The two chief families in Verona were the rich Capulets and the
Montagues. There had been an old quarrel between these families,
which was grown to such a height, and so deadly was the enmity
between them, that it extended to the remotest kindred, to the
followers and retainers of both sides, in so much that a servant
of the house of Montague could not meet a servant of the house of
Capulet, nor a Capulet encounter with a Montague by chance, but
fierce words and sometimes bloodshed ensued; and frequent were
the brawls from such accidental meetings, which disturbed the
happy quiet of Verona’s streets.
Old Lord Capulet made a great supper, to which many fair ladies
and many noble guests were invited. All the admired beauties of
Verona were present, and all comers were made welcome if they
were not of the house of Montague. At this feast of Capulets,
Rosaline, beloved of Romeo, son to the old Lord Montague, was
present; and though it was dangerous for a Montague to be seen in
this assembly, yet Benvolio, a friend of Romeo, persuaded the
young lord to go to this assembly in the disguise of a mask, that
he might see his Rosaline, and, seeing her, compare her with some
choice beauties of Verona, who (he said) would make him think his
swan a crow. Romeo had small faith in Benvolio’s words;
nevertheless, for the love of Rosaline, he was persuaded to go.
For Romeo was a sincere and passionate lover, and one that lost
his sleep for love and fled society to be alone, thinking on
Rosaline, who disdained him and never requited his love with the
least show of courtesy or affection; and Benvolio wished to cure
his friend of this love by showing him diversity of ladies and
company. To this feast of Capulets, then, young Romeo, with
Benvolio and their friend Mercutio, went masked. Old Capulet bid
them welcome and told them that ladies who had their toes
unplagued with corns would dance with them. And the old man was
light-hearted and merry, and said that he had worn a mask when he
was young and could have told a whispering tale in a fair lady’s
ear. And they fell to dancing, and Romeo was suddenly struck with
the exceeding beauty of a lady who danced there, who seemed to
him to teach the torches to burn bright, and her beauty to show
by night like a rich jewel worn by a blackamoor; beauty too rich
for use, too dear for earth! like a snowy dove trooping with
crows (he said), so richly did her beauty and perfections shine
above the ladies her companions. While he uttered these praises
he was overheard by Tybalt, a nephew of Lord Capulet, who knew
him by his voice to be Romeo. And this Tybalt, being of a fiery
and passionate temper, could not endure that a Montague should
come under cover of a mask, to fleer and scorn (as he said) at
their solemnities. And he stormed and raged exceedingly, and
would have struck young Romeo dead. But his uncle, the old Lord
Capulet, would not suffer him to do any injury at that time, both
out of respect to his guests and because Romeo had borne himself
like a gentleman and all tongues in Verona bragged of him to be a
virtuous and well-governed youth. Tybalt, forced to be patient
against his will, restrained himself, but swore that this vile
Montague should at another time dearly pay for his intrusion.
The dancing being done, Romeo watched the place where the lady
stood; and under favor of his masking habit, which might seem to
excuse in part the liberty, he presumed in the gentlest manner to
take her by the hand, calling it a shrine, which if he profaned
by touching it, he was a blushing pilgrim and would kiss it for
atonement.
“Good pilgrim,” answered the lady, “your devotion shows by far
too mannerly and too courtly. Saints have hands which pilgrims
may touch but kiss not.”
“Have not saints lips, and pilgrims, too?” said Romeo.
“Aye,” said the lady, “lips which they must use in prayer.”
“Oh, then, my dear saint,” said Romeo, “hear my prayer, and grant
it, lest I despair.”
In such like allusions and loving conceits they were engaged when
the lady was called away to her mother. And Romeo, inquiring who
her mother was, discovered that the lady whose peerless beauty he
was so much struck with was young Juliet, daughter and heir to
the Lord Capulet, the great enemy of the Montagues; and that he
had unknowingly engaged his heart to his foe. This troubled him,
but it could not dissuade him from loving. As little rest had
Juliet when she found that the gentle man that she had been
talking with was Romeo and a Montague, for she had been suddenly
smit with the same hasty and inconsiderate passion for Romeo
which he had conceived for her; and a prodigious birth of love it
seemed to her, that she must love her enemy and that her
affections should settle there, where family considerations
should induce her chiefly to hate.
