Benvolio. Tybalt, here slain, whom Romeo's hand did slay; Romeo, that spoke him fair, bid him bethink How nice the quarrel was, and urg'd withal Your high displeasure.--All this,--uttered With gentle breath, calm look, knees humbly bow'd,-- Could not take truce with the unruly spleen Of Tybalt, deaf to peace, but that he tilts With piercing steel at bold Mercutio's breast; Who, all as hot, turns deadly point to point, And, with a martial scorn, with one hand beats Cold death aside, and with the other sends It back to Tybalt, whose dexterity Retorts it: Romeo he cries aloud, 'Hold, friends! friends, part!' and swifter than his tongue, His agile arm beats down their fatal points, And 'twixt them rushes; underneath whose arm An envious thrust from Tybalt hit the life Of stout Mercutio, and then Tybalt fled: But by-and-by comes back to Romeo, Who had but newly entertain'd revenge, And to't they go like lightning; for, ere I Could draw to part them was stout Tybalt slain; And as he fell did Romeo turn and fly. This is the truth, or let Benvolio die.
Lady Capulet. He is a kinsman to the Montague, Affection makes him false, he speaks not true: Some twenty of them fought in this black strife, And all those twenty could but kill one life. I beg for justice, which thou, prince, must give; Romeo slew Tybalt, Romeo must not live.
Prince. Romeo slew him; he slew Mercutio: Who now the price of his dear blood doth owe?
Montague. Not Romeo, prince; he was Mercutio's friend; His fault concludes but what the law should end, The life of Tybalt.
Prince. And for that offence Immediately we do exile him hence: I have an interest in your hate's proceeding, My blood for your rude brawls doth lie a-bleeding; But I'll amerce you with so strong a fine That you shall all repent the loss of mine: I will be deaf to pleading and excuses; Nor tears nor prayers shall purchase out abuses, Therefore use none: let Romeo hence in haste, Else, when he is found, that hour is his last. Bear hence this body, and attend our will: Mercy but murders, pardoning those that kill.
[Exeunt.]
Scene II. A Room in Capulet's House.
[Enter Juliet.]
Juliet. Gallop apace, you fiery-footed steeds, Towards Phoebus' lodging; such a waggoner As Phaeton would whip you to the west And bring in cloudy night immediately.-- Spread thy close curtain, love-performing night! That rude eyes may wink, and Romeo Leap to these arms, untalk'd of and unseen.-- Lovers can see to do their amorous rites By their own beauties: or, if love be blind, It best agrees with night.--Come, civil night, Thou sober-suited matron, all in black, And learn me how to lose a winning match, Play'd for a pair of stainless maidenhoods: Hood my unmann'd blood, bating in my cheeks, With thy black mantle; till strange love, grown bold, Think true love acted simple modesty. Come, night;--come, Romeo;--come, thou day in night; For thou wilt lie upon the wings of night Whiter than new snow upon a raven's back.-- Come, gentle night;--come, loving, black-brow'd night, Give me my Romeo; and, when he shall die, Take him and cut him out in little stars, And he will make the face of heaven so fine That all the world will be in love with night, And pay no worship to the garish sun.-- O, I have bought the mansion of a love, But not possess'd it; and, though I am sold, Not yet enjoy'd: so tedious is this day As is the night before some festival To an impatient child that hath new robes, And may not wear them. O, here comes my nurse, And she brings news; and every tongue that speaks But Romeo's name speaks heavenly eloquence.--
[Enter Nurse, with cords.]
Now, nurse, what news? What hast thou there? the cords That Romeo bid thee fetch?
Nurse. Ay, ay, the cords.
[Throws them down.]
Juliet. Ah me! what news? why dost thou wring thy hands?
Nurse. Ah, well-a-day! he's dead, he's dead, he's dead! We are undone, lady, we are undone!-- Alack the day!--he's gone, he's kill'd, he's dead!
Juliet. Can heaven be so envious?
Nurse. Romeo can, Though heaven cannot.--O Romeo, Romeo!-- Who ever would have thought it?--Romeo!
Juliet. What devil art thou, that dost torment me thus? This torture should be roar'd in dismal hell. Hath Romeo slain himself? say thou but I, And that bare vowel I shall poison more Than the death-darting eye of cockatrice: I am not I if there be such an I; Or those eyes shut that make thee answer I. If he be slain, say I; or if not, no: Brief sounds determine of my weal or woe.
