Rom.
If I may trust the flattering truth of Sleep,
My Dreams presage some joyful News at hand:
My Bosom's Lord sits lightly in his Throne,
And all this winged 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 reviv'd, and was an Emperor.
Ah me! how sweet is Love it self possest,
When but Love's Shadows are so rich in Joy. Enter Romeo's Man.
News from Verona—How now Balthazar?
Dost thou not bring me Letters from the Friar?
How doth my Lady? Is my Father well?
How doth my Lady Juliet? That I ask again,
For nothing can be ill, if she be well.

Man.
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 Kindreds 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 even so?—
Then I deny you Stars.
Thou knowest my Lodging, get me Ink and Paper,
And hire Post-Horses, I will hence to Night.

Man.
I do beseech you, Sir, have patience:
Your Looks are pale and wild, and do import
Some Misadventure.

Rom.
Tush, thou art deceiv'd,
Leave me, and do the thing I bid thee do:
Hast thou no Letters to me from the Friar?

Man.
No, good my Lord.

Rom.
No matter: Get thee gone,
And hire those Horses, I'll be with thee straight. [Exit Man.
Well Juliet, I will lye 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,
And hereabouts he dwells, which late I noted
In tatter'd Weeds, with overwhelming Brows,
Culling of Simples; Meager 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 scattered, to make up a shew.
Noting this Penury, to my self I said,
And 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 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.

Ap.
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 Geer,
As will disperse it self 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 Power fir'd
Doth hurry from the fatal Canon's Womb.

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 dye? Famine is in thy Cheeks,

Need and Oppression starveth in 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.

Rom.
I pray 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 dispatch you straight.

Rom.
There is thy Gold, worse Poison to Mens Souls,
Doing more Murder in this loathsom World,
Than these poor Compounds that thou maist not sell:
I sell thee Poison, thou hast sold me none.
Farewel, buy Food, and get thy self in Flesh.
Come Cordial, and not Poison, go with me
To Juliet's Grave, for there must I use thee. [Exeunt.

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