It being midnight, Romeo with his companions departed; but they
soon missed him, for, unable to stay away from the house where he
had left his heart, he leaped the wall of an orchard which was at
the back of Juliet’s house. Here he had not been long, ruminating
on his new love, when Juliet appeared above at a window, through
which her exceeding beauty seemed to break like the light of the
sun in the east; and the moon, which shone in the orchard with a
faint light, appeared to Romeo as if sick and pale with grief at
the superior luster of this new sun. And she leaning her cheek
upon her hand, he passionately wished himself a glove upon that
hand, that he might touch her cheek. She all this while thinking
herself alone, fetched a deep sigh, and exclaimed:
“Ah me!”
Romeo, enraptured to bear her speak, said, softly and unheard by
her, “Oh, speak again, bright angel, for such you appear, being
over my head, like a winged messenger from heaven whom mortals
fall back to gaze upon.”
She, unconscious of being overheard, and full of the new passion
which that night’s adventure had given birth to, called upon her
lover by name (whom she supposed absent). “O Romeo, Romeo!” said
she, “wherefore art thou Romeo? Deny thy father and refuse thy
name, for my sake; or if thou wilt not, be but my sworn love, and
I no longer will be a Capulet.”
Romeo, having this encouragement, would fain have spoken, but he
was desirous of hearing more; and the lady continued her
passionate discourse with herself (as she thought), still chiding
Romeo for being Romeo and a Montague, and wishing him some other
name, or that he would put away that hated name, and for that
name which was no part of himself he should take all herself. At
this loving word Romeo could no longer refrain, but, taking up
the dialogue as if her words had been addressed to him
personally, and not merely in fancy, he bade her call him Love,
or by whatever other name she pleased, for he was no longer
Romeo, if that name was displeasing to her. Juliet, alarmed to
hear a man’s voice in the garden, did not at first know who it
was that by favor of the night and darkness had thus stumbled
upon the discovery of her secret; but when he spoke again, though
her ears had not yet drunk a hundred words of that tongue’s
uttering, yet so nice is a lover’s hearing that she immediately
knew him to be young Romeo, and she expostulated with him on the
danger to which he had exposed himself by climbing the orchard
walls, for if any of her kinsmen should find him there it would
be death to him, being a Montague.
“Alack!” said Romeo, “there is more peril in your eye than in
twenty of their swords. Do you but look kind upon me, lady, and I
am proof against their enmity. Better my life should be ended by
their hate than that hated life should be prolonged to live
without your love.”
“How came you into this place,” said Juliet, “and by whose
direction?”
“Love directed me,” answered Romeo. “I am no pilot, yet ‘wert
thou as far apart from me as that vast shore which is washed with
the farthest sea, I should venture for such merchandise.”
A crimson blush came over Juliet’s face, yet unseen by Romeo by
reason of the night, when she reflected upon the discovery which
she had made, yet not meaning to make it, of her love to Romeo.
She would fain have recalled her words, but that was impossible;
fain would she have stood upon form, and have kept her lover at a
distance, as the custom of discreet ladies is, to frown and be
perverse and give their suitors harsh denials at first; to stand
off, and affect a coyness or indifference where they most love,
that their lovers may not think them too lightly or too easily
won; for the difficulty of attainment increases the value of the
object. But there was no room in her case for denials, or
puttings off, or any of the customary arts of delay and
protracted courtship. Romeo had heard from her own tongue, when
she did not dream that he was near her, a confession of her love.
