Romeo and Juliet, Act 3, Scene 5

Wilt thou be gone? It is not yet near day. It was the nightingale, and not the lark, That pierc’d the fearful hollow of thine ear; Nightly she sings on yond pomegranate tree. Believe me, love, it was the nightingale.

Are you going to leave? It's not nearly daybreak yet. It was the nightingale, not the lark, that pierced your frightened ear. She sings every night on that pomegranate tree over there. Believe me, my love, it was the nightingale.

It was the lark, the herald of the morn, No nightingale. Look, love, what envious streaks Do lace the severing clouds in yonder east. Night’s candles are burnt out, and jocund day Stands tiptoe on the misty mountain tops. I must be gone and live, or stay and die.

It was the lark, the messenger of morning, not the nightingale. Look, my love, at the jealous streaks of light that edge the parting clouds in the east over there. Night's candles have burnt out, and cheerful day stands on tiptoe on the misty mountain tops. I must go and live, or stay and die.

Yond light is not daylight, I know it, I. It is some meteor that the sun exhales To be to thee this night a torchbearer And light thee on thy way to Mantua. Therefore stay yet, thou need’st not to be gone.

That light over there is not daylight — I know it, I do. It's some meteor that the sun has breathed out to be a torchbearer for you tonight and light your way to Mantua. So stay a while longer; you don't need to go.

Let me be ta’en, let me be put to death, I am content, so thou wilt have it so. I’ll say yon grey is not the morning’s eye, ’Tis but the pale reflex of Cynthia’s brow. Nor that is not the lark whose notes do beat The vaulty heaven so high above our heads. I have more care to stay than will to go. Come, death, and welcome. Juliet wills it so. How is’t, my soul? Let’s talk. It is not day.

Let me be captured, let me be put to death; I'm content, if that's how you want it. I'll say that grey light over there is not the eye of morning, but only the pale reflection of Cynthia's forehead. And that isn't the lark whose notes strike the vaulted sky so far above our heads. I have far more desire to stay than any wish to go. Come, death, and welcome. Juliet wants it so. How are you, my soul? Let's talk. It isn't day.

It is, it is! Hie hence, be gone, away. It is the lark that sings so out of tune, Straining harsh discords and unpleasing sharps. Some say the lark makes sweet division; This doth not so, for she divideth us. Some say the lark and loathed toad change eyes. O, now I would they had chang’d voices too, Since arm from arm that voice doth us affray, Hunting thee hence with hunt’s-up to the day. O now be gone, more light and light it grows.

It is, it is! Hurry away from here, go, leave. It's the lark that sings so out of tune, forcing out harsh discords and unpleasant high notes. Some say the lark sings sweet running melodies; this one doesn't, since she divides us. Some say the lark and the hated toad exchanged eyes. Oh, now I wish they had exchanged voices too, since that voice frightens us out of each other's arms, driving you away from here with a hunter's morning song. Oh, go now; it grows lighter and lighter.

More light and light, more dark and dark our woes.

Lighter and lighter, and darker and darker our sorrows.

Madam.

Madam.

Nurse?

Nurse?

Your lady mother is coming to your chamber. The day is broke, be wary, look about.

Your lady mother is coming to your room. Day has broken. Be careful, keep watch.

Then, window, let day in, and let life out.

Then, window, let the day in and let my life out.

Farewell, farewell, one kiss, and I’ll descend.

Goodbye, goodbye. One kiss, and I'll climb down.

Art thou gone so? Love, lord, ay husband, friend, I must hear from thee every day in the hour, For in a minute there are many days. O, by this count I shall be much in years Ere I again behold my Romeo.

Are you gone already? My love, my lord, yes, my husband, my friend! I must hear from you every hour of every day, for there are many days in a single minute. Oh, counting that way, I'll be very old before I see my Romeo again.

Farewell! I will omit no opportunity That may convey my greetings, love, to thee.

Goodbye! I'll let no chance slip by that can carry my greetings to you, my love.

