Your tributary drops belong to woe,

Which you, mistaking, offer up to joy.

My husband lives, that Tybalt would have slain;

And Tybalt’s dead, that would have slain my husband.

All this is comfort. Wherefore weep I then?

Some word there was, worser than Tybalt’s death,

That murdered me. I would forget it fain,

But O, it presses to my memory

Like damned guilty deeds to sinners’ minds!

‘Tybalt is dead, and Romeo banished.’

That ‘banishèd’, that one word ‘banishèd’

Hath slain ten thousand Tybalts. Tybalt’s death

Was woe enough, if it had ended there;

Or, if sour woe delights in fellowship

And needly will be ranked with other griefs,

Why followed not, when she said ‘Tybalt’s dead’,

‘Thy father’, or ‘thy mother’, nay, or both,

Which modern lamentation might have moved?

But with a rearward following Tybalt’s death,

‘Romeo is banishèd‘-to speak that word

Is father, mother, Tybalt, Romeo, Juliet,

All slain, all dead. ‘Romeo is banishèd’—

There is no end, no limit, measure, bound,

In that word’s death. No words can that woe sound.

Where is my father and my mother, Nurse?

NURSE

Weeping and wailing over Tybalt’s corpse.

Will you go to them? I will bring you thither.

JULIET

Wash they his wounds with tears; mine shall be spent

When theirs are dry, for Romeo’s banishment.

Take up those cords. Poor ropes, you are beguiled,

Both you and I, for Romeo is exiled.

He made you for a highway to my bed,

But I, a maid, die maiden-widowed.

Come, cords; come, Nurse; I’ll to my wedding bed,

And death, not Romeo, take my maidenhead!

NURSE (taking up the cords)

Hie to your chamber. I’ll find Romeo

To comfort you. I wot well where he is.

Hark ye, your Romeo will be here at night.

I’ll to him. He is hid at Laurence’ cell.

JULIET (giving her a ring)

O, find him! Give this ring to my true knight,

And bid him come to take his last farewell.

Exeunt ⌈severally⌉

3.3 Enter Friar Laurence

FRIAR LAURENCE

Romeo, come forth, come forth, thou fear-full man.

Affliction is enamoured of thy parts,

And thou art wedded to calamity.

Enter Romeo

ROMEO

Father, what news? What is the Prince’s doom?

What sorrow craves acquaintance at my hand

That I yet know not?

FRIAR LAURENCE Too familiar

Is my dear son with such sour company.

I bring thee tidings of the Prince’s doom.

ROMEO

What less than doomsday is the Prince’s doom?

FRIAR LAURENCE

A gentler judgement vanished from his lips:

Not body’s death, but body’s banishment.

ROMEO

Ha, banishment? Be merciful, say ‘death’,

For exile hath more terror in his look,

Much more than death. Do not say ‘banishment’.

FRIAR LAURENCE

Hence from Verona art thou banished.

Be patient, for the world is broad and wide.

ROMEO

There is no world without Verona walls

But purgatory, torture, hell itself.

Hence banished is banished from the world,

And world’s exile is death. Then ‘banishèd’

Is death mistermed. Calling death ‘banishèd’

Thou cutt‘st my head off with a golden axe,

And smil’st upon the stroke that murders me.

FRIAR LAURENCE

O deadly sin, O rude unthankfulness!

Thy fault our law calls death, but the kind Prince,

Taking thy part, hath rushed aside the law

And turned that black word ’death’ to banishment.

This is dear mercy, and thou seest it not.

ROMEO

‘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.

Flies may do this, but I from this must fly.

They are free men, but I am banished.

And sayst thou yet that exile is not death?

Hadst thou no poison mixed, no sharp-ground knife,

No sudden mean of death, though ne’er so mean,

But ‘banishèd’ to kill me—‘banishèd’?

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 professed,

To mangle me with that word ‘banishèd’?

FRIAR LAURENCE

Thou fond mad man, hear me a little speak.

ROMEO

O, thou wilt speak again of banishment.

FRIAR LAURENCE

I’ll give thee armour to keep off that word—

Adversity’s sweet milk, philosophy,

To comfort thee though thou art banished.

ROMEO

Yet ‘banishèd’? Hang up philosophy!