So with an honest frankness which the novelty of her situation
excused she confirmed the truth of what he had before heard, and,
addressing him by the name of FAIR MONTAGUE (love can sweeten a
sour name), she begged him not to impute her easy yielding to
levity or an unworthy mind, but that he must lay the fault of it
(if it were a fault) upon the accident of the night which had so
strangely discovered her thoughts. And she added, that though her
behavior to him might not be sufficiently prudent, measured by
the custom of her sex, yet that she would prove more true than
many whose prudence was dissembling, and their modesty artificial
cunning.
Romeo was beginning to call the heavens to witness that nothing
was farther from his thoughts than to impute a shadow of dishonor
to such an honored lady, when she stopped him, begging him not to
swear; for although she joyed in him, yet she had no joy of that
night’s contract--it was too rash, too unadvised, too sudden. But
he being urgent with her to exchange a vow of love with him that
night, she said that she already had given him hers before he
requested it, meaning, when he overheard her confession; but she
would retract what she then bestowed, for the pleasure of giving
it again, for her bounty was as infinite as the sea, and her love
as deep. From this loving conference she was called away by her
nurse, who slept with her and thought it time for her to be in
bed, for it was near to daybreak; but, hastily returning, she
said three or four words more to Romeo the purport of which was,
that if his love was indeed honorable, and his purpose marriage,
she would send a messenger to him to-morrow to appoint a time for
their marriage, when she would lay all her fortunes at his feet
and follow him as her lord through the world. While they were
settling this point Juliet was repeatedly called for by her
nurse, and went in and returned, and went and returned again, for
she seemed as jealous of Romeo going from her as a young girl of
her bird, which she will let hop a little from her hand and pluck
it back with a silken thread; and Romeo was as loath to part as
she, for the sweetest music to lovers is the sound of each
other’s tongues at night. But at last they parted, wishing
mutually sweet sleep and rest for that night.
The day was breaking when they parted, and Romeo, who was too
full of thoughts of his mistress and that blessed meeting to
allow him to sleep, instead of going home, bent his course to a
monastery hard by, to find Friar Lawrence. The good friar was
already up at his devotions, but, seeing young Romeo abroad so
early, he conjectured rightly that he had not been abed that
night, but that some distemper of youthful affection had kept him
waking. He was right in imputing the cause of Romeo’s wakefulness
to love, but he made a wrong guess at the object, for he thought
that his love for Rosaline had kept him waking. But when Romeo
revealed his new passion for Juliet, and requested the assistance
of the friar to marry them that day, the holy man lifted up his
eyes and hands in a sort of wonder at the sudden change in
Romeo’s affections, for he had been privy to all Romeo’s love for
Rosaline and his many complaints of her disdain; and he said that
young men’s love lay not truly in their hearts, but in their
eyes. But Romeo replying that he himself had often chidden him
for doting on Rosaline, who could not love him again, whereas
Juliet both loved and was beloved by him, the friar assented in
some measure to his reasons; and thinking that a matrimonial
alliance between young Juliet and Romeo might happily be the
means of making up the long breach between the Capulets and the
Montagues, which no one more lamented than this good friar who
was a friend to both the families and had often interposed his
mediation to make up the quarrel without effect; partly moved by
policy, and partly by his fondness for young Romeo, to whom he
could deny nothing, the old man consented to join their hands in
marriage.
Now was Romeo blessed indeed, and Juliet, who knew his intent
from a messenger which she had despatched according to promise,
did not fail to be early at the cell of Friar Lawrence, where
their hands were joined in holy marriage, the good friar praying
the heavens to smile upon that act, and in the union of this
young Montague and young Capulet, to bury the old strife and long
dissensions of their families.
The ceremony being over, Juliet hastened home, where she stayed,
impatient for the coming of night, at which time Romeo promised
to come and meet her in the orchard, where they had met the night
before; and the time between seemed as tedious to her as the
night before some great festival seems to an impatient child that
has got new finery which it may not put on till the morning.
