1 Alus. Why heart's ease? Peter. O, musicians, because my heart itself plays - My heart is full of woe: 0, 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-creature.

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,
And doleful dumps the mind oppress,
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,
With speedy help doth lend redress.

[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.

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.
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 itself possess'd,
When but love's shadows are so rich in joy?

Enter Balthusar.
News from Verona!

-How now, Balthasar?
Dost 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 she be well.

Bal. Then she is well, and nothing can be ill;
Her body sleeps in Capel'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,

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:
Hast thou no letters to me from the friar?

Bal. No, my good lord.
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.
Let's see for means:-(, mischief! 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 simples; meager 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-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 show.
Noting this penury, to myself I said-
An 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 holiday, 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 itself through 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 fir'd Doth hurry from the fatal cannon's womb. Ap. Such mortal drugs I have; but Mantua's

la w 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,
Need and oppression starveth 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, consents.
Rom. I pay thy poverty, and not thy will.
Ap. Put this in any liquid thing you will,