Romeo and Juliet, Act 4, Scene 5

Mistress! What, mistress! Juliet! Fast, I warrant her, she. Why, lamb, why, lady, fie, you slug-abed! Why, love, I say! Madam! Sweetheart! Why, bride! What, not a word? You take your pennyworths now. Sleep for a week; for the next night, I warrant, The County Paris hath set up his rest That you shall rest but little. God forgive me! Marry and amen. How sound is she asleep! I needs must wake her. Madam, madam, madam! Ay, let the County take you in your bed, He’ll fright you up, i’faith. Will it not be? What, dress’d, and in your clothes, and down again? I must needs wake you. Lady! Lady! Lady! Alas, alas! Help, help! My lady’s dead! O, well-a-day that ever I was born. Some aqua vitae, ho! My lord! My lady!

Mistress! Hey, mistress! Juliet! Sound asleep, I'm sure she is. Come on, lamb! Come on, lady! Shame on you, you lazybones! Come on, love, I say! Madam! Sweetheart! Come on, bride! What, not a word? You're getting your money's worth of sleep now. Sleep for a week; because for tomorrow night, I promise you, Count Paris has made up his mind that you'll get very little rest. God forgive me! Yes indeed, amen. How deeply she's sleeping! I really do have to wake her. Madam, madam, madam! Yes, let the Count find you still in bed — he'll scare you awake, truly he will. Won't you get up? What, dressed, in your clothes, and lying down again? I have to wake you. Lady! Lady! Lady! Oh no, oh no! Help, help! My lady is dead! Oh, what a terrible day, that I was ever born. Bring some brandy, quick! My lord! My lady!

What noise is here?

What's this noise here?

O lamentable day!

Oh, what a day to be mourned!

What is the matter?

What's the matter?

Look, look! O heavy day!

Look, look! Oh, what a grievous day!

O me, O me! My child, my only life. Revive, look up, or I will die with thee. Help, help! Call help.

Oh no, oh no! My child, my only life! Come back to life, open your eyes, or I'll die with you. Help, help! Call for help!

For shame, bring Juliet forth, her lord is come.

For shame, bring Juliet out — her husband has arrived.

She’s dead, deceas’d, she’s dead; alack the day!

She's dead, she's passed away, she's dead! Alas for this day!

Alack the day, she’s dead, she’s dead, she’s dead!

Alas for this day, she's dead, she's dead, she's dead!

Ha! Let me see her. Out alas! She’s cold, Her blood is settled and her joints are stiff. Life and these lips have long been separated. Death lies on her like an untimely frost Upon the sweetest flower of all the field.

Ha! Let me see her. Oh, alas! She's cold. Her blood has stopped and settled, and her joints are stiff. Life and these lips parted long ago. Death lies on her like an early frost on the sweetest flower in the whole field.

O lamentable day!

Oh, what a day to be mourned!

O woful time!

Oh, what a sorrowful time!

Death, that hath ta’en her hence to make me wail, Ties up my tongue and will not let me speak.

Death, who has taken her away from here to make me weep, ties up my tongue and won't let me speak.

Come, is the bride ready to go to church?

Come, is the bride ready to go to church?

Ready to go, but never to return. O son, the night before thy wedding day Hath death lain with thy bride. There she lies, Flower as she was, deflowered by him. Death is my son-in-law, death is my heir; My daughter he hath wedded. I will die And leave him all; life, living, all is death’s.

Ready to go, but never to come back. Oh son, the night before your wedding day, death has slept with your bride. There she lies — a flower as she was, and deflowered by him. Death is my son-in-law, death is my heir; he has married my daughter. I will die and leave him everything; life, my possessions, everything belongs to death.

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

Have I longed so long to see the face of this morning, and does it show me a sight like this?

Accurs’d, unhappy, wretched, hateful day. Most miserable hour that e’er time saw In lasting labour of his pilgrimage. But one, poor one, one poor and loving child, But one thing to rejoice and solace in, And cruel death hath catch’d it from my sight.

Cursed, unlucky, wretched, hateful day! The most miserable hour that time has ever seen in the long toil of its journey. Only one, one poor girl, one poor and loving child, only one thing to take joy and comfort in, and cruel death has snatched her from my sight.

O woe! O woeful, woeful, woeful day. Most lamentable day, most woeful day That ever, ever, I did yet behold! O day, O day, O day, O hateful day. Never was seen so black a day as this. O woeful day, O woeful day.

Oh, grief! Oh, sorrowful, sorrowful, sorrowful day! The most pitiable day, the most sorrowful day that I have ever, ever seen yet! Oh day, oh day, oh day, oh hateful day! Never was a day seen as black as this one. Oh sorrowful day, oh sorrowful day!

Beguil’d, 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!

Cheated, divorced, wronged, spited, killed! Most detestable death, cheated by you, completely destroyed by cruel, cruel you! Oh love! Oh life! Not life, but love within death!

Despis’d, distressed, hated, martyr’d, kill’d. Uncomfortable time, why cam’st thou now To murder, murder our solemnity? O child! O child! My soul, and not my child, Dead art thou. Alack, my child is dead, And with my child my joys are buried.

Scorned, distressed, hated, martyred, killed! Comfortless time, why did you come now to murder, murder our celebration? Oh child! Oh child! My soul, and not my child — you are dead. Alas, my child is dead, and with my child my joys are buried.

