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Lifts me above the ground with cheerful thoughts.
I dreamt, my lady came and found me dead,
And breath'd such life, with kisses, on my lips,
That I reviv'd, and was an emperor.
Ah me, how sweet is love itself possessid,
When but love's shadows are so rich in joy?

Enter BALTHASAR.
News from Verona.—How now, Balthasar,
Dost thou not bring me letters from the Friar?
How doth my lady? Is my father well ?
How doth my Juliet? that I ask again,
For nothing can be ill, if she be well.

Bal. Then she is well, and nothing can be ill;
Her body sleeps in Capulet's monument,
And her immortal part with angels lives.
I saw her carried to her kindred's vault,
And presently took post to tell it you.
0, pardon me, for bringing these ill news.
Rom. Is it even so ? then I defy you, stars-
Bal. My lord !
Rom. Thou know'st my lodging; get me ink and

paper,
And hire post-horses, I will hence to-night-

Bal. Pardon me, sir, I dare not leave you thus;
You look so pale and wild, and do import
Some misadventure.

Rom. Go, thou art deceived :
Leave me, and do the thing I bid thee do-
Hast thou no letters to me from the Friar?

Bal. No, good my lord.
Rom. No matter Get thee

gone,
And hire those horses; I'll be with thee straight.

[Exit BALTHASAR. Well, Juliet, I will lie with thee to-night;-Let's see for means -0, mischief, thou art swift To enter in the thoughts of desperate men! I do remember an Apothecary,

And hereabouts he dwells, whom late I noted
In tatter'd weeds, with overwhelming brows,
Culling of simples :-

:-meagre were his looks;
Sharp misery had worn him to the bones ;
And, in his needy shop, a tortoise hung,
An alligator, stuff'd, and other skins
Of ill-shap'd fishes; and, about his shelves,
A beggarly account of empty boxes ;
Green earthen pots, bladders, and musty seeds;
Remnants of packthread, and old cakes of roses,
Were thinly scatter'd, to make up a show.
Noting his penury, to myself I said,
An' if a man did need a poison now,
Here lives a caitiff wretch, would sell it him.
Oh, this same thought, did but forerun my need ;-
As I remember, this should be the house.
Being holyday, the beggar's shop is shut.
What, ho, Apothecary!

Enter APOTHECARY.
Apo. Who calls so loud ?

Rom. Come hither, man-I see, that thou art poor; Hold, there are forty ducais ; let me have A dram of poison; such soon-speeding geer, As will disperse itself through all the veins, That the life-weary taker may soon die.

Apo. Such mortal drugs I have, but Mantua's law Is death to any he, that utters them.

Rom. Art thou so bare, and full of wretchedness,
And fear'st to die? Famine is in thy cheeks;
Need and oppression stare within thine eyes;
Upon thy back hangs ragged misery.
The world is not thy friend, nor the world's law;
The world affords no law to make thee rich:
Then, be not poor, but break it, and take this.

Apo. My poverty, but not my will, consents.
Rom. I pay thy poverty, and not thy' will.

[Exit. Enter APOTHECARY. Apo. Put this in any liquid thing you will, And drink it off, and, if you had the strength Of twenty men, it would despatch you straight. Rom. There is thy gold; worse poison to men's

souls, Doing more murders in this loathsome world, Than these poor compounds, that thou may'st not

sell. I sell thee poison, thou hast sold me none. Farewell, buy food, and get thee into flesh. Come, cordial, and not poison, go with me To Juliet's grave, for there must I use thee. [Exeunt.

SCENE III.

The Monastery at Verona.

Enter FRIAR John.
John. Holy Franciscan Friar ! brother ! ho !

Enter FRIAR LAWRENCE.
Law. This same should be the voice of Friar John.
Welcome from Mantua ;-what says Romeo ?
Or, if his mind be writ, give me his letter.

John. Going to find a barefoot brother out,
One of our order, to associate me,
Here in this city, visiting the sick,
And, finding him, the searchers of the town,
Suspecting that we were both in a house
Where the infectious pestilence did reign
Seald

up

the doors, and would not let us forth, So that my speed to Mantua there was staid,

Law. Who bure my letter then to Romeo ?

John. I could not send it; here it is again ;
Nor get a messenger to bring it thee,
So fearful were they of infection.

Law. Unhappy fortune!--By my brotherhood,
The letter was not nice, but full of charge,
Of dear import, and the neglecting it
May do much danger.-Friar John, go hence,
Get mean iron crow, and bring it straight
Unto my cell.
John. Brother, I'll go, and bring it thee.

[Exit.
Law. Now must I to the monument alone :
Within these three hours will fair Juliet wake;
She will beshrew me much, that Romeo
Hath had no notice of these accidents :
But I will write again to Mantua,
And keep her at my cell till Romeo come.
Poor living corse, clos'd in a dead man's tomb.

[Erit.

SCENE IV.

A Churchyard--In it a Monument belonging to the

CAPULETS.

Enter Paris, and his Page with a Light. Par. Give me thy torch, boy: hence, and stand

aloof,
Yet
put

it
out,

for I would not be seen ;
Under yon yew-tree lay thee all along,
Placing thy ear close to the hollow ground,
So shall no foot upon the churchyard tread,
(Being loose, unfirm, with digging up of graves)
But thou shalt hear it: whistle then to me,
As signal that thou hearst something approach.
Give me those flow'rs. Do as I bid thee; go.

Page. I am almost afraid to stand alone,
Here in the churchyard, yet I will adventure.
Par. Sweet flow'r ! with flow'rs thy bridal bed I
strew ;

[Strewing Flowers.

Fair Juliet, that with angels dost remain,
Accept this latest favour at my, hand,
That living honour'd thee, and, being dead,
With funeral obsequies adorn thy tomb.

[The Boy whistles. — The boy gives warning, something doth approach, What cursed foot wanders this way to-night, To cross my obsequies, and true love's right? What ! with a torch ! muffle me, night, a while.

[PARIS retires.
Enter Romeo, and BALTHASAR with a Light.
Rom. Give me the wrenching iron.
Hold, take this letter, early in the morning
See thou deliver it to my lord and father.
Put out the torch, and, on thy life, I charge thee,
Whate'er thou hear’st or seest, stand all aloof,
And do not interrupt me in my course.
Why I descend into this bed of death,
Is, partly, to behold my lady's face:
But, chiefly, to take thence, from her dead finger,
A precious ring, a ring that I must use
In dear employment; therefore hence, be gone :
But if thou, jealous, dost return to pry
In what I further shall intend to do,
By Heaven, I will tear thee joint by joint,
And strew this hungry churchyard with thy limbs.
The time and my intents are savage, wild,
More fierce and more inexorabie far
Than empty tigers, or the roaring sea.

Bal. I will be gone, sir, and not trouble you.
Rom. So shalt thou win my favour. Take thou

that;
Live and be prosp'rous, and farewell, good fellow.

Bal. For all this same, I'll hide me near this place: His looks I fear, and his intents I doubt. [Exit.

Rom. Thou maw detestable, thou womb of death, Gorg’d with the dearest morsel of the earth ;

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