O thinkest thou we shall ever meet again?

Oh, do you think we'll ever meet again?

I doubt it not, and all these woes shall serve For sweet discourses in our time to come.

I have no fear of it, and all these sorrows will give us sweet things to talk about in the time to come.

O God! I have an ill-divining soul! Methinks I see thee, now thou art so low, As one dead in the bottom of a tomb. Either my eyesight fails, or thou look’st pale.

Oh God, my soul foresees disaster! Now that you're down so low, I seem to see you like a dead man at the bottom of a tomb. Either my eyes are failing me, or you look pale.

And trust me, love, in my eye so do you. Dry sorrow drinks our blood. Adieu, adieu.

And believe me, my love, to my eyes you look the same. Thirsty sorrow drinks our blood. Goodbye, goodbye.

O Fortune, Fortune! All men call thee fickle, If thou art fickle, what dost thou with him That is renown’d for faith? Be fickle, Fortune; For then, I hope thou wilt not keep him long But send him back.

Oh Fortune, Fortune! Everyone calls you fickle. If you are fickle, what are you doing with him, who is famous for being faithful? Be fickle, Fortune, because then I hope you won't keep him long, but will send him back.

[Within.] Ho, daughter, are you up?

[Offstage.] Hello, daughter, are you up?

Who is’t that calls? Is it my lady mother? Is she not down so late, or up so early? What unaccustom’d cause procures her hither?

Who is that calling? Is it my lady mother? Has she not gone to bed yet, so late, or is she up so early? What unusual reason brings her here?

Why, how now, Juliet?

Well, what's this, Juliet?

Madam, I am not well.

Madam, I'm not well.

Evermore weeping for your cousin’s death? What, wilt thou wash him from his grave with tears? And if thou couldst, thou couldst not make him live. Therefore have done: some grief shows much of love, But much of grief shows still some want of wit.

Still weeping for your cousin's death? What, are you going to wash him out of his grave with tears? And even if you could, you couldn't bring him back to life. So stop. A little grief shows a lot of love, but a lot of grief always shows some lack of sense.

Yet let me weep for such a feeling loss.

Still, let me weep for a loss I feel so deeply.

So shall you feel the loss, but not the friend Which you weep for.

That way you'll feel the loss, but not the friend you're weeping for.

Feeling so the loss, I cannot choose but ever weep the friend.

Feeling the loss as I do, I can't help weeping for him always.

Well, girl, thou weep’st not so much for his death As that the villain lives which slaughter’d him.

Well, girl, you're not weeping so much for his death as for the fact that the villain who killed him is still alive.

What villain, madam?

What villain, madam?

That same villain Romeo.

That villain Romeo.

Villain and he be many miles asunder. God pardon him. I do, with all my heart. And yet no man like he doth grieve my heart.

"Villain" and he are many miles apart. God forgive him — I do, with all my heart. And yet no man grieves my heart the way he does.

That is because the traitor murderer lives.

That's because the treacherous murderer is still alive.

Ay madam, from the reach of these my hands. Would none but I might venge my cousin’s death.

Yes, madam, out of the reach of these hands of mine. I wish no one but I could avenge my cousin's death.

We will have vengeance for it, fear thou not. Then weep no more. I’ll send to one in Mantua, Where that same banish’d runagate doth live, Shall give him such an unaccustom’d dram That he shall soon keep Tybalt company: And then I hope thou wilt be satisfied.

We will have revenge for it, don't you worry. So weep no more. I'll send word to someone in Mantua, where that banished runaway is living, who will give him such a strange dose that he'll soon be keeping Tybalt company. And then, I hope, you'll be satisfied.

Indeed I never shall be satisfied With Romeo till I behold him—dead— Is my poor heart so for a kinsman vex’d. Madam, if you could find out but a man To bear a poison, I would temper it, That Romeo should upon receipt thereof, Soon sleep in quiet. O, how my heart abhors To hear him nam’d, and cannot come to him, To wreak the love I bore my cousin Upon his body that hath slaughter’d him.