That same day, about noon, Romeo’s friends, Benvolio and
Mercutio, walking through the streets of Verona, were met by a
party of the Capulets with the impetuous Tybalt at their head.
This was the same angry Tybalt who would have fought with Romeo
at old Lord Capulet’s feast. He, seeing Mercutio, accused him
bluntly of associating with Romeo, a Montague. Mercutio, who had
as much fire and youthful blood in him as Tybalt, replied to this
accusation with some sharpness; and in spite of all Benvolio
could say to moderate their wrath a quarrel was beginning when,
Romeo himself passing that way, the fierce Tybalt turned from
Mercutio to Romeo, and gave him the disgraceful appellation of
villain. Romeo wished to avoid a quarrel with Tybalt above all
men, because he was the kinsman of Juliet and much beloved by
her; besides, this young Montague had never thoroughly entered
into the family quarrel, being by nature wise and gentle, and the
name of a Capulet, which was his dear lady’s name, was now rather
a charm to allay resentment than a watchword to excite fury. So
he tried to reason with Tybalt, whom he saluted mildly by the
name of GOOD CAPULET, as if he, though a Montague, had some
secret pleasure in uttering that name; but Tybalt, who hated all
Montagues as he hated hell, would hear no reason, but drew his
weapon; and Mercutio, who knew not of Romeo’s secret motive for
desiring peace with Tybalt, but looked upon his present
forbearance as a sort of calm dishonorable submission, with many
disdainful words provoked Tybalt to the prosecution of his first
quarrel with him; and Tybalt and Mercutio fought, till Mercutio
fell, receiving his death’s wound while Romeo and Benvolio were
vainly endeavoring to part the combatants. Mercutio being dead,
Romeo kept his temper no longer, but returned the scornful
appellation of villain which Tybalt had given him, and they
fought till Tybalt was slain by Romeo. This deadly broil falling
out in the midst of Verona at noonday, the news of it quickly
brought a crowd of citizens to the spot and among them the Lords
Capulet and Montague, with their wives; and soon after arrived
the prince himself, who, being related to Mercutio, whom Tybalt
had slain, and having had the peace of his government often
disturbed by these brawls of Montagues and Capulets, came
determined to put the law in strictest force against those who
should be found to be offenders. Benvolio, who had been
eye-witness to the fray, was commanded by the prince to relate
the origin of it; which he did, keeping as near the truth as he
could without injury to Romeo, softening and excusing the part
which his friends took in it. Lady Capulet, whose extreme grief
for the loss of her kinsman Tybalt made her keep no bounds in her
revenge, exhorted the prince to do strict justice upon his
murderer, and to,pay no attention to Benvolio’s representation,
who, being Romeo’s friend and a Montague, spoke partially. Thus
she pleaded against her new son-in-law, but she knew not yet that
he was her son-in-law and Juliet’s husband. On the other hand was
to be seen Lady Montague pleading for her child’s life, and
arguing with some justice that Romeo had done nothing worthy of
punishment in taking the life of Tybalt, which was already
forfeited to the law by his having slain Mercutio. The prince,
unmoved by the passionate exclamations of these women, on a
careful examination of the facts pronounced his sentence, and by
that sentence Romeo was banished from Verona.
Heavy news to young Juliet, who had been but a few hours a bride
and now by this decree seemed everlastingly divorced! When the
tidings reached her, she at first gave way to rage against Romeo,
who had slain her dear cousin. She called him a beautiful tyrant,
a fiend angelical, a ravenous dove, a lamb with a wolf’s nature,
a serpent-heart hid with a flowering face, and other, like
contradictory names, which denoted the struggles in her mind
between her love and her resentment. But in the end love got the
mastery, and the tears which she shed for grief that Romeo had
slain her cousin turned to drops of joy that her husband lived
whom Tybalt would have slain. Then came fresh tears, and they
were altogether of grief for Romeo’s banishment. That word was
more terrible to her than the death of many Tybalts.
