Romeo and Juliet, Act 3, Scene 2

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 runaway’s 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, grow 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 I 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.

Gallop fast, you fiery-footed horses, towards Phoebus' lodging. A driver like Phaeton would whip you to the west and bring in cloudy night at once. Spread your close curtain, love-performing night, so that the runaway's eyes may close, and Romeo may leap into these arms, untalked of and unseen. Lovers can see well enough to perform their loving rites by their own beauty; or, if love is blind, it suits night best. Come, solemn night, you plainly dressed matron all in black, and teach me how to lose a match that I win, played for a pair of spotless virginities. Cover my wild blood, fluttering in my cheeks, with your black cloak, until unfamiliar love grows bold and thinks the act of true love is simple modesty. Come, night; come, Romeo; come, you day in night, for you will lie upon the wings of night whiter than new snow on a raven's back. Come, gentle night; come, loving black-browed night; give me my Romeo, and when I die, take him and cut him up into little stars, and he will make the face of heaven so beautiful that all the world will be in love with night and give no worship to the gaudy sun. Oh, I have bought the mansion of a love, but not taken possession of it; and though I am sold, I am not yet enjoyed. This day is as tedious as the night before some festival is to an impatient child who has new clothes and may not wear them. Oh, here comes my Nurse, and she brings news, and every tongue that merely speaks Romeo's name speaks with heavenly eloquence.

Now, Nurse, what news? What hast thou there? The cords that Romeo bid thee fetch?

Now, Nurse, what news? What do you have there? The ropes that Romeo told you to fetch?

Ay, ay, the cords.

Yes, yes, the ropes.

Ay me, what news? Why dost thou wring thy hands?

Oh no, what news? Why are you wringing your hands?

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.

Oh, what a day, he's dead, he's dead, he's dead! We are ruined, my lady, we are ruined. Alas the day, he's gone, he's killed, he's dead.

Can heaven be so envious?

Can heaven be so spiteful?

Romeo can, Though heaven cannot. O Romeo, Romeo. Who ever would have thought it? Romeo!

Romeo can be, even if heaven cannot. Oh, Romeo, Romeo. Who would ever have thought it? Romeo!

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 Ay, 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 Ay. If he be slain, say Ay; or if not, No. Brief sounds determine of my weal or woe.

What devil are you, tormenting me like this? This torture ought to be howled in dreadful hell. Has Romeo killed himself? Just say "Yes," and that one bare vowel will poison me more than the death-shooting eye of a cockatrice. I am not myself if there is such a "yes"; or if those eyes are shut that make you answer "yes." If he is killed, say "yes"; if not, say "no." Short sounds will decide my happiness or my misery.

I saw the wound, I saw it with mine eyes, God save the mark!—here on his manly breast. A piteous corse, a bloody piteous corse; Pale, pale as ashes, all bedaub’d in blood, All in gore-blood. I swounded at the sight.

I saw the wound, I saw it with my own eyes—God bless us!—here on his manly chest. A pitiful corpse, a bloody pitiful corpse; pale, pale as ashes, all smeared with blood, all covered in clotted blood. I fainted at the sight.

O, break, my heart. Poor bankrout, break at once. To prison, eyes; ne’er look on liberty. Vile earth to earth resign; end motion here, And thou and Romeo press one heavy bier.

Oh, break, my heart. Poor bankrupt, break right now. To prison, eyes; never look on freedom again. Vile body, give yourself back to the earth; stop moving here, and let you and Romeo weigh down one coffin together.

O Tybalt, Tybalt, the best friend I had. O courteous Tybalt, honest gentleman! That ever I should live to see thee dead.

Oh, Tybalt, Tybalt, the best friend I had. Oh, courteous Tybalt, honest gentleman! That I should live to see you dead.

What storm is this that blows so contrary? Is Romeo slaughter’d and is Tybalt dead? My dearest cousin, and my dearer lord? Then dreadful trumpet sound the general doom, For who is living, if those two are gone?

What storm is this, blowing in such opposite directions? Is Romeo slaughtered, and is Tybalt dead? My dearest cousin, and my even dearer husband? Then, dreadful trumpet, sound the Last Judgment, for who is left alive, if those two are gone?

Tybalt is gone, and Romeo banished, Romeo that kill’d him, he is banished.

Tybalt is gone, and Romeo is banished; Romeo, who killed him, is banished.

O God! Did Romeo’s hand shed Tybalt’s blood?

Oh God! Did Romeo's hand spill Tybalt's blood?

It did, it did; alas the day, it did.

It did, it did; alas the day, it did.

O serpent heart, hid with a flowering face! Did ever dragon keep so fair a cave? Beautiful tyrant, fiend angelical, Dove-feather’d raven, wolvish-ravening lamb! Despised substance of divinest show! Just opposite to what thou justly seem’st, A damned saint, an honourable villain! O nature, what hadst thou to do in hell When thou didst bower the spirit of a fiend In mortal paradise of such sweet flesh? Was ever book containing such vile matter So fairly bound? O, that deceit should dwell In such a gorgeous palace.

