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Test3

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Above the clouds, as high as heaven itself?
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;
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 an 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,
Our solemn hymns to sullen dirges change,
Our bridal flowers serve for a buried corse,
And all things change them to the contrary.
FRIAR LAURENCE:
Sir, go you in; and, madam, go with him;
And go, Sir Paris; every one prepare
To follow this fair corse unto her grave:
The heavens do lour upon you for some ill;
Move them no more by crossing their high will.
First Musician:
Faith, we may put up our pipes, and be gone.
Nurse:
Honest goodfellows, ah, put up, put up;
For, well you know, this is a pitiful case.
First Musician:
Ay, by my troth, the case may be amended.
PETER:
Musicians, O, musicians, 'Heart's ease, Heart's
ease:' O, an you will have me live, play 'Heart's ease.'
First Musician:
Why 'Heart's ease?'
PETER:
O, musicians, because my heart itself plays 'My
heart is full of woe:' O, play me some merry dump,
to comfort me.
First Musician:
Not a dump we; 'tis no time to play now.
PETER:
You will not, then?
First Musician:
No.
PETER:
I will then give it you soundly.
First Musician:
What will you give us?
PETER:
No money, on my faith, but the gleek;
I will give you the minstrel.
First Musician:
Then I will give you the serving-creature.
PETER:
Then will I lay the serving-creature's dagger on
your pate. I will carry no crotchets: I'll re you,
I'll fa you; do you note me?
First Musician:
An you re us and fa us, you note us.
Second Musician:
Pray you, put up your dagger, and put out your wit.
PETER:
Then have at you with my wit! I will dry-beat you
with an iron wit, and put up my iron dagger. Answer
me like men:
'When griping grief the heart doth wound,
And doleful dumps the mind oppress,
Then music with her silver sound'--
why 'silver sound'? why 'music with her silver
sound'? What say you, Simon Catling?
Musician:
Marry, sir, because silver hath a sweet sound.
PETER:
Pretty! What say you, Hugh Rebeck?
Second Musician:
I say 'silver sound,' because musicians sound for silver.