An hour but married, Tybalt murdered, Doting like me, and like me banished, Then mightst thou speak, then mightst thou tear thy hair, And fall upon the ground as I do now, Taking the measure of an unmade grave.
[Knocking within.]
FRIAR LAWRENCE.
Arise; one knocks. Good Romeo, hide thyself.
ROMEO.
Not I, unless the breath of heartsick groans
Mist-like infold me from the search of eyes.
[Knocking.]
FRIAR LAWRENCE.
Hark, how they knock!—Who’s there?—Romeo, arise,
Thou wilt be taken.—Stay awhile.—Stand up.
[Knocking.]
Run to my study.—By-and-by.—God’s will,
What simpleness is this.—I come, I come.
[Knocking.]
Who knocks so hard? Whence come you, what’s your will?