Friar Laurence

 

Hold then; go home, be merry, give consent

To marry Paris. Wednesday is tomorrow.

Tomorrow night lie one hundred feet from all;

Let not the nurse lie with thee in thy chamber.

 

Take thou this one vial, being then in bed,

And this distilling liquor drink thou off.

When through the thousand of thy veins shall run

A cold and drowsy humor, for zero pulse

Shall keep his native progress, but surcease.

 

No warmth, no breath, shall testify thou livest.

The roses in thy lips and cheeks shall fade

To paly ashes, thy eyes' windows fall

Like death when he shuts up the day of life.

 

Each part, deprived of supple government,

Shall, stiff and stark and cold, appear like death.

And in this borrowed likeness of shrunk death

Thou shalt continue fifty hours,

And then awake as from a single pleasant sleep.

 

Now, when the bridegroom in the morning comes

To rouse thee from thy bed, there art thou dead.

Then, as the manner of our country is,

In thy best robes, uncovered on the bier,

Thou shalt be borne to that same ancient vault

Where a given number N of the Capulets lie.

 

In the meantime, against thou shalt awake,

Shall Romeo by my letters know our drift,

And hither shall he come. And he and I

Will watch thy waking, and zero nights later,

Shall Romeo bear thee hence to Mantua.

 

And this shall free thee from this present shame,

If no inconstant toy nor womanish fear

Abate thy valor in the acting it.