Romeo, after the fray, had taken refuge in Friar Lawrence’s cell,
where he was first made acquainted with the prince’s sentence,
which seemed to him far more terrible than death. To him it
appeared there was no world out of Verona’s walls, no living out
of the sight of Juliet. Heaven was there where Juliet lived, and
all beyond was purgatory, torture, hell. The good friar would
have applied the consolation of philosophy to his griefs; but
this frantic young man would hear of none, but like a madman he
tore his hair and threw himself all along upon the ground, as he
said, to take the measure of his grave. From this unseemly state
he was roused by a message from his dear lady which a little
revived him; and then the friar took the advantage to expostulate
with him on the unmanly weakness which he had shown. He had slain
Tybalt, but would he also slay himself, slay his dear lady, who
lived but in his life? The noble form of man, he said, was but a
shape of wax when it wanted the courage which should keep it
firm. The law had been lenient to him that instead of death,
which he had incurred, had pronounced by the prince’s mouth only
banishment. He had slain Tybalt, but Tybalt would have slain
him-there was a sort of happiness in that. Juliet was alive and
(beyond all hope) had become his dear wife; therein he was most
happy. All these blessings, as the friar made them out to be, did
Romeo put from him like a sullen misbehaved wench. And the friar
bade him beware, for such as despaired (he said) died miserable.
Then when Romeo was a little calmed he counseled him that he
should go that night and secretly take his leave of Juliet, and
thence proceed straightway to Mantua, at which place he should
sojourn till the friar found fit occasion to publish his
marriage, which might be a joyful means of reconciling their
families; and then he did not doubt but the prince would be moved
to pardon him, and he would return with twenty times more joy
than he went forth with grief. Romeo was convinced by these wise
counsels of the friar, and took his leave to go and seek his
lady, proposing to stay with her that night, and by daybreak
pursue his journey alone to Mantua; to which place the good friar
promised to send him letters from time to time, acquainting him
with the state of affairs at home.
That night Romeo passed with his dear wife, gaining secret
admission to her chamber from the orchard in which he had heard
her confession of love the night before. That had been a night of
unmixed joy and rapture; but the pleasures of this night and the
delight which these lovers took in each other’s society were
sadly allayed with the prospect of parting and the fatal
adventures of the past day. The unwelcome daybreak seemed to come
too soon, and when Juliet heard the morning song of the lark she
would have persuaded herself that it was the nightingale, which
sings by night; but it was too truly the lark which sang, and a
discordant and unpleasing note it seemed to her; and the streaks
of day in the east too certainly pointed out that it was time for
these lovers to part. Romeo took his leave of his dear wife with
a heavy heart, promising to write to her from Mantua every hour
in the day; and when he had descended from her chamber window, as
he stood below her on the ground, in that sad foreboding state of
mind in which she was, he appeared to her eyes as one dead in the
bottom of a tomb. Romeo’s mind misgave him in like manner. But
now he was forced hastily to depart, for it was death for him to
be found within the walls of Verona after daybreak.
This was but the beginning of the tragedy of this pair of star-
crossed lovers. Romeo had not been gone many days before the old
Lord Capulet proposed a match for Juliet. The husband he had
chosen for her, not dreaming that she was married already, was
Count Paris, a gallant, young, and noble gentleman, no unworthy
suitor to the young Juliet if she had never seen Romeo.
The terrified Juliet was in a sad perplexity at her father’s
offer. She pleaded her youth unsuitable to marriage, the recent
death of Tybalt, which had left her spirits too weak to meet a
husband with any face of joy, and how indecorous it would show
for the family of the Capulets to be celebrating a nuptial feast
when his funeral solemnities were hardly over. She pleaded every
reason against the match but the true one, namely, that she was
married already. But Lord Capulet was deaf to all her excuses,
and in a peremptory manner ordered her to get ready, for by the
following Thursday she should be married to Paris. And having
found her a husband, rich, young, and noble, such as the proudest
maid in Verona might joyfully accept, he could not bear that out
of an affected coyness, as he construed her denial, she should
oppose obstacles to her own good fortune.
