Come, night, with your darkness, so that Romeo can come to me without anyone knowing and leap into my arms. In the dark, lovers can still see enough, by the light of their own beauty, to make love. Or, if love is blind, then it is best suited to the night.
Come, night, you widow dressed in black, and teach me how to win my love so that we both can lose our virginities.
The nurse enters carrying the rope ladder.
Now, Nurse, what’s your news? What is that you have there? The rope ladder Romeo told you to get?
Oh, here comes my Nurse, bringing news. Every voice that speaks Romeo’s name speaks with heavenly beauty.
Oh no, what’s your news? Why are you wringing your hands?
I saw the wound. I saw it with my own eyes. God bless that wound—here on his manly chest. A pitiful corpse, a bloody, pitiful corpse. Pale, pale as ashes and covered in blood. Gory with blood. I fainted at the sight of it.
What kind of a devil are you to torment me in this way? This sort of torture is fit only for hell. Has Romeo killed himself? Say “yes” and that single word will poison me more terribly than could even the deadly gaze of the cockatrice. I will cease to be myself if you say that Romeo killed himself. If he’s dead, say “yes.” If not, say “no.” Those little words will determine my joy or pain.
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