1 Mus. Why heart's ease? Peter. O, musicians, because my heart itself plays -My heart is full of woe: O, play me some merry dump, to comfort me. 2 Mus. Not a dump we; 'tis no time to play now. Peter. You will not then? Mus. No. Peter. I will then give it you soundly. 1 Mus. What will you give us? Peter. No money, on my faith; but the gleek: I will give you the minstrel. 1 Mus. Then will I give you the serving-crea ture. Peter. Then will I lay the serving-creature's dagger on your pate. I will carry no crotchets: I'll re you, I'll fa you; Do you note me? 1 Mus. An you re us, and fa us, you note us. 2 Mus. Pray you, put up your dagger, and put out your wit. Peter. Then have at you with my wit; I will dry-beat you with an iron wit, and put up my iron dagger: Answer me like men: When griping grief the heart doth wound, Then musick, with her silver sound; Why, silver sound? why, musick with her silver sound? What say you, Simon Catling? 1 Mus. Marry, sir, because silver hath a sweet sound. Peter. Pretty! What say you, Hugh Rebeck? 2 Mus. I say-silver sound, because musicians sound for silver. Peter. Pretty too!-What say you, James Soundpost? 3 Mus. 'Faith, I know not what to say. Peter. O, I cry you mercy! you are the singer: I will say for you. It is-musick with her silver sound, because such fellows as you have seldom gold for sounding: Then musick with her silver sound, [Exit, singing. 1 Mus. What a pestilent knave is this same? 2 Mus. Hang him, Jack! Come, we'll in here; tarry for the mourners, and stay dinner. [Exeunt. ACT V. SCENE I. MANTUA. A STREET. Enter Romeo. Rom. If I may trust the flattering eye of sleep, My dreams presage some joyful news at hand: My bosom's lord sits lightly in his throne; And, all this day, an unaccustom'd spirit Lifts me above the ground with cheerful thoughts. And breath'd such life with kisses in my lips, Ah me! how sweet is love itself possess'd, Enter Balthasar. News from Verona!-How now, Balthasar? Bal. Then she is well, and nothing can be ill; Since you did leave it for my office, sir. Rom. Is it even 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. Pardon me, sir, I will not leave you thus: 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: 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. And hereabouts he dwells,-whom late I noted Green earthen pots, bladders, and musty seeds, Here lives a caitiff wretch would sell it him. O, this same thought did but fore-run my need; 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 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 so bare, and full of wretched ness, And fear'st to die? famine is in thy cheeks, The world is not thy friend, nor the world's law: |