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116 ROMEO AND JULIET. 

clnld ! child ! my soul, and not my child ! 
Dead art thou ! Alack ! my child is dead ; 
And with my child my joys are buried. 

Friar Laurence. Peace, ho ! for shame ! confusion's cure 
lives not 
In these confusions. Heaven and yourself 
Had part in this fair maid ; now heaven liath all, 
And all the better is it for the maid : 
Your part in her you could not keep from death. 
But heaven keeps his part in eternal life. 
The most you sought was her promotion. 
For 'twas your heaven she should be advanc'd ; 
And weep ye now, seeing she is advanc'd 
Above the clouds, as high as heaven itself ? 
0, in this love, you love your child so ill. 
That 3^ou run mad, seeing that she is well ; 
She's not well married that lives married long, 
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. 
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. 

Capulet. All things that we ordained festival, 
Turn from their office to black funeral : 
Our instruments to melancholy bells, 
Our wedding cheer to a sad burial feast,