Truly, I shall never be satisfied with Romeo until I see him — dead — that's how tormented my poor heart is for a relative. Madam, if you could only find a man to carry a poison, I would mix it, so that Romeo, once he took it, would soon sleep peacefully. Oh, how my heart hates to hear him named, and not be able to get to him, to pay out the love I had for my cousin upon the body of the man who killed him.

Find thou the means, and I’ll find such a man. But now I’ll tell thee joyful tidings, girl.

You find the means, and I'll find such a man. But now I'll tell you some happy news, girl.

And joy comes well in such a needy time. What are they, I beseech your ladyship?

And joy is welcome at such a needy time. What is it, I beg your ladyship?

Well, well, thou hast a careful father, child; One who to put thee from thy heaviness, Hath sorted out a sudden day of joy, That thou expects not, nor I look’d not for.

Well, well, you have a thoughtful father, child — one who, to lift you out of your sadness, has arranged a sudden day of celebration that you aren't expecting and I didn't look for either.

Madam, in happy time, what day is that?

Madam, that's good timing. What day is that?

Marry, my child, early next Thursday morn The gallant, young, and noble gentleman, The County Paris, at Saint Peter’s Church, Shall happily make thee there a joyful bride.

Indeed, my child, early next Thursday morning the fine, young, noble gentleman, the Count Paris, will happily make you a joyful bride at Saint Peter's Church.

Now by Saint Peter’s Church, and Peter too, He shall not make me there a joyful bride. I wonder at this haste, that I must wed Ere he that should be husband comes to woo. I pray you tell my lord and father, madam, I will not marry yet; and when I do, I swear It shall be Romeo, whom you know I hate, Rather than Paris. These are news indeed.

Now by Saint Peter's Church, and by Peter too, he will not make me a joyful bride there. I'm amazed at this rush — that I must be married before the man who's supposed to be my husband has even come to court me. Please tell my lord and father, madam, that I will not marry yet; and when I do, I swear it will be Romeo — whom you know I hate — rather than Paris. This is news indeed!

Here comes your father, tell him so yourself, And see how he will take it at your hands.

Here comes your father. Tell him so yourself, and see how he takes it from you.

When the sun sets, the air doth drizzle dew; But for the sunset of my brother’s son It rains downright. How now? A conduit, girl? What, still in tears? Evermore showering? In one little body Thou counterfeits a bark, a sea, a wind. For still thy eyes, which I may call the sea, Do ebb and flow with tears; the bark thy body is, Sailing in this salt flood, the winds, thy sighs, Who raging with thy tears and they with them, Without a sudden calm will overset Thy tempest-tossed body. How now, wife? Have you deliver’d to her our decree?

When the sun sets, the air drizzles dew; but for the setting of my brother's son it rains hard. What's this? A water pipe, girl? What, still in tears? Pouring rain without stopping? In one little body you're imitating a boat, a sea, a wind. For your eyes, which I might call the sea, are always ebbing and flowing with tears; your body is the boat, sailing in this salt flood; the winds are your sighs, which rage along with your tears and your tears with them, and unless the storm suddenly calms they will capsize your storm-tossed body. Well now, wife? Have you told her our decision?

Ay, sir; but she will none, she gives you thanks. I would the fool were married to her grave.

Yes, sir, but she wants none of it; she thanks you. I wish the fool were married to her grave.

Soft. Take me with you, take me with you, wife. How, will she none? Doth she not give us thanks? Is she not proud? Doth she not count her blest, Unworthy as she is, that we have wrought So worthy a gentleman to be her bridegroom?

Wait. Let me follow you, let me follow you, wife. What, she wants none of it? Doesn't she thank us? Isn't she proud? Doesn't she count herself blessed, unworthy as she is, that we have arranged for such a worthy gentleman to be her bridegroom?

Not proud you have, but thankful that you have. Proud can I never be of what I hate; But thankful even for hate that is meant love.

