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Nót in Veróna only, but the world,
And kicks against the chosen of her parents,
The County Paris, will have none but Romeo,
And Romeo must and will have; dutiful child!
And for fourteen of most miraculous wisdom!
And nothing headstrong! only will be married
Off hand to the acquaintance of five minutes,
The enemy of her house, the pledged to another;
Módest withal and chaste! though a proficient
In filthy language, and right roundly rating,
Éven on her wedding day, the slow approach
Of closely curtained, “love-performing” night.

But sour is still near sweet, and rain near sunshine,
Sórrow near pleasure, near the rose a thorn,
And out of this same merry masking comes
Not love alone but fierce and deadly quarrel:
Týbalt, the fair one's cousin, spies behind
The réveller's mask not Cupid's laughing eyes
Bút the curled moústache of a Montague,
And, taking fire, comes to a brawling match
And rapier thrusts with devil-may-care Mercutio,
And makes short work of him, and in requital
Ís himself made short work of by hot Romeo,
Who forthwith must to banishment in Mantua,
Fár from Veróna, far from love and Juliet.

Meantime the parents, ignorant that their child
Is theirs no longer, and that among Christ's
Osténsible ministers there has one been found
To affix Christ's signet to the stolen compact,
Préss upon Romeo's wedded wife Count Paris,
And fix tomorrow for the wedding day;
Miss pouts, and hangs her head: is quite too young,
Too innocent, too tender yet for marriage,
And will not till she 's forced; would rather die,
Take poison, stab herself, do anything
A high souled girl of fourteen dare to do
The truth to hide and the first crime to double.

Is there no help, no help in the wide world
For maid so hardly used for wedded wife?
Aye to be sure there is, while there 's a priest;
That same friar Laurence knows an herb of power
To impárt for two days death's cold, pallid semblance
Trackless upon the third day disappearing
Before returning health and bloom and vigor.
This herb drinks Juliet, and the wretched parents
And County Paris on his wedding day
Greét not a bride and daughter but a corpse,
Which the next night with tears and sad array
They lay in the tomb of all the Capulets.
The next night after, with sweet smelling flowers
To deck his bride's untimely grave, comes Paris
And there falls foul of - whom? the ghost of Tybalt ?
Nó, but the bánished Montague that made
Týbalt a ghost the banished Romeo prowling
At midnight round the tomb of Capulet
And dráws upon his enemy and falls
And dying begs a grave beside his bride.
Now if thou 'dst know what business in Verona,
What business at the tomb of Capulet,
Had Romeo, when he should have been a-bed
And snug asleep in banishment at Mantua,
Please ask friar Laurence didn't hé send for him
To come and from her temporary tomb,
Her parents and Verona and Count Paris,
Bear in his arms away his wedded wife.

“Aye, that I did," the holy friar will answer,
“And had agreed with wrenching iron there
Myself to meet him, and a second time
Consign the Capulet's child to the Montague.”
And true the answer of the holy friar,
But not comes Romeo therefore, not to snatch
A living Capulet out of Capulet's tomb,
But to entomb there a dead Montague,
Námely himself; for which be these two reasons:
First the miscarriage of the friar's true message,
To come post haste to unbury living Juliet;
And next the carriage by eye-witnesses
Óf the friar's lie, that on her wedding night
Juliet was laid a stiffened corpse beside
Her cousin Tybalt in the Capulets' tomb.
Therefore comes Romeo, for in the name of love
And sober sense, and piety toward heaven,
And fortitude and magnanimity
And common prudence, how could Romeo live,
Júliet being dead, his five minútes' acquaintance,
And, counting-in the two days she is dead,
Now nearly three whole days his wedded wife?
How could he live? and if he killed himself
In Mantua there, how was the world to know
'Twas all for Juliet's love he killed himself?
So Romeo, being in earnest, buys real poison,
And being in haste moreover, hires post horses,
And that same night, first having as we have seen
Despatched poor Paris, dies Felo de se
And kisses with his dying lips dead Juliet,
Whó, the next instant opening such bright eyes
As make the whole tomb look like a lighthouse lantern,
And seeing, upon one side, her dead husband,
And on the other, her dead bridegroom lying,

And not far off her cousin dead and rotting,
Thínks 'twere not far amiss she too should die
Were 't but for the sake of such good company,
And being besides in so convenient place,
And draws out of the sheath her husband's dagger
And sheathes it in her bosom, there to rust,
And dies outright. The watch seize friar Laurence
And let him go again; and there 's an end;
And more 's the pity, seeing there was never
Of perfect truelove a more perfect model,
Never a story of more pleasant woe
Than this of Juliet and her Romeo.



Fár in a désert island in the midst
Of the Méditerránean lived, long years ago,
A wrinkled, withered hag, called Sycorax,
With Caliban her son, an uncouth savage
And worshipper, like her, of Setebos,
Whoever Setebos was. The old witch died
And Caliban reigned alone in the desert island,
When one day in a leaky boat arrived,
With his books of magic and his infant daughter,
Milan’s Duke, Próspero, expelled his duchy
By his usurping brother, Antonio,
And turned adrift; black day for Caliban,
Whó, as a matter of course, is robbed of all,
And civilized, and taught a new religion,
And made to fetch and carry for a master

And for his master's daughter, sweet Miranda,
Now growing to a woman, and at last
A woman grown, who of no other men
Knows in the world but Caliban and her father,
Though I'll not swear she has never heard of spirits,
Her father being a sorcerer, and dealing liv und
Lárgely with creatures of that Natural Order, W
Dárkening the sun by their means, raising storms,
And doing with equal ease all possible things in
And all impossible. Especially the iss Du
One Ariel was his favorite, a blythe spirito sa
Whom, when he came to the island first, he found
Pégged in a clóven pine "A spirit pegged!":
Aģe, to be sure, for Sycorax was a witch, krim!
And witches can as easily peg spiritsist fort
Into cloven pínes, as tapsters can peg spiles !
Ínto beer barrels and there the spirit was howling,
And writhing to get out, now twelve whole winters,
When Prospero came, and, the dead witch defying,
Widened the pine-tree rift and let him out.
Another twelve years and we find the spirit
On board the king of Naples' ship in the offing,
Frightening the king of Naples and his friend
And protégé, the usurping Duke Antonio,
Now playing Jack o' lantern on the mast,
Now running up and down the shrouds like wildfire,
Now firing squibs and crackers in the cabin,
But in the long run quite goodnaturedly
Sáving them all from foundering in the tempest:
He had brought upon them by his master's orders,
And sound and dry into his master's hand
Delivering both the usurper and the king,
And the king's drunken jester, drunken butler,
And handsome son; of whom Miranda chooses,

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