Peace, ho, for shame. Confusion’s cure lives not In these confusions. Heaven and yourself Had part in this fair maid, now heaven hath all, And all the better is it for the maid. Your part in her you could not keep from death, But heaven keeps his part in eternal life. The most you sought was her promotion, For ’twas your heaven she should be advanc’d, And weep ye now, seeing she is advanc’d Above the clouds, as high as heaven itself? O, in this love, you love your child so ill That you run mad, seeing that she is well. She’s not well married that lives married long, But she’s best married that dies married young. Dry up your tears, and stick your rosemary On this fair corse, and, as the custom is, And in her best array bear her to church; For though fond nature bids us all lament, Yet nature’s tears are reason’s merriment.

Quiet now, for shame. The cure for this ruin isn't found in these outcries. Heaven and you both had a share in this lovely girl; now heaven has all of her, and it's all the better for the girl. You couldn't keep your part of her from death, but heaven keeps its part in eternal life. The most you wanted for her was her advancement, since it was heaven to you that she should rise in the world — and are you weeping now, when you see she has risen above the clouds, as high as heaven itself? Oh, with this kind of love you love your child so badly that you go mad when you see she is well. She isn't well married who lives long married, but she's best married who dies married young. Dry your tears, and lay your rosemary on this lovely corpse, and, as the custom is, carry her to church in her finest clothes. For although foolish feeling tells us all to grieve, nature's tears are something reason laughs at.

All things that we ordained festival Turn from their office to black funeral: Our instruments to melancholy bells, Our wedding cheer to a sad burial feast; Our solemn hymns to sullen dirges change; Our bridal flowers serve for a buried corse, And all things change them to the contrary.

Everything we arranged for a celebration turns from its purpose to a black funeral: our instruments become mournful bells, our wedding feast a sad burial meal, our solemn hymns change to gloomy funeral songs, our bridal flowers serve for a buried corpse, and everything turns into its opposite.

Sir, go you in, and, madam, go with him, And go, Sir Paris, everyone prepare To follow this fair corse unto her grave. The heavens do lower upon you for some ill; Move them no more by crossing their high will.

Sir, you go inside, and, madam, go with him, and go, Sir Paris. Everyone get ready to follow this lovely corpse to her grave. The heavens are frowning on you for some wrong you've done; don't provoke them further by opposing their high will.

Faith, we may put up our pipes and be gone.

Honestly, we may as well pack up our pipes and go.

Honest good fellows, ah, put up, put up, For well you know this is a pitiful case.

Good honest fellows, yes, pack up, pack up, because you know very well this is a pitiful case.

Ay, by my troth, the case may be amended.

Yes, honestly, the case could do with mending.

Musicians, O, musicians, ‘Heart’s ease,’ ‘Heart’s ease’, O, and you will have me live, play ‘Heart’s ease.’

Musicians, oh, musicians, play 'Heart's ease,' 'Heart's ease.' Oh, if you want me to stay alive, play 'Heart's ease.'

Why ‘Heart’s ease’?

Why 'Heart's ease'?

O musicians, because my heart itself plays ‘My heart is full’. O play me some merry dump to comfort me.

Oh musicians, because my own heart is playing 'My heart is full.' Oh, play me some cheerful lament to comfort me.

Not a dump we, ’tis no time to play now.

No laments from us; it's no time for playing now.

You will not then?

You won't, then?

No.

No.

I will then give it you soundly.

Then I'll give it to you thoroughly.

What will you give us?

What will you give us?

No money, on my faith, but the gleek! I will give you the minstrel.

No money, I swear, but mockery! I'll give you the name of minstrel.

Then will I give you the serving-creature.

Then I'll give you the name of serving-creature.

Then will I lay the serving-creature’s dagger on your pate. I will carry no crotchets. I’ll re you, I’ll fa you. Do you note me?

Then I'll lay the serving-creature's dagger across your skull. I'll put up with no whims. I'll re you, I'll fa you. Do you take note of me?

And you re us and fa us, you note us.

If you re us and fa us, you're the one making notes of us.

Pray you put up your dagger, and put out your wit.

Please put away your dagger, and bring out your wit.

Then have at you with my wit. I will dry-beat you with an iron wit, and put up my iron dagger. Answer me like men. ‘When griping griefs the heart doth wound, And doleful dumps the mind oppress, Then music with her silver sound’— Why ‘silver sound’? Why ‘music with her silver sound’? What say you, Simon Catling?

Then I'll attack you with my wit. I'll thrash you with an iron wit, and put away my iron dagger. Answer me like men. 'When gripping griefs wound the heart, and sorrowful laments weigh down the mind, then music with her silver sound—' Why 'silver sound'? Why 'music with her silver sound'? What do you say, Simon Catling?

Marry, sir, because silver hath a sweet sound.

Well, sir, because silver has a sweet sound.

Prates. What say you, Hugh Rebeck?

Nonsense. What do you say, Hugh Rebeck?

I say ‘silver sound’ because musicians sound for silver.

I say 'silver sound' because musicians play for silver.

Prates too! What say you, James Soundpost?

Nonsense too! What do you say, James Soundpost?

Faith, I know not what to say.

Honestly, I don't know what to say.

O, I cry you mercy, you are the singer. I will say for you. It is ‘music with her silver sound’ because musicians have no gold for sounding. ‘Then music with her silver sound With speedy help doth lend redress.’

Oh, I beg your pardon, you're the singer. I'll speak for you. It's 'music with her silver sound' because musicians never get gold for their playing. 'Then music with her silver sound brings quick help and relief.'

What a pestilent knave is this same!

What an infuriating rascal this fellow is!

Hang him, Jack. Come, we’ll in here, tarry for the mourners, and stay dinner.

To hell with him, Jack. Come on, we'll go in here, wait for the mourners, and stay for dinner.