Romeo and Juliet, Act 3, Scene 3

Romeo, come forth; come forth, thou fearful man. Affliction is enanmour’d of thy parts And thou art wedded to calamity.

Romeo, come out; come out, you frightened man. Suffering is in love with your qualities, and you are married to disaster.

Father, what news? What is the Prince’s doom? What sorrow craves acquaintance at my hand, That I yet know not?

Father, what news? What is the Prince's sentence? What sorrow is asking to be introduced to me that I don't know yet?

Too familiar Is my dear son with such sour company. I bring thee tidings of the Prince’s doom.

My dear son is too well acquainted with such bitter company. I bring you news of the Prince's sentence.

What less than doomsday is the Prince’s doom?

What could the Prince's sentence be, short of doomsday?

A gentler judgment vanish’d from his lips, Not body’s death, but body’s banishment.

A milder judgment came from his lips: not death of the body, but banishment of the body.

Ha, banishment? Be merciful, say death; For exile hath more terror in his look, Much more than death. Do not say banishment.

Ha, banishment? Be merciful, say death; because exile has more terror in its face, far more than death does. Don't say banishment.

Hence from Verona art thou banished. Be patient, for the world is broad and wide.

You are banished from Verona. Be patient, because the world is broad and wide.

There is no world without Verona walls, But purgatory, torture, hell itself. Hence banished is banish’d from the world, And world’s exile is death. Then banished Is death misterm’d. Calling death banished, Thou cutt’st my head off with a golden axe, And smilest upon the stroke that murders me.

There is no world outside Verona's walls, only purgatory, torture, hell itself. So to be banished from here is to be banished from the world, and exile from the world is death. So "banished" is death with the wrong name. By calling death banishment, you cut my head off with a golden axe and smile at the blow that murders me.

O deadly sin, O rude unthankfulness! Thy fault our law calls death, but the kind Prince, Taking thy part, hath brush’d aside the law, And turn’d that black word death to banishment. This is dear mercy, and thou see’st it not.

Oh, deadly sin, oh, crude ingratitude! Our law calls your crime death, but the kind Prince, taking your side, has pushed the law aside and changed that black word "death" to "banishment." This is precious mercy, and you don't see it.

’Tis torture, and not mercy. Heaven is here Where Juliet lives, and every cat and dog, And little mouse, every unworthy thing, Live here in heaven and may look on her, But Romeo may not. More validity, More honourable state, more courtship lives In carrion flies than Romeo. They may seize On the white wonder of dear Juliet’s hand, And steal immortal blessing from her lips, Who, even in pure and vestal modesty Still blush, as thinking their own kisses sin. But Romeo may not, he is banished. This may flies do, when I from this must fly. They are free men but I am banished. And say’st thou yet that exile is not death? Hadst thou no poison mix’d, no sharp-ground knife, No sudden mean of death, though ne’er so mean, But banished to kill me? Banished? O Friar, the damned use that word in hell. Howling attends it. How hast thou the heart, Being a divine, a ghostly confessor, A sin-absolver, and my friend profess’d, To mangle me with that word banished?

It's torture, not mercy. Heaven is here, where Juliet lives, and every cat and dog and little mouse, every worthless thing, lives here in heaven and may look at her, but Romeo may not. There's more worth, more honourable standing, more courtship in flies that feed on dead flesh than in Romeo. They may settle on the white wonder of dear Juliet's hand and steal immortal blessing from her lips, which, in their pure and virgin modesty, keep blushing, as though they thought their own kisses were a sin. But Romeo may not; he is banished. Flies may do this, when I must fly from here. They are free men, but I am banished. And do you still say that exile isn't death? Had you no poison mixed, no sharpened knife, no quick means of death, however cheap, but "banished" to kill me with? Banished? Oh, Friar, the damned use that word in hell. Howling goes with it. How do you have the heart, being a priest, a spiritual confessor, a forgiver of sins, and my declared friend, to tear me apart with that word "banished"?

Thou fond mad man, hear me speak a little,

You foolish madman, listen to me speak a little.

O, thou wilt speak again of banishment.

Oh, you'll speak about banishment again.

I’ll give thee armour to keep off that word, Adversity’s sweet milk, philosophy, To comfort thee, though thou art banished.

I'll give you armour to keep off that word: philosophy, the sweet milk of adversity, to comfort you, even though you are banished.

Yet banished? Hang up philosophy. Unless philosophy can make a Juliet, Displant a town, reverse a Prince’s doom, It helps not, it prevails not, talk no more.

Still "banished"? Hang philosophy. Unless philosophy can make a Juliet, move a town somewhere else, reverse a Prince's sentence, it doesn't help, it does no good, so say no more.

O, then I see that mad men have no ears.