Oh, serpent's heart, hidden behind a face like a flower! Did any dragon ever keep so lovely a cave? Beautiful tyrant, angelic devil, dove-feathered raven, lamb that ravens like a wolf! Despicable substance with the most divine appearance! Exactly the opposite of what you rightly seem to be, a damned saint, an honourable villain! Oh, nature, what business had you in hell when you housed the spirit of a devil in the mortal paradise of such sweet flesh? Was any book containing such vile contents ever so beautifully bound? Oh, that deceit should live in such a splendid palace.

There’s no trust, No faith, no honesty in men. All perjur’d, All forsworn, all naught, all dissemblers. Ah, where’s my man? Give me some aqua vitae. These griefs, these woes, these sorrows make me old. Shame come to Romeo.

There's no trust, no faith, no honesty in men. They're all liars, all oath-breakers, all worthless, all frauds. Ah, where's my servant? Give me some brandy. These griefs, these woes, these sorrows are making me old. Shame come to Romeo.

Blister’d be thy tongue For such a wish! He was not born to shame. Upon his brow shame is asham’d to sit; For ’tis a throne where honour may be crown’d Sole monarch of the universal earth. O, what a beast was I to chide at him!

May your tongue break out in blisters for such a wish! He was not born for shame. Shame is ashamed to sit on his forehead, because it is a throne where honour may be crowned sole monarch of the whole earth. Oh, what a brute I was to scold him!

Will you speak well of him that kill’d your cousin?

Will you speak well of the man who killed your cousin?

Shall I speak ill of him that is my husband? Ah, poor my lord, what tongue shall smooth thy name, When I thy three-hours’ wife have mangled it? But wherefore, villain, didst thou kill my cousin? That villain cousin would have kill’d my husband. Back, foolish tears, back to your native spring, Your tributary drops belong to woe, Which you mistaking offer up to joy. My husband lives, that Tybalt would have slain, And Tybalt’s dead, that would have slain my husband. All this is comfort; wherefore weep I then? Some word there was, worser than Tybalt’s death, That murder’d me. I would forget it fain, But O, it presses to my memory Like damned guilty deeds to sinners’ minds. Tybalt is dead, and Romeo banished. That ‘banished,’ that one word ‘banished,’ Hath slain ten thousand Tybalts. Tybalt’s death Was woe enough, if it had ended there. Or if sour woe delights in fellowship, And needly will be rank’d with other griefs, Why follow’d not, when she said Tybalt’s dead, Thy father or thy mother, nay or both, Which modern lamentation might have mov’d? But with a rear-ward following Tybalt’s death, ‘Romeo is banished’—to speak that word Is father, mother, Tybalt, Romeo, Juliet, All slain, all dead. Romeo is banished, There is no end, no limit, measure, bound, In that word’s death, no words can that woe sound. Where is my father and my mother, Nurse?

Should I speak badly of the man who is my husband? Ah, my poor lord, what tongue will speak kindly of your name when I, your wife of three hours, have torn it apart? But why, villain, did you kill my cousin? That villain cousin would have killed my husband. Back, foolish tears, back to the spring you came from; your flowing drops belong to sorrow, and you mistakenly offer them up to joy. My husband lives, whom Tybalt would have killed, and Tybalt is dead, who would have killed my husband. All of this is comfort; so why am I weeping? There was some word, worse than Tybalt's death, that murdered me. I would gladly forget it, but oh, it presses on my memory like damned guilty deeds on sinners' minds. Tybalt is dead, and Romeo is banished. That "banished," that one word "banished," has killed ten thousand Tybalts. Tybalt's death was sorrow enough, if it had ended there. Or, if bitter sorrow likes company and must be lined up with other griefs, why didn't it follow, when she said "Tybalt's dead," with "your father," or "your mother," or even both, which would have caused ordinary mourning? But to come as a rear guard after Tybalt's death—"Romeo is banished"—to say that word is to say father, mother, Tybalt, Romeo, Juliet, all killed, all dead. Romeo is banished. There is no end, no limit, no measure, no boundary in the death that word brings; no words can sound the depth of that sorrow. Where are my father and my mother, Nurse?

Weeping and wailing over Tybalt’s corse. Will you go to them? I will bring you thither.

Weeping and wailing over Tybalt's corpse. Will you go to them? I'll take you there.

Wash they his wounds with tears. Mine shall be spent, When theirs are dry, for Romeo’s banishment. Take up those cords. Poor ropes, you are beguil’d, Both you and I; for Romeo is exil’d. He made you for a highway to my bed, But I, a maid, die maiden-widowed. Come cords, come Nurse, I’ll to my wedding bed, And death, not Romeo, take my maidenhead.

Let them wash his wounds with tears. Mine will be spent, when theirs are dry, on Romeo's banishment. Pick up those ropes. Poor ropes, you are cheated, both you and I, because Romeo is exiled. He made you to be a highway to my bed, but I, still a virgin, will die a virgin widow. Come, ropes; come, Nurse; I'll go to my wedding bed, and let death, not Romeo, take my virginity.

Hie to your chamber. I’ll find Romeo To comfort you. I wot well where he is. Hark ye, your Romeo will be here at night. I’ll to him, he is hid at Lawrence’ cell.

Hurry to your room. I'll find Romeo to comfort you. I know very well where he is. Listen, your Romeo will be here tonight. I'll go to him; he's hiding at Lawrence' cell.

O find him, give this ring to my true knight, And bid him come to take his last farewell.

Oh, find him, give this ring to my true knight, and tell him to come and take his last farewell.