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Our wedding cheer, to a sad burial feast:
Our solemn hymns, to sullen dirges change;
And bridal flowers serve for a burial corse.

Fri. The Heav'ns do low'r upon you, for some ill; Move them no more, by crossing their high will.




The Inside of a Church.

Enter the Funeral Procession of JULIET, in which the following Dirge is sung.


Rise, rise!

Heartbreaking sighs,

The woe-fraught bosom swell;
For sighs alone,

And dismal moan,

Should echo Juliet's knell.


She's gone the sweetest flow'r of May,
That blooming bless'd our sight;
Those eyes, which shone like breaking day,
Are set in endless night!

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She's gone, she's gone, nor leaves behind,
So fair a form, so pure a mind;

How could'st thou, Death, at once destroy,
The lover's hope, the parent's joy?

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Rom. If I may trust the flattery of sleep, My dreams presage some joyful news at hand: My bosom's lord sits lightly on 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,
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 possess'd,
When but love's shadows are so rich in joy?


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.
O, 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


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.


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, 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!


Apo. Who calls so loud?

Rom. Come hither, man-I see, that thou art poor; Hold, there are forty ducats; 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.



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

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.


The Monastery at Verona.


John. Holy Franciscan Friar! brother! ho!


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 Seal'd up

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

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