Mantua. A Street. |
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Enter ROMEO. |
Rom. If I may trust the flattering truth of sleep, |
My dreams presage some joyful news at hand: |
My bosom's lord sits lightly in his throne; |
And all this day an unaccustom'd spirit |
Lifts me above the ground with cheerful thoughts. |
I dreamt my lady came and found me dead;— |
Strange dream, that gives a dead man leave to think,— |
And breath'd such life with kisses in my lips, |
That I reviv'd, and was an emperor. |
Ah me! how sweet is love itself possess'd, |
When but love's shadows are so rich in joy! |
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Enter BALTHASAR, booted. |
News from Verona! How now, Balthasar? |
Dost thou not bring me letters from the friar? |
How doth my lady? Is my father well? |
How fares 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 Capel's monument, |
And her immortal part with angels lives. |
I saw her laid low in her kindred's vault, |
And presently took post to tell it you. |
O! pardon me for bringing these ill news, |
Since you did leave it for my office, sir. |
Rom. Is it even so? then I defy you, stars! |
Thou know'st my lodging: get me ink and paper, |
And hire post-horses; I will hence to-night. |
Bal. I do beseech you, sir, have patience: |
Your looks are pale and wild, and do import |
Some misadventure. |
Rom. Tush, thou art deceiv'd; |
Leave me, and do the thing I bid thee do. |
Hast thou no letters to me from the friar? |
Bal. No, my good 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: O mischief! thou art swift |
To enter in the thoughts of desperate men. |
I do remember an apothecary, |
And hereabouts he dwells, which 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 this penury, to myself I said |
An if a man did need a poison now, |
Whose sale is present death in Mantua, |
Here lives a caitiff wretch would sell it him. |
O! this same thought did but fore-run my need, |
And this same needy man must sell it me. |
As I remember, this should be the house: |
Being holiday, the beggar's shop is shut. |
What, ho! apothecary! |
|
Enter Apothecary. |
Ap. Who calls so loud? |
Rom. Come hither, man. I see that thou art poor; |
Hold, there is forty ducats; let me have |
A dram of poison, such soon-speeding gear |
As will disperse itself through all the veins |
That the life-weary taker may fall dead, |
And that the trunk may be discharg'd of breath |
As violently as hasty powder fir'd |
Doth hurry from the fatal cannon's womb. |
Ap. 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 starveth in thine eyes, |
Contempt and beggary hang upon thy back; |
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. |
Ap. My poverty, but not my will, consents. |
Rom. I pay thy poverty, and not thy will. |
Ap. Put this in any liquid thing you will |
And drink it off; and, if you had the strength |
Of twenty men, it would dispatch 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 mayst not sell: |
I sell thee poison, thou hast sold me none. |
Farewell; buy food, and get thyself in flesh. |
Come, cordial and not poison, go with me |
To Juliet's grave, for there must I use thee. [Exeunt. |
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