Oh, then I see that madmen have no ears.

How should they, when that wise men have no eyes?

How should they, when wise men have no eyes?

Let me dispute with thee of thy estate.

Let me discuss your situation with you.

Thou canst not speak of that thou dost not feel. Wert thou as young as I, Juliet thy love, An hour but married, Tybalt murdered, Doting like me, and like me banished, Then mightst thou speak, then mightst thou tear thy hair, And fall upon the ground as I do now, Taking the measure of an unmade grave.

You can't talk about what you don't feel. If you were as young as I am, with Juliet as your love, married only an hour, Tybalt murdered, madly in love like me, and banished like me, then you might speak, then you might tear your hair and throw yourself on the ground as I do now, measuring out a grave that hasn't been dug yet.

Arise; one knocks. Good Romeo, hide thyself.

Get up; someone's knocking. Good Romeo, hide yourself.

Not I, unless the breath of heartsick groans Mist-like infold me from the search of eyes.

Not me, unless the breath of my heartsick groans wraps me like mist and hides me from searching eyes.

Hark, how they knock!—Who’s there?—Romeo, arise, Thou wilt be taken.—Stay awhile.—Stand up.

Listen, how they knock!—Who's there?—Romeo, get up, you'll be caught.—Wait a moment.—Stand up.

Run to my study.—By-and-by.—God’s will, What simpleness is this.—I come, I come.

Run into my study.—In a moment.—By God's will, what foolishness this is.—I'm coming, I'm coming.

Who knocks so hard? Whence come you, what’s your will?

Who is knocking so hard? Where do you come from, what do you want?

[Within.] Let me come in, and you shall know my errand. I come from Lady Juliet.

[Offstage.] Let me come in, and you'll find out my errand. I come from Lady Juliet.

Welcome then.

Welcome, then.

O holy Friar, O, tell me, holy Friar, Where is my lady’s lord, where’s Romeo?

Oh, holy Friar, oh, tell me, holy Friar, where is my lady's husband, where's Romeo?

There on the ground, with his own tears made drunk.

There on the ground, made drunk with his own tears.

O, he is even in my mistress’ case. Just in her case! O woeful sympathy! Piteous predicament. Even so lies she, Blubbering and weeping, weeping and blubbering. Stand up, stand up; stand, and you be a man. For Juliet’s sake, for her sake, rise and stand. Why should you fall into so deep an O?

Oh, he's in exactly the same state as my mistress. Exactly her state! Oh, what miserable matching! What a pitiful situation. She lies just like that, blubbering and weeping, weeping and blubbering. Stand up, stand up; stand up, if you're a man. For Juliet's sake, for her sake, get up and stand. Why should you collapse into such a deep groan?

Nurse.

Nurse.

Ah sir, ah sir, death’s the end of all.

Ah sir, ah sir, death is the end of everything.

Spakest thou of Juliet? How is it with her? Doth not she think me an old murderer, Now I have stain’d the childhood of our joy With blood remov’d but little from her own? Where is she? And how doth she? And what says My conceal’d lady to our cancell’d love?

Did you speak of Juliet? How is she? Doesn't she think me a hardened murderer, now that I've stained the infancy of our joy with blood so close to her own? Where is she? And how is she? And what does my secret wife say about our cancelled love?

O, she says nothing, sir, but weeps and weeps; And now falls on her bed, and then starts up, And Tybalt calls, and then on Romeo cries, And then down falls again.

Oh, she says nothing, sir, but weeps and weeps; and now she falls onto her bed, and then jumps up, and calls out "Tybalt," and then cries out "Romeo," and then falls down again.

As if that name, Shot from the deadly level of a gun, Did murder her, as that name’s cursed hand Murder’d her kinsman. O, tell me, Friar, tell me, In what vile part of this anatomy Doth my name lodge? Tell me, that I may sack The hateful mansion.

As if that name, fired from the deadly aim of a gun, murdered her, just as that name's cursed hand murdered her relative. Oh, tell me, Friar, tell me, in what vile part of this body does my name live? Tell me, so that I can ransack the hateful house.