In this extremity Juliet applied to the friendly friar, always a
counselor in distress, and he asking her if she had resolution to
undertake a desperate remedy, and she answering that she would go
into the grave alive rather than marry Paris, her own dear
husband living, he directed her to go home, and appear merry, and
give her consent to marry Paris, according to her father’s
desire, and on the next night, which was the night before the
marriage, to drink off the contents of a vial which he then gave
her, the effect of which would be that for two-and-forty hours
after drinking it she should appear cold and lifeless, and when
the bridegroom came to fetch her in the morning he would find her
to appearance dead; that then she would be borne, as the manner
in that country was, uncovered on a bier, to be buried in the
family vault; that if she could put off womanish fear, and
consent to this terrible trial, in forty-two hours after
swallowing the liquid (such was its certain operation) she would
be sure to awake, as from a dream; and before she should awake he
would let her husband know their drift, and he should come in the
night and bear her thence to Mantua. Love, and the dread of
marrying Paris, gave young Juliet strength to undertake this
horrible adventure; and she took the vial of the friar, promising
to observe his directions.
Going from the monastery, she met the young Count Paris, and,
modestly dissembling, promised to become his bride. This was
joyful news to the Lord Capulet and his wife. It seemed to put
youth into the old man; and Juliet, who had displeased him
exceedingly by her refusal of the count, was his darling again,
now she promised to be obedient. All things in the house were in
a bustle against the approaching nuptials. No cost was spared to
prepare such festival rejoicings as Verona had never before
witnessed.
On the Wednesday night Juliet drank off the potion. She had many
misgivings lest the friar, to avoid the blame which might be
imputed to him for marrying her to Romeo, had given her poison;
but then he was always known for a holy man. Then lest she should
awake before the time that Romeo was to come for her; whether the
terror of the place, a vault full of dead Capulets’ bones, and
where Tybalt, all bloody, lay festering in his shroud, would not
be enough to drive her distracted. Again she thought of all the
stories she had heard of spirits haunting the places where their
bodies were bestowed. But then her love for Romeo and her
aversion for Paris returned, and she desperately swallowed the
draught and became insensible.
When young Paris came early in the morning with music to awaken
his bride, instead of a living Juliet her chamber presented the
dreary spectacle of a lifeless corse. What death to his hopes!
What confusion then reigned through the whole house! Poor Paris
lamenting his bride, whom most detestable death had beguiled him
of, had divorced from him even before their hands were joined.
But still more piteous it was to hear the mournings of the old
Lord and Lady Capulet, who having but this one, one poor loving
child to rejoice and solace in, cruel death had snatched her from
their sight, just as these careful parents were on the point of
seeing her advanced (as they thought) by a promising and
advantageous match. Now all things that were ordained for the
festival were turned from their properties to do the office of a
black funeral. The wedding cheer served for a sad burial feast,
the bridal hymns were changed for sullen dirges, the sprightly
instruments to melancholy.bells, and the flowers that should have
been strewed in the bride’s path now served but to strew her
corse. Now, instead of a priest to marry her, a priest was needed
to bury her, and she was borne to church indeed, not to augment
the cheerful hopes of the living, but to swell the dreary numbers
of the dead.
