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.

Sir, go you in; and, madam, go with him; And go, Sir Paris; everyone 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. Exeunt Capulet , Lady Capulet , Paris , and Friar Laurence .