There Art Thou Happy

Friar Laurence: Hold thy desperate hand:
Art thou a man? Thy form cries out thou art:
Thy tears are womanish, thy wild acts denote
The unreasonable fury of a beast.
Unseemly woman in a seeming man,
And ill-beseeming beast in seeming both,
Thou hast amaz'd me. By my holy order,
I thought thy disposition better temper'd.
Hast thou slain Tybalt? Wilt thou slay thyself?
And slay thy lady, that in thy life lives,
By doing damned hate upon thyself?

What rouse thee man, thy Juliet is alive,
For whose dear sake thou wast but lately dead.
There art thou happy: Tybalt would kill thee,
But thou slew'st Tybalt: there are thou happy.
The law that threaten'd death becomes thy friend,
And turns it to exile, there art thou happy.
A pack of blessings light upon thy back,
Happiness courts thee in her best array,
But like a misbehav'd and sullen wench,
Thou puttest up thy fortune and thy love:
Take heed, take heed, for such die miserable.
Go get thee to thy love as was decreed,
Ascend her chamber, hence and comfort her: