The Tragedie of Romeo and Juliet
Page: 35

Towards Phoebus lodging, such a Wagoner
As Phaeton would whip you to the west,
And bring in Cloudie night immediately.
Spred thy close Curtaine Loue-performing night,
That run-awayes eyes may wincke, and Romeo
Leape to these armes, vntalkt of and vnseene,
Louers can see to doe their Amorous rights,
And by their owne Beauties: or if Loue be blind,
It best agrees with night: come ciuill night,
Thou sober suted Matron all in blacke,
And learne me how to loose a winning match,
Plaid for a paire of stainlesse Maidenhoods,
Hood my vnman'd blood bayting in my Cheekes,
With thy Blacke mantle, till strange Loue grow bold,
Thinke true Loue acted simple modestie:
Come night, come Romeo, come thou day in night,
For thou wilt lie vpon the wings of night
Whiter then new Snow vpon a Rauens backe:
Come gentle night, come louing blackebrow'd night.
Giue me my Romeo, and when I shall die,
Take him and cut him out in little starres,
And he will make the Face of heauen so fine,
That all the world will be in Loue with night,
And pay no worship to the Garish Sun.
O I haue bought the Mansion of a Loue,
But not possest it, and though I am sold,
Not yet enioy'd, so tedious is this day,
As is the night before some Festiuall,
To an impatient child that hath new robes
And may not weare them, O here comes my Nurse:
Enter Nurse with cords.

And she brings newes and euery tongue that speaks
But Romeos name, speakes heauenly eloquence:
Now Nurse, what newes? what hast thou there?
The Cords that Romeo bid thee fetch?
Nur. I, I, the Cords

Iuli. Ay me, what newes?
Why dost thou wring thy hands

Nur. A weladay, hee's dead, hee's dead,
We are vndone Lady, we are vndone.
Alacke the day, hee's gone, hee's kil'd, he's dead

Iul. Can heauen be so enuious?
Nur. Romeo can,
Though heauen cannot. O Romeo, Romeo.
Who euer would haue thought it Romeo

Iuli. What diuell art thou,
That dost torment me thus?
This torture should be roar'd in dismall hell,
Hath Romeo slaine himselfe? say thou but I,
And that bare vowell I shall poyson more
Then the death-darting eye of Cockatrice,
I am not I, if there be such an I.