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But if you did so much the blood of Capels thirst,

Why have you often sparéd mine -- mine might have quenched it first.

Since that so many times and in so secret place,

Where you were wont with veil of love to hide your hatred's face.

My doubtful life hath happed by fatal doom to stand

In mercy of your cruel heart, and of your bloody hand.

What? -- seemed the conquest which you got of me so small?

What? -- seemed it not enough that I, poor wretch, was made your thrall?

But that you must increase it with that kinsman's blood,

Which for his worth and love to me, most in my favour stood

Well, go henceforth elsewhere, and seek another while

Some other as unhappy as I, by fiattery to beguile.

And, where I come, see that you shun to show your face,

For your excuse within my heart shall find no resting place.

And I that now, too late, my former fault repent,

Will so the rest of weary life with many tears lament,

That soon my joiceless corpse shall yield up banished breath,

And where on earth it restless lived, in earth seek rest by death."

These said, her tender heart, by pain oppresséd sore,

Restrained her tears, and forced her tongue to keep her talk in store;

And then as still she was, as if in sownd she lay,

And then again, wroth with herself, with feeble voice 'gan say:

"Ah, cruel murthering tongue, murth'rer of others' fame,

How durst thou once attempt to touch the honour of his name?

Whose deadly foes do yield him due and earnéd praise;

For though his freedom be bereft, his honour not decays.

Why blam'st thou Romeus for slaying of Tybalt,

Since he is guiltless quite of all, and Tybalt bears the fault?

Whither shall he, alas, poor banished man, now fly?

What place of succour shall he seek beneath the starry sky?

Since she pursueth him, and him defames by wrong,

That in distress should be his fort, and only rampire strong.

Receive the recompense, O Romeus, of thy wife,

Who, for she was unkind herself, doth offer up her life,

In flames of ire, in sighs, in sorrow and in ruth,

So to revenge the crime she did commit against thy truth."

These said, she could no more; her senses all 'gan fail,

And deadly pangs began straightway her tender heart assail;

Her limbs she stretchéd forth, she drew no more her breath:

Who had been there might well have seen the signs of present death.

The nurse that knew no cause why she absented her,

Did doubt lest that some sudden grief too much tormented her.

Each where but where she was the careful beldam sought;

Last, of the chamber where she lay she haply her bethought;

Where she with piteous eye her nurse-child did behold,

Her limbs stretched out, her outward parts as any marble cold.

The nurse supposed that she had paid to death her debt,

And then, as she had lost her wits, she cried to Juliet:

"Ah, my dear heart," quoth she, "how grieveth me thy death!

Alas, what cause hast thou thus soon to yield up living breath?"

But while she handled her, and chaféd every part,

She knew there was some spark of life by beating of her heart,

So that a thousand times she called upon her name;

There is no way to help a trance but she hath tried the same:

She openeth wide her mouth, she stoppeth close her nose,

She bendeth down her breast, she wrings her fingers and her toes,

And on her bosom cold she layeth clothés hot;

A warméd and a wholesome juice she poureth down her throat.

At length doth Juliet heave faintly up her eyes,

And then she stretcheth forth her arm, and then her nurse she spies.

But when she was awaked from her unkindly trance,

"Why dost thou trouble me," quoth she, "what drave thee, with mischance,

To come to see my sprite forsake my breathless corse?

Go hence, and let me die, if thou have on my smart remorse.

For who would see her friend to live in deadly pain?

Alas, I see my grief begun for ever will remain.

Or who would seek to live, all pleasure being past?

My mirth is done, my mourning moan for aye is like to last.

Wherefore since that there is none other remedy,