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, insomuch
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 favour 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.
“Ay,” said the lady, “lips which
they must use in prayer.” “O
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 gentleman 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 lustre
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 hear her speak, said softly, and unheard by her,
“O 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 favour 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 behaviour
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 dishonour to such an honoured
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 honourable, 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 dishonourable 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 endeavouring
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 old 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 counselled him that he should go that night and
secretly take his leave of Juliet, and thence proceed
straightways 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 her counsellor 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 phial 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 phial 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 villanous 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 favour 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 pickaxe 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 rumour 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 offences,
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.