1 Watch. The ground is bloody; search about the churchyard: Go, some of you, whoe'er you find attach.
[Exeunt some of the Watch.]
Pitiful sight! here lies the county slain;-- And Juliet bleeding; warm, and newly dead, Who here hath lain this two days buried.-- Go, tell the prince;--run to the Capulets,-- Raise up the Montagues,--some others search:--
[Exeunt others of the Watch.]
We see the ground whereon these woes do lie; But the true ground of all these piteous woes We cannot without circumstance descry.
[Re-enter some of the Watch with Balthasar.]
2 Watch. Here's Romeo's man; we found him in the churchyard.
1 Watch. Hold him in safety till the prince come hither.
[Re-enter others of the Watch with Friar Lawrence.]
3 Watch. Here is a friar, that trembles, sighs, and weeps: We took this mattock and this spade from him As he was coming from this churchyard side.
1 Watch. A great suspicion: stay the friar too.
[Enter the Prince and Attendants.]
Prince. What misadventure is so early up, That calls our person from our morning's rest?
[Enter Capulet, Lady Capulet, and others.]
Capulet. What should it be, that they so shriek abroad?
Lady Capulet. The people in the street cry Romeo, Some Juliet, and some Paris; and all run, With open outcry, toward our monument.
Prince. What fear is this which startles in our ears?
1 Watch. Sovereign, here lies the County Paris slain; And Romeo dead; and Juliet, dead before, Warm and new kill'd.
Prince. Search, seek, and know how this foul murder comes.
1 Watch. Here is a friar, and slaughter'd Romeo's man, With instruments upon them fit to open These dead men's tombs.
Capulet. O heaven!--O wife, look how our daughter bleeds! This dagger hath mista'en,--for, lo, his house Is empty on the back of Montague,-- And it mis-sheathed in my daughter's bosom!
Lady Capulet. O me! this sight of death is as a bell That warns my old age to a sepulchre.
[Enter Montague and others.]
Prince. Come, Montague; for thou art early up, To see thy son and heir more early down.
Montague. Alas, my liege, my wife is dead to-night; Grief of my son's exile hath stopp'd her breath: What further woe conspires against mine age?
Prince. Look, and thou shalt see.
Montague. O thou untaught! what manners is in this, To press before thy father to a grave?
Prince. Seal up the mouth of outrage for a while, Till we can clear these ambiguities, And know their spring, their head, their true descent; And then will I be general of your woes, And lead you even to death: meantime forbear, And let mischance be slave to patience.-- Bring forth the parties of suspicion.
Friar. I am the greatest, able to do least, Yet most suspected, as the time and place Doth make against me, of this direful murder; And here I stand, both to impeach and purge Myself condemned and myself excus'd.
Prince. Then say at once what thou dost know in this.
