« AnteriorContinuar »
Our wedding cheer, to a sad burial feast:
Fri. The Heav'ns do low'r upon you, for some ill; Move them no more, by crossing their high will.
ACT THE FIFTH.
The Inside of a Church.
Enter the Funeral Procession of JULIET, in which the following Dirge is sung.
The woe-fraught bosom swell;
And dismal moan,
Should echo Juliet's knell.
She's gone the sweetest flow'r of May,
She's gone, she's gone, nor leaves behind,
How could'st thou, Death, at once destroy,
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.
Ah me, how sweet is love itself possess'd,
News from Verona.-How now, Balthasar,
Bal. Then she is well, and nothing can be ill;
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 ;
Rom. Go, thou art deceived:
Leave me, and do the thing I bid thee do→
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
And hereabouts he dwells, whom late I noted
Green earthen pots, bladders, and musty seeds;
An' if a man did need a poison now,
Here lives a caitiff wretch, would sell it him.
Being holyday, the beggar's shop is shut.
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,
The world is not thy friend, nor the world's law;
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,
I sell thee poison, thou hast sold me none.
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 Seal'd up
the doors, and would not let us forth,
Nor get a messenger to bring it thee,