1. Muf. Why beart's eafe?

Pet. O, musicians, because my heart itself plays-My heart is full of woe: O, play me fome merry dump, to com

fort me.

2.

Muf. Not a dump we; 'tis no time to play now. Pet. You will not the..?

Muf. No.

Pet. I will then give it you foundly.

1. Muf. What will you give us?

Pet. No money, on my faith; but the gleek :

I will give you the minstrel.

I. Muf. Then will I give you the serving-creature.

Pet. Then will I lay the ferving-creature's dagger on your pate. I will carry no crotchets: I'll re you, I'll fa you; Do you note me?

1. Muf. An you re us, and fa us, you note us.

2.

.Muf. Pray you, put up your dagger, and put out your wit.

Pet. Then have at you with my wit; I will dry-beat you with an iron wit, and put up my iron dagger Anfwer me like men:

When griping grief the heart doth wound,
And doleful dumps the mind opprefs,

Then mufick, with her filver found;

Why, filver found? why, mufick with her filver found? What say you, Simon Catling?

1. Muf. Marry, fir, because filver hath a fweet found. Pet. Pretty! What fay you, Hugh Rebeck ?

2. Muf. I fay-filver found, because musicians found for filver.

Pet. Pretty too!-What fay you, James Soundpost? 3. Muf. 'Faith, I know not what to say.

Pet. O, I cry you mercy! you are the finger: I will

fay

fay for you. It is—mufick with her filver found, because fuch fellows as you have seldom gold for founding :

Then musick with her filver found,

With Speedy help doth lend redress.

[Exit, finging.

1. Muf. What a peftilent knave is this fame?

2.

Muf. Hang him, Jack! Come, we'll in here; tarry for the mourners, and stay dinner,

[Exeunt.

ACT

ACT V. SCENE I.

Mantua. A Street.

Enter ROMEO.

Rom. If I may truft the flattering eye of sleep,
My dreams prefage fome joyful news at hand :
My bofom's lord fits lightly in his throne;
And, all this day, an unaccustom`d spirit
Lifts me above the ground with cheerful thoughts.
I dreamt, my lady came and found me dead;
(Strange dream! that gives a dead man leave to think,)
And breath'd fuch life with kiffes in my lips,
That I reviv'd, and was an emperor.

Ah me! how sweet is love itself poffefs'd,
When but love's fhadows are so rich in joy?

Enter BALTHASAR.

News from Verona!-How now, Balthafar?
Doft thou not bring me letters from the friar?
How doth my lady? Is my father well?
How fares my Juliet ? 'That I ask again;
For nothing can be ill, if the be well.

Bal. Then he is well, and nothing can be ill;
Her body fleeps in Capels' monument,
And her immortal part with angels lives;
I faw her laid low in her kindred's vault,
And presently took post to tell it

you: O pardon me for bringing thefe ill news, Since you did leave it for my office, fir.

Ram. Is it even fo? then I defy you, ftars!

Thou

Thou know'ft my lodging: get me ink and paper,
And hire poft-horfes; I will hence to-night.

Bal. Pardon me, fir, I will not leave you thus:
Your looks are pale and wild, and do import
Some mifadventure,

Rom.

Tufh, thou art deceiv'd;

Leave me, and do the thing I bid thee do:
Haft thou no letters to me from the friar?

Bal. No, my good lord.

Rom. No matter: Get thee gone, And hire thofe horfes; I'll be with thee ftraight.

[Exit BALTHASAR,

Well, Juliet, I will lie with thee to night.
Let's fee for means :-O, mifchief! thou art swift
To enter in the thoughts of desperate men!
I do remember an apothecary,-

And hereabouts he dwells,-whom late I noted
In tatter'd weeds, with overwhelming brows,
Culling of fimples; meager were his looks,
Sharp mifery had worn him to the bones :
And in his needy fhop a tortoife hung,
An alligator ftuff'd, and other skins
Of ill-fhap'd fithes; and about his shelves
A beggarly account of empty boxes,

Green earthen pots, bladders, and mufty feeds,
Remnants of packthread, and old cakes of roses,
Were thinly scatter'd, to make up a fhow.
Noting this penury, to myself I faid—
An if a man did need a poifon now,
Whofe fale is prefent death in Mantua,

Here lives a caitiff wretch would fell it him.
O, this fame thought did but fore-run my need;
And this fame needy man must fell it me.
As I remember, this fhould be the houfe:

Being holiday, the beggar's fhop is shut.

What, ho! apothecary!

Ap.

Enter Apothecary.

Who calls fo loud?

Rom. Come hither, man.-I fee, that thou art poor; Hold, there is forty ducats: let me have A dram of poifon; fuch foon-speeding geer As will difperfe itself through all the veins, That the life-weary taker may fall dead; And that the trunk may be difcharg'd of breath As violently, as hafty powder fir'd

Doth hurry from the fatal cannon's womb.

Ap. Such mortal drugs I have; but Mantua's law
Is death, to any he that utters them.

Rom. Art thou fo bare, and full of wretchedness,
And fear'ft to die? famine is in thy cheeks,
Need and oppreffion ftarveth in thy eyes,
Upon thy back hangs ragged misery,

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, confents,
kom. 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 ftrength
Of twenty men, it would despatch you straight.

Rom. There is thy gold; worse poison to men's fouls, Doing more murders in this loath fome world,

Than these poor compounds that thou may'ft not fell:
I fell thee poifon, thou haft fold me none.
Farewell; buy food, and get thyself in flesh.-
Come, cordial, and not poifon; go with me
To Juliet's grave, for there must I use thee.

[Exeunt.

SCENE