Hold thy desperate hand. Art thou a man? Thy form cries out thou art. Thy tears are womanish, thy wild acts denote The unreasonable fury of a beast. Unseemly woman in a seeming man, And ill-beseeming beast in seeming both! Thou hast amaz’d me. By my holy order, I thought thy disposition better temper’d. Hast thou slain Tybalt? Wilt thou slay thyself? And slay thy lady, that in thy life lives, By doing damned hate upon thyself? Why rail’st thou on thy birth, the heaven and earth? Since birth, and heaven and earth, all three do meet In thee at once; which thou at once wouldst lose. Fie, fie, thou sham’st thy shape, thy love, thy wit, Which, like a usurer, abound’st in all, And usest none in that true use indeed Which should bedeck thy shape, thy love, thy wit. Thy noble shape is but a form of wax, Digressing from the valour of a man; Thy dear love sworn but hollow perjury, Killing that love which thou hast vow’d to cherish; Thy wit, that ornament to shape and love, Misshapen in the conduct of them both, Like powder in a skilless soldier’s flask, Is set afire by thine own ignorance, And thou dismember’d with thine own defence. What, rouse thee, man. Thy Juliet is alive, For whose dear sake thou wast but lately dead. There art thou happy. Tybalt would kill thee, But thou slew’st Tybalt; there art thou happy. The law that threaten’d death becomes thy friend, And turns it to exile; there art thou happy. A pack of blessings light upon thy back; Happiness courts thee in her best array; But like a misshaped and sullen wench, Thou putt’st up thy Fortune and thy love. Take heed, take heed, for such die miserable. Go, get thee to thy love as was decreed, Ascend her chamber, hence and comfort her. But look thou stay not till the watch be set, For then thou canst not pass to Mantua; Where thou shalt live till we can find a time To blaze your marriage, reconcile your friends, Beg pardon of the Prince, and call thee back With twenty hundred thousand times more joy Than thou went’st forth in lamentation. Go before, Nurse. Commend me to thy lady, And bid her hasten all the house to bed, Which heavy sorrow makes them apt unto. Romeo is coming.

Stop that desperate hand. Are you a man? Your shape shouts that you are. Your tears belong to a woman, and your wild behaviour shows the senseless rage of a beast. You are an unbecoming woman in what seems a man, or a hideous beast that seems both! You have astonished me. By my holy order, I thought your character was better balanced. Have you killed Tybalt? Will you kill yourself? And kill your wife, who lives in your life, by turning damnable hatred on yourself? Why do you curse your birth, and heaven and earth? Since birth, heaven, and earth, all three come together in you at once, and you would throw all three away at once. Shame, shame, you disgrace your body, your love, your mind, in all of which, like a moneylender, you have plenty, and you use none of them in the true way that should do credit to your body, your love, your mind. Your noble body is only a figure of wax, without a man's courage; your love, sworn so dearly, is only empty perjury, killing the love you vowed to cherish; your mind, which should adorn body and love, goes wrong in managing them both, and, like gunpowder in an untrained soldier's flask, is set on fire by your own ignorance, and you are blown apart by your own defence. Come on, rouse yourself, man. Your Juliet is alive, for whose dear sake you were as good as dead just now. There you are lucky. Tybalt would have killed you, but you killed Tybalt; there you are lucky. The law that threatened death becomes your friend and turns it into exile; there you are lucky. A whole pack of blessings settles on your back; happiness courts you in her finest clothes; but like a deformed and sulky girl, you turn away from your Fortune and your love. Watch out, watch out, because people like that die wretched. Go, get to your love as we arranged, climb up to her room, go and comfort her. But make sure you don't stay past the time the watch is posted, because then you won't be able to get out to Mantua; where you'll live until we can find a time to announce your marriage, reconcile your families, beg the Prince's pardon, and call you back with two million times more joy than the grief you left in. Go on ahead, Nurse. Give my greetings to your lady, and tell her to hurry the whole household to bed, which heavy sorrow will make them ready for. Romeo is coming.

O Lord, I could have stay’d here all the night To hear good counsel. O, what learning is! My lord, I’ll tell my lady you will come.

Oh Lord, I could have stayed here all night to hear good advice. Oh, what a thing learning is! My lord, I'll tell my lady you're coming.

Do so, and bid my sweet prepare to chide.

Do that, and tell my sweetheart to get ready to scold me.

Here sir, a ring she bid me give you, sir. Hie you, make haste, for it grows very late.

Here, sir, a ring she told me to give you, sir. Hurry, be quick, because it's getting very late.

How well my comfort is reviv’d by this.

How thoroughly my comfort is brought back to life by this.

Go hence, good night, and here stands all your state: Either be gone before the watch be set, Or by the break of day disguis’d from hence. Sojourn in Mantua. I’ll find out your man, And he shall signify from time to time Every good hap to you that chances here. Give me thy hand; ’tis late; farewell; good night.

Go now, good night, and your whole situation depends on this: either get away before the watch is posted, or leave here in disguise by daybreak. Stay in Mantua. I'll find your servant, and he will report to you from time to time every piece of good luck that happens here. Give me your hand; it's late; goodbye; good night.

But that a joy past joy calls out on me, It were a grief so brief to part with thee. Farewell.

If it weren't that a joy beyond joy is calling me away, it would be a sorrow to part from you so quickly. Goodbye.