Philip Weller caricature
Philip and Weller hugging

Welcome to my web site, now under development for more than twenty years.   
-- Philip Weller, November 13, 1941 - February 1, 2021
Dr. Weller, an Eastern Washington University professor of English and Shakespearean scholar for more than 50 years.

Romeus and Juliet: Lines 2403-2472

  And when that Phoebus bright heaved up his seemly head,
And from the East in open skies his glist'ring rays dispread,
The nurse unshut the door, for she the key did keep,
And doubting she had slept too long, she thought to break her sleep;
First softly did she call, then louder thus did cry:
"Lady, you sleep too long; the earl will raise you by and by."
But, well away, in vain unto the deaf she calls,
She thinks to speak to Juliet, but speaketh to the walls.
If all the dreadful noise that might on earth be found,
Or on the roaring seas, or if the dreadful thunder's sound
Had blown into her ears, I think they could not make
The sleeping wight before the time by any means awake;
So were the sprites of life shut up, and senses thralled;
Wherewith the seely careful nurse was wondrously appalled.
She thought to daw her now as she had done of old,
But lo, she found her parts were stiff and more than marble cold;
Neither at mouth nor nose found she recourse of breath;
Two certain arguments were these of her untimely death.
Wherefore, as one distraught, she to her mother ran,
With scratchéd face, and hair betorn, but no word speak she can,
At last, with much ado, "Dead," quoth she, "is my child!"
"Now, out, alas!" the mother cried, and as a tiger wild,
Whose whelps, whilst she is gone out of her den to prey,
The hunter greedy of his game doth kill or carry away;
So raging forth she ran unto her Juliet's bed,
And there she found her darling and her only comfort dead.
  Then shrieked she out as loud as serve her would her breath,
And then, that pity was to hear, thus cried she out on Death:
"Ah cruel Death," quoth she, "that thus against all right,
Hast ended my felicity, and robbed my heart's delight,
Do now thy worst to me, once wreak thy wrath for all,
Even in despite I cry to thee, thy vengeance let thou fall.
Whereto stay I, alas, since Juliet is gone?
Whereto live I, since she is dead, except to wail and moan?
Alack, dear child, my tears for thee shall never cease;
Even as my days of life increase, so shall my plaint increase:
Such store of sorrow shall afflict my tender heart,
That deadly pangs, when they assail shall not augment my smart."
Then 'gan she so to sob, it seemed her heart would brast;
And while she crieth thus, behold, the father at the last,
The County Paris, and of gentlemen a rout,
And ladies of Verona town and country round about,
Both kindreds and allies thither apace have preast,
For by their presence there they sought to honour so the feast;
But when the heavy news the bidden guests did hear,
So much they mourned, that who had seen their count'nance and their cheer,
Might easily have judged by that that they had seen,
That day the day of wrath and eke of pity to have been.
But more than all the rest the father's heart was so
Smit with the heavy news, and so shut up with sudden woe,
That he ne had the power his daughter to be-weep,
Ne yet to speak, but long is forced his tears and plaint to keep.
In all the haste he hath for skilful leeches sent;
And, hearing of her passéd life, they judge with one assent
The cause of this her death was inward care and thought;
And then with double force again the doubled sorrows wrought.
If ever there hath been a lamentable day,
A day ruthful, unfortunate and fatal, then I say,
The same was it in which through Verone town was spread
The woeful news how Juliet was stervéd in her bed.
For so she was bemoaned both of the young and old,
That it might seem to him that would the common plaint behold,
That all the commonwealth did stand in jeopardy;
So universal was the plaint, so piteous was the cry.
For lo, beside her shape and native beauty's hue,
With which, like as she grew in age, her virtues' praises grew,
She was also so wise, so lowly, and so mild,
That even from the hoary head unto the witless child,
She wan the hearts of all, so that there was not one,
Ne great, ne small, but did that day her wretched state bemoan.