Said he not so or did I dream it so Or am I mad hearing him talk of Juliet To

Said he not so or did i dream it so or am i mad

This preview shows page 61 - 64 out of 66 pages.

Said he not so? or did I dream it so?Or am I mad, hearing him talk of JulietTo think it was so? O, give me thy hand,One writ with me in sour misfortune's book!I'll bury thee in a triumphant grave.A grave? O, no, a lanthorn, slaught'red youth,For here lies Juliet, and her beauty makesThis vault a feasting presence full of light.Death, lie thou there, by a dead man interr'd.[Lays him in the tomb.]How oft when men are at the point of death
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Have they been merry! which their keepers callA lightning before death. O, how may ICall this a lightning? O my love! my wife!Death, that hath suck'd the honey of thy breath,Hath had no power yet upon thy beauty.Thou art not conquer'd. Beauty's ensign yetIs crimson in thy lips and in thy cheeks,And death's pale flag is not advanced there.Tybalt, liest thou there in thy bloody sheet?O, what more favour can I do to theeThan with that hand that cut thy youth in twainTo sunder his that was thine enemy?Forgive me, cousin.' Ah, dear Juliet,Why art thou yet so fair? Shall I believeThat unsubstantial Death is amorous,And that the lean abhorred monster keepsThee here in dark to be his paramour?For fear of that I still will stay with theeAnd never from this palace of dim nightDepart again. Here, here will I remain With worms that are thy chambermaids. O, hereWill I set up my everlasting restAnd shake the yoke of inauspicious starsFrom this world-wearied flesh. Eyes, look your last!Arms, take your last embrace! and, lips, O youThe doors of breath, seal with a righteous kissA dateless bargain to engrossing death!Come, bitter conduct; come, unsavoury guide!Thou desperate pilot, now at once run onThe dashing rocks thy seasick weary bark!Here's to my love! [Drinks.] O true apothecary!Thy drugs are quick. Thus with a kiss I die. Falls.Enter Friar [Laurence], with lanthorn, crow, and spade.Friar. Saint Francis be my speed! how oft to-nightHave my old feet stumbled at graves! Who's there?Bal. Here's one, a friend, and one that knows you well.Friar. Bliss be upon you! Tell me, good my friend,What torch is yond that vainly lends his light To grubs and eyeless skulls? As I discern,It burneth in the Capels' monument.Bal. It doth so, holy sir; and there's my master,One that you love.Friar. Who is it?Bal. Romeo.Friar. How long hath he been there?Bal. Full half an hour.Friar. Go with me to the vault.Bal. I dare not, sir.My master knows not but I am gone hence,And fearfully did menace me with deathIf I did stay to look on his intents.Friar. Stay then; I'll go alone. Fear comes upon me.O, much I fear some ill unthrifty thing.Bal. As I did sleep under this yew tree here,I dreamt my master and another fought,
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And that my master slew him.Friar. Romeo!Alack, alack, what blood is this which stains The stony entrance of this sepulchre?
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