas your Heav'n, the fhould be advanc'd:
And weep you now, feeing she is advanc'd,
Above the Clouds, as high as Heav'n himself?

70 woe! ob woful, &c.] This fpeech of exclamations is not in the edition above cited. Several other parts, unneceffary or tautology, are not to be found in the faid edition; which occafions the variation in this from the common books. Mr. Pope.

Oh,

Oh, in this Love you love your Child fo ill,
That you run mad, feeing, that the is well.
She's not well married, that lives married long;
But she's best married, that dyes married young.
Dry up your Tears, and ftick your Rosemary
On this fair Coarse; and, as the Custom is,
And in her beft Array, bear her to Church.
For tho' fome Nature bids us all lament,
Yet Nature's Tears are Reafon's Merriment.
Cap. All things, that we ordained festival,
Turn from their Office to black Funeral;
Our Inftruments to melancholy Bells,
Our wedding Chear to a fad Funeral Feaft;
Our folemn Hymns to fullen Dirges change,
Our bridal Flow'rs ferve for a buried Coarfe;
And all things change them to the contrary.

Fri. Sir, go you in, and, Madam, go with him;
And go, Sir Paris; every one prepare
To follow this fair Coarfe unto her Grave.
The Heav'ns do lowr upon you, for fome Ill;
Move them no more, by croffing their high Will.
[Exeunt Capulet, Lady Capulet, Paris, and Friar.

Manent Muficians, and Nurfe.

Muf. Faith, we may put up our pipes and be gone. Nurfe. Honeft good fellows: ah, put up, put up; For, well you know, this is a pitiful cafe.

[Exit Nurfe. Muf. Ay, by my troth, the cafe may be amended.

Enter Peter.

Pet. Musicians, oh musicians, heart's ease, beart's

ease:

Oh, an you will have me live, play heart's cafe.

Muf.

Muf. Why, beart's eafe?

Pet. O muficians, because my heart itself plays, my heart itself is full of woe. O, play me fome merry dump, to comfort me!

Muf. Not a dump we, 'tis no time to play now.
Pet. You will not then?

Muf. No.

Pet. I will then give it you foundly.
Muf. What will you give us?

Pet. No mony, on my faith, but the gleek: I will give you the Minftrell.

Muf. Then will I give you the Serving Creature. Pet. 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?

Muf. An you re us, and fa us, you note us.

z Muf. Pray you, put up your dagger, and put out your wit.

Pet. Then have at you with my wit: I will dry-beat you with an iron Wit, and put up my iron dagger: anfwer me like men:

When griping grief the heart doth wound,
Then mufick with her filver found

Why, filver found? why, mufick with her filver found?
What fay you, Simon Catling?

Muf. Marry, Sir, because filver hath a sweet found. Pet. Pretty! what fay you, Hugh Rebeck?

2 Muf. I fay, filver found, because musicians found for filver.

Pet. Pretty too! what fay you, Samuel Soundboard?

3 Muf. Faith, I know not what to say.

Pet. O, I cry you mercy, you are the finger, I will fay for you. It is mufick with her filver found, becaufe fuch fellows, as you, have no gold for founding. The Mufick with her filver found Dotb lend redress.

[Exit finging

Muf.

Muf. What a peftilent knave is this fame?

2 Muf. Hang him, Jack; come, we'll in here, tarry for the mourners, and ftay dinner.

[Exeunt.

ACT V. SCENE I.

MANTU A.

Enter ROMEO.

FI may truft the flattering ruth of fleep, My dreams prefage fome joyful news at hand: My bofom's Lord fits lightly on his Throne, And, all this day, an unaccuftom'd fpirit

Lifts me above the ground with chearful thoughts." I dreamt, my lady came and found me dead, (Strange dream! that gives a dead man leave to think)

If I may truft the flattering TRUTH of fleep,] This man was of an odd compofition to be able to make it a queftion, whether he fhould believe what he confeffed to be true. Tho' if he thought Truth capable of Flattery, he might indeed fuppofe her to be turn'd apoftate. But none of this nonsense came from Shakespear. He wrote,

If I may truft the flattering RUTH of fleep,

i. e. Pity. The compaffionate advertisement of fleep. This was a reasonable question; and the epithet given to Ruth fuits its nature. But, above all, the character which the poet always gives us of Sleep is here well defcribed in this reading; that it is pitiful, compaffionate, the

Balm of burt minds, great Nature's fecond course,
Chief nourisher of life's feaft.

But because I had corrected it,

the flattering Ruth of fleep,

the Oxford Editor would be even with me, and reads it,

the flattery of fleep,

And he has done it. For tho' a reasonable man might make it a queftion whether he fhould believe a compaffionate advertisement, yet who would hefitate whether he should believe a flatterer.

VOL. VIII.

H

And

And breath'd fuch life with kiffes in my lips,
That I reviv'd, and was an Emperor.
Ah me! how sweet is love itself poffeft,
When but love's shadows are so rich in joy?
Enter Balthafar.

News from Verona How now, Balthafar?
Doft thou not bring me letters from the Friar?
How doth my lady? is my father well?
How doth my Juliet? That I ask again;
For nothing can be ill, if fhe be well.

Balth. Then fhe is well, and nothing can be ill;
Her body fleeps in Capulets' monument,
And her immortal part with angels lives:
I faw her laid low in her kindred's vault,
And prefently took poft to tell it you:
O pardon me for bringing these ill news,
Since you did leave it for my Office, Sir.

Rom. Is it even fo? then I defy you, Stars! Thou know'ft my lodging, get me ink and paper, And hire poft-horfes. I will hence to night.

Balth. Pardon me, Sir, I dare not leave you Your looks are pale and wild, and do import Some misadventure.

Rom. Tufh, thou art deceiv'd;

Leave me, and do the thing I bid thee do:
Haft thou no letters to me from the Friar?
Balth. No, my good lord.

Rom. No matter: get thee gone,

And hire those horfes; I'll be with thee ftraight.

thus.

[Exit Balthazar. Well, Juliet, I will lye with thee to night; Let's fee for means-O mifchief! thou art swift To enter in the thought of defperate men! • I do remember an Apothecary,

And hereabouts he dwells, whom late I noted
In tatter'd weeds, with overwhelming brows,

• Culling