Not proud that you have, but grateful that you have. I can never be proud of something I hate, but I'm grateful even for hatred that is meant as love.

How now, how now, chopp’d logic? What is this? Proud, and, I thank you, and I thank you not; And yet not proud. Mistress minion you, Thank me no thankings, nor proud me no prouds, But fettle your fine joints ’gainst Thursday next To go with Paris to Saint Peter’s Church, Or I will drag thee on a hurdle thither. Out, you green-sickness carrion! Out, you baggage! You tallow-face!

What's this, what's this, hair-splitting arguments? What does this mean? "Proud," and "I thank you," and "I thank you not," and "yet not proud." You spoilt young madam, don't give me your thanks and don't give me your prides, but get your delicate limbs ready for next Thursday to go with Paris to Saint Peter's Church, or I'll drag you there on a sledge for criminals. Get out, you pale, sickly piece of dead meat! Get out, you worthless thing! You tallow-coloured face!

Fie, fie! What, are you mad?

Shame, shame! What, are you out of your mind?

Good father, I beseech you on my knees, Hear me with patience but to speak a word.

Good father, I beg you on my knees, listen to me patiently for just one word.

Hang thee young baggage, disobedient wretch! I tell thee what,—get thee to church a Thursday, Or never after look me in the face. Speak not, reply not, do not answer me. My fingers itch. Wife, we scarce thought us blest That God had lent us but this only child; But now I see this one is one too much, And that we have a curse in having her. Out on her, hilding.

Hang you, you worthless young thing, you disobedient wretch! I'll tell you what: get yourself to church on Thursday, or never look me in the face again. Don't speak, don't argue, don't answer me. My fingers itch to strike you. Wife, we hardly thought ourselves blessed that God had given us only this one child; but now I see this one is one too many, and that in having her we have a curse. Away with her, the good-for-nothing.

God in heaven bless her. You are to blame, my lord, to rate her so.

God in heaven bless her. You are wrong, my lord, to scold her like that.

And why, my lady wisdom? Hold your tongue, Good prudence; smatter with your gossips, go.

And why, my lady wisdom? Hold your tongue, good madam prudence. Go chatter with your gossiping friends.

I speak no treason.

I'm not saying anything disloyal.

O God ye good-en!

Oh, good day to you!

May not one speak?

May a person not speak?

Peace, you mumbling fool! Utter your gravity o’er a gossip’s bowl, For here we need it not.

Be quiet, you mumbling fool! Deliver your wise words over a mug with your gossiping friends, because we don't need them here.

You are too hot.

You're getting too worked up.

God’s bread, it makes me mad! Day, night, hour, ride, time, work, play, Alone, in company, still my care hath been To have her match’d, and having now provided A gentleman of noble parentage, Of fair demesnes, youthful, and nobly allied, Stuff’d, as they say, with honourable parts, Proportion’d as one’s thought would wish a man, And then to have a wretched puling fool, A whining mammet, in her fortune’s tender, To answer, ‘I’ll not wed, I cannot love, I am too young, I pray you pardon me.’ But, and you will not wed, I’ll pardon you. Graze where you will, you shall not house with me. Look to’t, think on’t, I do not use to jest. Thursday is near; lay hand on heart, advise. And you be mine, I’ll give you to my friend; And you be not, hang, beg, starve, die in the streets, For by my soul, I’ll ne’er acknowledge thee, Nor what is mine shall never do thee good. Trust to’t, bethink you, I’ll not be forsworn.

By God's holy bread, it drives me mad! Day, night, hour, riding, resting, working, playing, alone, in company, my one concern has always been to get her a match; and now that I've provided a gentleman of noble family, with fine estates, young, nobly connected, packed, as they say, with honourable qualities, as well built as anyone could wish a man to be — and then to have a miserable whimpering fool, a whining doll, when her fortune is offered to her, answer, "I won't marry, I can't love, I'm too young, please excuse me." Well, if you won't marry, I'll excuse you: graze wherever you like, but you shan't live under my roof. Watch out, think about it, I'm not in the habit of joking. Thursday is close. Put your hand on your heart and consider. If you are mine, I'll give you to my friend; if you're not, then hang, beg, starve, die in the streets, because on my soul I'll never recognise you as mine, and nothing that belongs to me will ever do you any good. Count on it, think it over; I won't break my word.