Bad news, which always travels faster than good, now brought the
dismal story of his Juliet’s death to Romeo, at Mantua, before
the messenger could arrive who was sent from Friar Lawrence to
apprise him that these were mock funerals only, and but the
shadow and representation of death, and that his dear lady lay in
the tomb but for a short while, expecting when Romeo would come
to release her from that dreary mansion. Just before, Romeo had
been unusually joyful and light-hearted. He had dreamed in the
night that he was dead (a strange dream, that gave a dead man
leave to think) and that his lady came and found him dead, and
breathed such life with kisses in his lips that he revived and
was an emperor! And now that a messenger came from Verona, he
thought surely it was to confirm some good news which his dreams
had presaged. But when the contrary to this flattering vision
appeared, and that it was his lady who was dead in truth, whom he
could not revive by any kisses, he ordered horses to be got
ready, for he determined that night to visit Verona and to see
his lady in her tomb. And as mischief is swift to enter into the
thoughts of desperate men, he called to mind a poor apothecary,
whose shop in Mantua he had lately passed, and from the beggarly
appearance of the man, who seemed famished, and the wretched show
in his show of empty boxes ranged on dirty shelves, and other
tokens of extreme wretchedness, he had said at the time (perhaps
having some misgivings that his own disastrous life might haply
meet with a conclusion so desperate):
“If a man were to need poison, which by the law of Mantua it is
death to sell, here lives a poor wretch who would sell it him.”
These words of his now came into his mind and he sought out the
apothecary, who after some pretended scruples, Romeo offering him
gold, which his poverty could not resist, sold him a poison
which, if he swallowed, he told him, if he had the strength of
twenty men, would quickly despatch him.
With this poison he set out for Verona, to have a sight of his
dear lady in her tomb, meaning, when he had satisfied his sight,
to swallow the poison and be buried by her side. He reached
Verona at midnight, and found the churchyard in the midst of
which was situated the ancient tomb of the Capulets. He had
provided a light, and a spade, and wrenching-iron, and was
proceeding to break open the monument when he was interrupted by
a voice, which by the name of VILE MONTAGUE bade him desist from
his unlawful business. It was the young Count Paris, who had come
to the tomb of Juliet at that unseasonable time of night to strew
flowers and to weep over the grave of her that should have been
his bride. He knew not what an interest Romeo had in the dead,
but, knowing him to be a Montague and (as he supposed) a sworn
foe to all the Capulets, he judged that he was come by night to
do some villainous shame to the dead bodies; therefore in an
angry tone he bade him desist; and as a criminal, condemned by
the laws of Verona to die if he were found within the walls of
the city, he would have apprehended him. Romeo urged Paris to
leave him, and warned him by the fate of Tybalt, who lay buried
there, not to provoke his anger or draw down another sin upon his
head by forcing him to kill him. But the count in scorn refused
his warning, and laid hands on him as a felon, which, Romeo
resisting, they fought, and Paris fell. When Romeo, by the help
of a light, came to see who it was that he had slain, that it was
Paris, who (he learned in his way from Mantua) should have
married Juliet, he took the dead youth by the hand, as one whom
misfortune had made a companion, and said that he would bury him
in a triumphal grave, meaning in Juliet’s grave, which he now
opened. And there lay his lady, as one whom death had no power
upon to change a feature or complexion, in her matchless beauty;
or as if death were amorous, and the lean, abhorred monster kept
her there for his delight; for she lay yet fresh and blooming, as
she had fallen to sleep when she swallowed that benumbing potion;
and near her lay Tybalt in his bloody shroud, whom Romeo seeing,
begged pardon of his lifeless corse, and for Juliet’s sake called
him COUSIN, and said that he was about to do him a favor by
putting his enemy to death. Here Romeo took his last leave of his
lady’s lips, kissing them; and here he shook the burden of his
cross stars from his weary body, swallowing that poison which the
apothecary had sold him, whose operation was fatal and real, not
like that dissembling potion which Juliet had swallowed, the
effect of which was now nearly expiring, and she about to awake
to complain that Romeo had not kept his time, or that he had come
too soon.
