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 lie-abed! Come on, love, I say! Madam! Sweetheart! Come on, bride! What, not a word? You're taking your money's worth of sleep now. Sleep for a week; because tomorrow night, I promise you, Count Paris has made up his mind that you'll get very little rest. God forgive me! Yes indeed, and amen. How soundly she's sleeping! I really do have to wake her. Madam, madam, madam! Yes, let the Count find you still in bed; he'll startle you out of it, honestly. Isn't she going to stir? 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's dead! Oh, what a dreadful day that I was ever born. Some brandy, quick! My lord! My lady!

What noise is here?

What's all this noise?

O lamentable day!

Oh, what a day to weep over!

What is the matter?

What's wrong?

Look, look! O heavy day!

Look, look! Oh, what a sorrowful 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 reason for living. 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.

This is disgraceful — bring Juliet out, her husband is here.

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

She's dead, she's gone, she's dead; what a terrible day!

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

What a terrible 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.

What! Let me see her. Oh no! She's cold, her blood has stopped and her joints are stiff. Life and these lips have been parted a long time. Death lies on her like a frost that comes too early on the sweetest flower in the whole field.

O lamentable day!

Oh, what a day to weep over!

O woful time!

Oh, what a time of sorrow!

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

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

Come, is the bride ready to go to church?

Come now, 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 he has taken her flower. Death is my son-in-law, death is my heir; he has married my daughter. I will die and leave him everything; life, property, 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 waited 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, miserable, hateful day. The most wretched hour that time ever saw in the endless toil of its long journey. Only one, one poor one, one poor and loving child, only one thing to take joy and comfort in, and cruel death has snatched it 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, what grief! Oh, sorrowful, sorrowful, sorrowful day. The most pitiful day, the most sorrowful day that I have ever, ever seen! Oh day, oh day, oh day, oh hateful day. There was never a day 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, treated with spite, killed. Most hateful death, cheated by you, completely destroyed by cruel, cruel you. Oh love! Oh life! Not life, but love inside 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, tormented, hated, made a martyr, killed. Miserable moment, why did you come now to murder, murder our celebration? Oh child! Oh child! My very soul, not just my child — you are dead. Oh no, my child is dead, and my joys are buried with my child.

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, shame on you. The cure for this disaster isn't found in this wild grief. Heaven and you yourselves each 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 share of her from death, but heaven keeps its share in eternal life. The most you hoped for was her advancement, since it would have been heaven to you for her to rise in the world — and are you crying now, when you see that she has risen above the clouds, as high as heaven itself? Oh, in loving her this way you love your child so badly that you go mad when you see that she is well. The woman who lives long married isn't well married; the woman who dies married and young is best married. Dry your tears, and pin your rosemary on this lovely body, and, as the custom is, carry her to church in her finest clothes. For though foolish human feeling makes us all weep, our natural 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 musical instruments become mournful bells, our wedding party a grim burial feast; our joyful hymns change to gloomy funeral songs; our bridal flowers serve for a buried body, 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 you go too, Sir Paris; let everyone get ready to follow this lovely body to her grave. The heavens are frowning on you for some wrong you've done; don't provoke them any further by going against their high will.

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

Honestly, we might as well pack up our instruments 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 as you know this is a pitiful business.

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, 'Heart's ease,' 'Heart's ease'! Oh, if you want me to go on living, 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 sad tune to comfort me.

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

No sad tunes from us; this is no time to be playing.

You will not then?

You won't, then?

No.

No.

I will then give it you soundly.

Then I'll give it to you good and hard.

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 call you a beggarly fiddler.

Then will I give you the serving-creature.

Then I'll call you a household servant.

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 household servant's dagger across your skull. I won't put up with any quarter notes of nonsense. I'll re you, I'll fa you. Do you take my note?

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

If you re us and fa us, you're the one making a note 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 here I come at you with my wit. I'll beat you black and blue with an iron wit, and put away my iron dagger. Answer me like men. 'When gripping griefs wound the heart, and sorrowful gloom weighs 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 answer for you. It's 'music with her silver sound' because musicians never get gold for their playing. 'Then music with her silver sound quickly brings relief and help.'

What a pestilent knave is this same!

What an unbearable 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 inside here, wait for the mourners, and stay for the meal.