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Take heed, take heed, for such die miserable. A pack of blessings light upon thy back, Happiness courts thee in her best array, But, like a misbehaved and sullen wench, Thou pout’st upon thy fortune and thy love. The law that threatened death becomes thy friend And turns it to exile-there art thou happy. Tybalt would kill thee, But thou slew’st Tybalt-there art thou happy. What, rouse thee, man! Thy Juliet is alive, For whose dear sake thou wast but lately dead- There art thou happy. Thy noble shape is but a form of wax, Digressing from the valor of a man Thy dear love sworn but hollow perjury, Killing that love which thou hast vowed to cherish Thy wit, that ornament to shape and love, Misshapen in the conduct of them both, Like powder in a skill-less soldier’s flask, Is set afire by thine own ignorance And thou dismembered with thine own defence. Hast thou slain Tybalt? Wilt thou slay thyself, And slay thy lady that in thy life lives By doing damnèd hate upon thyself? Why rail’st thou on thy birth, the heaven, and earth? Since birth and heaven and earth, all three do meet In thee at once, which thou at once wouldst lose? Fie, fie, thou shamest thy shape, thy love, thy wit, Which, like a usurer, abound’st in all And usest none in that true use indeed Which should bedeck thy shape, thy love, thy wit. By my holy order, I thought thy disposition better tempered. Unseemly woman in a seeming man, And ill-beseeming beast in seeming both! Thou hast amazed me. Thy wild acts denote The unreasonable fury of a beast.

Art thou a man? Thy form cries out thou art. How, as a priest, confessor, and my friend, can you have the heart to say to me the word “banished?” Do you still argue that exile isn’t death? You didn’t have some poison, a sharpened knife, or some other weapon that you could have used to kill me quickly, nothing so disgraceful, other than banishment? Oh Friar, damned souls use the word “banishment” to describe hell. Flies can kiss her, but I must fly from the city. But Romeo can’t touch her hand or kiss her. They can touch Juliet’s white hand and can steal kisses from her sweet lips, which-though she is a pure virgin-blush when they touch each other because they think it’s a sin. Carrion-eating flies will have more vitality, a more blessed existence, and more romance than I will. Every cat and dog and little mouse, every unworthy creature, that lives in Verona lives in heaven because it can see her. Heaven is in Verona because this is where Juliet lives.

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