For now the hour was arrived at which the friar had promised that
she should awake; and he, having learned that his letters which
he had sent to Mantua, by some unlucky detention of the
messenger, had never reached Romeo, came himself, provided with a
pickax and lantern, to deliver the lady from her confinement; but
he was surprised to find a light already burning in the Capulets’
monument, and to see swords and blood near it, and Romeo and
Paris lying breathless by the monument,
Before he could entertain a conjecture, to imagine how these
fatal accidents had fallen out, Juliet awoke out of her trance,
and, seeing the friar near her, she remembered the place where
she was, and the occasion of her being there, and asked for
Romeo, but the friar, hearing a noise, bade her come out of that
place of death and of unnatural sleep, for a greater power than
they could contradict had thwarted their intents; and, being
frightened by the noise of people coming, he fled. But when
Juliet saw the cup closed in her true love’s hands, she guessed
that poison had been the cause of his end, and she would have
swallowed the dregs if any had been left, and she kissed his
still warm lips to try if any poison yet did hang upon them; then
hearing a nearer noise of people coming, she quickly unsheathed a
dagger which she wore, and, stabbing herself, died by her true
Romeo’s side.
The watch by this time had come up to the place. A page belonging
to Count Paris, who had witnessed the fight between his master
and Romeo, had given the alarm, which had spread among the
citizens, who went up and down the streets of Verona confusedly
exclaiming, “A Paris! a Romeo! a Juliet!” as the rumor had
imperfectly reached them, till the uproar brought Lord Montague
and Lord Capulet out of their beds, with the prince, to inquire
into the causes of the disturbance. The friar had been
apprehended by some of the watch, coming from the churchyard,
trembling, sighing, and weeping in a suspicious manner. A great
multitude being assembled at the Capulets’ monument, the friar
was demanded by the prince to deliver what he knew of these
strange and disastrous accidents.
And there, in the presence of the old Lords Montague and Capulet,
he faithfully related the story of their children’s fatal love,
the part he took in promoting their marriage, in the hope in that
union to end the long quarrels between their families; how Romeo,
there dead, was husband to Juliet, and Juliet, there dead, was
Romeo’s faithful wife; how, before he could find a fit
opportunity to divulge their marriage, another match was
projected for Juliet, who, to avoid the crime of a second
marriage, swallowed the sleeping-draught (as he advised), and all
thought her dead; how meantime he wrote to Romeo to come and take
her thence when the force of the potion should cease, and by what
unfortunate miscarriage of the messenger the letters never
reached Romeo. Further than this the friar could not follow the
story, nor knew more than that, coming himself to deliver Juliet
from that place of death, he found the Count Paris and Romeo
slain. The remainder of the transactions was supplied by the
narration of the page who had seen Paris and Romeo fight, and by
the servant who came with Romeo from Verona, to whom this
faithful lover had given letters to be delivered to his father in
the event of his death, which made good the friar’s words,
confessing his marriage with Juliet, imploring the forgiveness of
his parents, acknowledging the buying of the poison of the poor
apothecary and his intent in coming to the monument to die and
lie with Juliet. All these circumstances agreed together to clear
the friar from any hand he could be supposed to have in these
complicated slaughters, further than as the unintended
consequences of his own well-meant, yet too artificial and subtle
contrivances.
And the prince, turning to these old lords, Montague and Capulet,
rebuked them for their brutal and irrational enmities, and showed
them what a scourge Heaven had laid upon such offenses, that it
had found means even through the love of their children to punish
their unnatural hate. And these old rivals, no longer enemies,
agreed to bury their long strife in their children’s graves; and
Lord Capulet requested Lord Montague to give him his hand,
calling him by the name of brother, as if in acknowledgment of
the union of their families by the marriage of the young Capulet
and Montague; and saying that Lord Montague’s hand (in token of
reconcilement) was all he demanded for his daughter’s jointure.
But Lord Montague said he would give him more, for he would raise
her a statue of pure gold that, while Verona kept its name, no
figure should be so esteemed for its richness and workmanship as
that of the true and faithful Juliet. And Lord Capulet in return
said that he would raise another statue to Romeo. So did these
poor old lords, when it was too late, strive to outgo each other
in mutual courtesies; while so deadly had been their rage and
enmity in past times that nothing but the fearful overthrow of
their children (poor sacrifices to their quarrels and
dissensions) could remove the rooted hates and jealousies of the
noble families.