It did, it did. Unfortunately, it did.
O serpent heart hid with a flowering face! Did ever dragon keep so fair a cave? Beautiful tyrant! Fiend angelical! Dove-feathered raven, wolvish-ravening lamb! Despisèd substance of divinest show, Just opposite to what thou justly seem’st. A damnèd saint, an honorable villain! O nature, what hadst thou to do in hell When thou didst bower the spirit of a fiend In moral paradise of such sweet flesh? Was ever book containing such vile matter So fairly bound? Oh, that deceit should dwell In such a gorgeous palace!
Oh, he has a traitor’s heart hidden behind a pretty face! Did any dragon ever nest in such a pretty cave? He’s a beautiful tyrant! A fiendish angel! A raven hiding under the feathers of a dove! A lamb that kills like a wolf! A hateful reality hidden by a beautiful appearance. The exact opposite of what he seemed. He seemed like a saint, but should be damned! He’s a villain who seemed honorable! Oh nature, what were you doing in hell when you placed the soul of a devil in the paradise of such a perfect man? Has any book with such awful contents ever had a more beautiful cover? Oh, how could such betrayal hide in such a gorgeous body?
There’s no trust, No faith, no honesty in men. All perjured, All forsworn, all naught, all dissemblers. Ah, where’s my man?—Give me some aqua vitae.— These griefs, these woes, these sorrows make me old. Shame come to Romeo!
There is no trust, faith, or honesty in men. They all break their oaths. They’re all wicked. They all lie. Where’s my servant?—Get me some brandy—These griefs, these miseries, these sorrows make me old. Shame on Romeo!
Blistered be thy tongue For such a wish! He was not born to shame. Upon his brow shame is ashamed to sit, For ’tis a throne where honor may be crowned. Sole monarch of the universal earth, Oh, what a beast was I to chide at him!
May blisters cover your tongue for making a wish like that! Romeo was not born to have anything to do with shame. Shame could never be connected to him, because he is destined only to experience great and total honor. Oh, I was such a beast to condemn him.
Will you speak well of him that killed your cousin?
You’re going to speak well of the man who killed your cousin?
Shall I speak ill of him that is my husband? Ah, poor my lord, what tongue shall smooth thy name, When I, thy three hours’ wife, have mangled it? But wherefore, villain, didst thou kill my cousin? That villain cousin would have killed my husband. Back, foolish tears, back to your native spring. Your tributary drops belong to woe, Which you, mistaking, offer up to joy. My husband lives, that Tybalt would have slain, And Tybalt’s dead, that would have slain my husband. All this is comfort. Wherefore weep I then? Some word there was, worser than Tybalt’s death, That murdered me. I would forget it fain, But oh, it presses to my memory, Like damnèd guilty deeds to sinners’ minds. “Tybalt is dead, and Romeo banishèd.” That “banishèd,” that one word “banishèd” Hath slain ten thousand Tybalts. Tybalt’s death Was woe enough, if it had ended there. Or, if sour woe delights in fellowship And needly will be ranked with other griefs, Why followed not, when she said “Tybalt’s dead,” “Thy father” or “thy mother,” nay, or both, Which modern lamentations might have moved? But with a rearward following Tybalt’s death, “Romeo is banishèd.” To speak that word, Is father, mother, Tybalt, Romeo, Juliet, All slain, all dead. “Romeo is banishèd.” There is no end, no limit, measure, bound, In that word’s death. No words can that woe sound. Where is my father and my mother, Nurse?
Should I speak badly of my own husband? Ah, my poor husband, who will speak well of you when I, your wife of three hours, have been calling you such dreadful names? But why, you villain, did you kill my cousin? Because my villain of a cousin would have killed you, my husband. I refuse to cry. These tears which seem like sadness for Tybalt’s death are actually tears of joy that Romeo is still alive. My husband, whom Tybalt would have killed, is alive. And Tybalt, who wanted to kill my husband, is dead. This is good news. So why am I crying? Because there was news that’s even worse than that of Tybalt’s death. Worse news that kills me inside. I wish I could forget it, but it forces its way into my memory the way sins obsess guilty minds. “Tybalt is dead, and Romeo has been banished.” That word “banished,” that single word “banished,” is worse than the death of ten thousand Tybalts. Tybalt’s death would have been misery enough even if nothing else had happened. Or, if misery loves company, and one grief must necessarily follow another, then it would have been better had the Nurse, after telling me that Tybalt was dead, then told me that my mother or my father, or even both, were gone. That would have pushed me into normal feelings of grief. But to tell me that Tybalt’s is dead and then say, “Romeo has been banished.” To say that is the same as saying that my father, my mother, Tybalt, Romeo, and Juliet have all been killed, are all dead. “Romeo has been banished.” The death contained in those four words is infinite, unmeasurable. No words can express that misery. Where are my father and mother, Nurse?
Weeping and wailing over Tybalt’s corse. Will you go to them? I will bring you thither.