Enter Romeo.
Irksome Suspence creates perplexing Thoughts;
Therefore no longer cou'd I rest in Mantua;
But boldly have I ventured to Verona,
Altho' it be at Hazard of my Life:
'Tis better know the worst, than be in doubt.
Yet, if I trust the Flattery of Sleep,
My Dreams presage some joyful News at hand:
My Bosom's Lord sits lightly on his Throne,
And ev'n now an unaccustom'd Spirit
Lifts me above the Ground with chearful 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 revived, and was an Emperor.
Ah, me! how sweet is Love itself possest,
When but Love's Shadows are so rich in Joy?
Why does my Servant slack his Expedition? Enter Romeo's Man.
O! he returns—How now, Balthazar?
Do'st 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 laid low in 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!
Haste thee, Balthazar, get me Ink and Paper,
And meet me near the Abbey of St. Mary.

Bal.
Pardon me, Sir, I dare not leave you thus.
Your Looks are pale and wild, 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, good my Lord.

Rom.
No Matter, get thee gone;
See thou art speedy, I'll be with you strait. [Exit Bal.
Well, Juliet, I will lie with thee To-night,
But for the Means—O Mischief! thou art quick
To enter in the Thought of desp'rate Men!
‘I do remember an Apothecary,
‘And hereabouts he dwells, whom 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 stuff'd, 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 Pack-thread, and old Cakes of Roses
‘Were thinly scatter'd to make up a Show.’
Noting his Penury, to myself I said,
And if a Man did need a Poison now,
Whose Sale incurs the Penalty of Death,

Here lives a Caitiff Wretch would sell it him.
Oh 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 Holy-day, the Beggar's Shop is shut.
What ho! Apothecary! Enter Apothecary.

Apot.
Who calls so loud?

Rom.
Come hither Man, I see that thou art poor;
Behold, here's forty Ducats, let me have
A Dram of Poison such soon-spreading Geer,
As will disperse itself thro' 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 fired
Doth hurry from the fatal Cannons Womb.

Apot.
Such mortal Drugs I have, but our Laws
Speak Death to any he that utters them.

Rom.
Art thou so bare and full of Wretchedness,
And fearest 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.

Apot.
My Poverty, but not my Will, consents. [Exit.

Rom.
I pay thy Poverty, and not thy Will.

Apot. returns.
Put this in any liquid Thing you will,
And drink it off, and if you had the Strength
Of twenty Men, it wou'd dispatch you strait.

Rom.
There is the 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 thee into Flesh.
And now for Juliet's Monument.

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