Enter Romeo.
If I may trust the flattery of sleep,* ^note
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 chearful 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 possest,
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.
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 paper,
And hire post-horses. I will hence, to-night.

Bal.
Pardon me, sir, I dare not leave you thus.
Your looks are pale and wild, and do import
Some misadventure.

Rom.
Go, 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, good my lord.

Rom.
No matter. Get thee gone,
And hire those horses, I'll be with thee, strait. [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 thought of desperate men!

I do remember an apothecary,* ^note
And hereabouts he dwells, who 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 stuft, 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 shew.
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 holy-day, the beggar's shop is shut.
What, hoa! apothecary! Enter Apothecary.

Ap.
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 thro' all the veins,
That the life-weary taker may soon die.

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 stare within thine eyes;
Contempt and beggary hang on 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. [Exit.

Rom.
I pay thy poverty, and not thy will. [Apothecary returns.

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 murder in this loathsome world,
Than these poor compounds that thou may'st not sell.
I sell thee poison, thou hast sold me none.
Farewel, 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.

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