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 e'en 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 wide, and do import
Some misadventure.

Rom.

Tush, thou art deceived:

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 'a dwells, which late I noted
In tattered 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 stuffed and other skins

Of ill-shaped 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 scattered, 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 forerun my need.

As I remember, this should be the house:

Being holiday, the beggar's shop is shut.—
What, ho! apothecary!

Ap.

Enter Apothecary.

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.

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 thy 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 despatch you straight. Rom. There is thy gold, worse poison to men's souls,

Doing more murder 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 thyself in flesh.—
Come, cordial and not poison, go with me

To Juliet's grave; for there must I use thee.

[Exeunt.

THE NOWY

PUBL

ASTOR, LES,

TILDEN FOUNDATI

R

SCENE 2.-Friar LAURENCE'S Cell.

Enter Friar JOHN.

John. Holy Franciscan friar! brother, ho!

Enter Friar LAURENCE.

Lau. 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 both were in a house
Where the infectious pestilence did reign,
Sealed up the doors and would not let us forth;
So that my speed to Mantua there was stayed.
Lau. Who bare 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.

Lau. 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 me an iron crow and bring it straight
Unto my cell.

John. Brother, I'll go and bring it thee.
Lau. Now must I to the monument alone;
Within this three hours will fair Juliet wake:
She will beshrew me much, that Romeo

[Exit.

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, closed in a dead man's tomb!

[Exit.