Is there no pity sitting in the clouds, That sees into the bottom of my grief? O sweet my mother, cast me not away, Delay this marriage for a month, a week, Or, if you do not, make the bridal bed In that dim monument where Tybalt lies.

Is there no pity sitting up in the clouds that can see to the bottom of my grief? Oh my sweet mother, don't throw me away. Put off this marriage for a month, a week; or if you won't, then make my wedding bed in that dark tomb where Tybalt lies.

Talk not to me, for I’ll not speak a word. Do as thou wilt, for I have done with thee.

Don't talk to me, because I won't say a word. Do what you like, for I'm finished with you.

O God! O Nurse, how shall this be prevented? My husband is on earth, my faith in heaven. How shall that faith return again to earth, Unless that husband send it me from heaven By leaving earth? Comfort me, counsel me. Alack, alack, that heaven should practise stratagems Upon so soft a subject as myself. What say’st thou? Hast thou not a word of joy? Some comfort, Nurse.

Oh God! Oh Nurse, how can this be stopped? My husband is on earth, my marriage vow in heaven. How can that vow come back to earth unless my husband sends it to me from heaven by leaving the earth? Comfort me, advise me. Oh no, oh no, that heaven should play such tricks on a creature as helpless as I am! What do you say? Haven't you one word of joy? Give me some comfort, Nurse.

Faith, here it is. Romeo is banished; and all the world to nothing That he dares ne’er come back to challenge you. Or if he do, it needs must be by stealth. Then, since the case so stands as now it doth, I think it best you married with the County. O, he’s a lovely gentleman. Romeo’s a dishclout to him. An eagle, madam, Hath not so green, so quick, so fair an eye As Paris hath. Beshrew my very heart, I think you are happy in this second match, For it excels your first: or if it did not, Your first is dead, or ’twere as good he were, As living here and you no use of him.

Honestly, here it is. Romeo is banished, and I'll bet the whole world against nothing that he'll never dare come back to claim you. Or if he does, it will have to be in secret. So, since things stand as they do now, I think it's best that you marry the Count. Oh, he's a lovely gentleman. Romeo is a dishrag next to him. An eagle, madam, doesn't have an eye as bright, as lively, as beautiful as Paris has. Curse my own heart, I think you're lucky in this second match, because it's better than your first. Or even if it weren't, your first husband is dead — or as good as dead, since he's living where you can have no use of him.

Speakest thou from thy heart?

Are you speaking from your heart?

And from my soul too, Or else beshrew them both.

And from my soul too, or else curse them both.

Amen.

Amen.

What?

What?

Well, thou hast comforted me marvellous much. Go in, and tell my lady I am gone, Having displeas’d my father, to Lawrence’ cell, To make confession and to be absolv’d.

Well, you've comforted me wonderfully much. Go inside, and tell my mother that, having displeased my father, I've gone to Lawrence's cell to make confession and be given absolution.

Marry, I will; and this is wisely done.

Indeed I will, and this is wisely done.

Ancient damnation! O most wicked fiend! Is it more sin to wish me thus forsworn, Or to dispraise my lord with that same tongue Which she hath prais’d him with above compare So many thousand times? Go, counsellor. Thou and my bosom henceforth shall be twain. I’ll to the Friar to know his remedy. If all else fail, myself have power to die.

Damnation in old age! Oh, most wicked devil! Is it a greater sin to wish me to break my vow like this, or to run down my husband with the very tongue she has praised him with beyond all comparison so many thousand times? Go, adviser. From now on you and my heart will be two separate things. I'll go to the Friar to learn what remedy he has. If everything else fails, I have the power to die.