O, I am slain!
Falls
If thou be merciful,
Open the tomb, lay me with Juliet.

I do defy thy conjurations,
And apprehend thee for a felon here.

This is that banish'd haughty Montague,
That murder'd my love's cousin, with which grief,
It is supposed, the fair creature died;
And here is come to do some villanous shame
To the dead bodies: I will apprehend him.
Comes forward
Stop thy unhallow'd toil, vile Montague ...

Sweet flower, with flowers thy bridal bed I strew,--
O woe! thy canopy is dust and stones;--
Which with sweet water nightly I will dew,
Or, wanting that, with tears distill'd by moans:
The obsequies that I for thee will keep
Nightly shall be to strew thy grave and ...

Give me thy torch, boy: hence, and stand aloof:
Yet put it out, for I would not be seen.
Under yond yew-trees lay thee all along,
Holding thine ear close to the hollow ground;
So shall no foot upon the churchyard tread,
Being loose, unfirm, with digging up of graves ...

Beguiled, divorced, wronged, spited, slain!
Most detestable death, by thee beguil'd,
By cruel cruel thee quite overthrown!
O love! O life! not life, but love in death!

Have I thought long to see this morning's face,
And doth it give me such a sight as this?

God shield I should disturb devotion!
Juliet, on Thursday early will I rouse ye:
Till then, adieu; and keep this holy kiss.

Thy face is mine, and thou hast slander'd it.

Thou wrong'st it, more than tears, with that report.

Poor soul, thy face is much abused with tears.

So will ye, I am sure, that you love me.

Do not deny to him that you love me.

Come you to make confession to this father?

That may be must be, love, on Thursday next.

Happily met, my lady and my wife!

Immoderately she weeps for Tybalt's death,
And therefore have I little talk'd of love;
For Venus smiles not in a house of tears.
Now, sir, her father counts it dangerous
That she doth give her sorrow so much sway,
And in his wisdom hastes our marriage,
To stop ...

My father Capulet will have it so;
And I am nothing slow to slack his haste.

My lord, I would that Thursday were to-morrow.

Monday, my lord,

These times of woe afford no time to woo.
Madam, good night: commend me to your daughter.

Younger than she are happy mothers made.

Of honourable reckoning are you both;
And pity 'tis you lived at odds so long.
But now, my lord, what say you to my suit?