Now, nurse, what news? What hast thou there? the cords That Romeo bid thee fetch?
_Nurse._ Ay, ay, the Cords. [_Throws them down._
_Juliet._ Ay me! what news? why dost thou wring thy hands?
_Nurse._ Ah, well-a-day! he's dead, he's dead, he's dead! We are undone, lady, we are undone! Alack the day! he's gone, he's kill'd, he's dead!
_Nurse._ Romeo can, 40 Though heaven cannot.--O Romeo, Romeo!-- Who ever would have thought it?--Romeo!
_Juliet._ What devil art thou, that dost torment me thus? This torture should be roar'd in dismal hell. Hath Romeo slain himself? say thou but ay, And that bare vowel I shall poison more Than the death-darting eye of cockatrice. I am not I, if there be such an I, Or those eyes shut that make thee answer ay. If he be slain, say ay; or if not, no. 50 Brief sounds determine of my weal or woe.
_Nurse._ I saw the wound, I saw it with mine eyes-- God save the mark!--here on his manly breast; A piteous corse, a bloody piteous corse, Pale, pale as ashes, all bedaub'd in blood, All in gore-blood; I swounded at the sight.
_Juliet._ O, break, my heart! poor bankrupt, break at once! To prison, eyes, ne'er look on liberty! Vile earth, to earth resign; end motion here, And thou and Romeo press one heavy bier! 60
_Nurse._ O Tybalt, Tybalt, the best friend I had! O courteous Tybalt! honest gentleman! That ever I should live to see thee dead!
_Juliet._ What storm is this that blows so contrary? Is Romeo slaughter'd, and is Tybalt dead? My dear-lov'd cousin, and my dearer lord? Then, dreadful trumpet, sound the general doom! For who is living if those two are gone?
_Nurse._ Tybalt is gone, and Romeo banished; Romeo that kill'd him, he is banished. 70
_Juliet._ O God! did Romeo's hand shed Tybalt's blood?
_Nurse._ It did, it did; alas the day, it did!
_Juliet._ O serpent heart, hid with a flowering face; Did ever dragon keep so fair a cave? Beautiful tyrant! fiend angelical! Dove-feather'd raven! wolvish-ravening lamb! Despised substance of divinest show! Just opposite to what thou justly seem'st, A damned saint, an honourable villain! O nature, what hadst thou to do in hell, 80 When thou didst bower the spirit of a fiend In mortal paradise of such sweet flesh? Was ever book containing such vile matter So fairly bound? O, that deceit should dwell In such a gorgeous palace!