O! in this love, you love your child so ill,
That you run mad, seeing that she is well:
She's not well married that lives married long; 76
But she's best married that dies married young.
Dry up your tears, and stick your rosemary
On this fair corse; and, as the custom is, 80
In all her best array bear her to church;
For though fond nature bids us all lament,
Yet nature's tears are reason's merriment.
Cap. All things that we ordained festival, 84
Turn from their office to black funeral;
Our instruments to melancholy bells,
Our wedding cheer to a sad burial feast,
Our solemn hymns to sullen dirges change, 88
Our bridal flowers serve for a buried corse,
And all things change them to the contrary.
Fri. L. Sir, go you in; and, madam, go with him;
And go, Sir Paris; every one prepare 92
To follow this fair corse unto her grave.
The heavens do lower upon you for some ill;
Move them no more by crossing their high will.
They all but the Nurse [and the Musicians] go forth, casting rosemary on her and shutting the curtains.
First Mus. Faith, we may put up our pipes,
and be gone. 97
Nurse. Honest good fellows, ah! put up, put
up, for, well you know, this is a pitiful case.
First Mus. Ay, by my troth, the case may be
amended. 101
79 rosemary; cf. n.
83 Cf. n.
85 office: function
101 amended: bettered
