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  • Title: Romeo and Juliet (Folio 1, 1623)
  • Editor: Roger Apfelbaum

    • ISBN: 1-55058-299-2

    Copyright Internet Shakespeare Editions. This text may be freely used for educational, non-proift purposes; for all other uses contact the Coordinating Editor.
    Author: William Shakespeare
    Editor: Roger Apfelbaum
    Not Peer Reviewed

    Romeo and Juliet (Folio 1, 1623)

    Enter Romeo.
    Rom. If I may trust the flattering truth of sleepe,
    My dreames presage some ioyfull newes at hand:
    2725My bosomes L. sits lightly in his throne:
    And all thisan day an vccustom'd spirit,
    Lifts me aboue the ground with cheerefull thoughts.
    I dreamt my Lady came and found me dead,
    (Strange dreame that giues a dead man leaue to thinke,)
    2730And breath'd such life with kisses in my lips,
    That I reuiu'd and was an Emperour.
    Ah me, how sweet is loue it selfe possest,
    When but loues shadowes are so rich in ioy.
    Enter Romeo's man.
    2735Newes from Verona, how now Balthazer?
    Dost thou not bring me Letters from the Frier?
    How doth my Lady? Is my Father well?
    How doth my Lady Iuliet? that I aske againe,
    For nothing can be ill, if she be well.
    2740Man. Then she is well, and nothing can be ill.
    Her body sleepes in Capels Monument,
    And her immortall part with Angels liue,
    I saw her laid low in her kindreds Vault,
    And presently tooke Poste to tell it you:
    2745O pardon me for bringing these ill newes,
    Since you did leaue it for my office Sir.
    Rom. Is it euen so?
    Then I denie you Starres.
    Thou knowest my lodging, get me inke and paper,
    2750And hire Post-Horses, I will hence to night.
    Man. I do beseech you sir, haue patience:
    Your lookes are pale and wild, and do import
    Some misaduenture.
    Rom. Tush, thou art deceiu'd,
    2755Leaue me, and do the thing I bid thee do.
    Hast thou no Letters to me from the Frier?
    Man. No my good Lord.
    Exit Man.
    Rom. Mo matter: Get thee gone,
    2760And hyre those Horses, Ile be with thee straight.
    Well Iuliet, I will lie with thee to night:
    Lets see for meanes: O mischiefe thou art swift,
    To enter in the thoughts of desperate men:
    I do remember an Appothecarie,
    2765And here abouts dwells, which late I noted
    In tattred weeds, with ouerwhelming browes,
    Culling of Simples, meager were his lookes,
    Sharpe miserie had worne him to thebones:
    And in his needie shop a Tortoyrs hung,
    2770An Allegater stuft, and other skins
    Of ill shap'd fishes, and about his shelues,
    A beggerly account of emptie boxes,
    Greene earthen pots, Bladders, and mustie seedes,
    Remnants of packthred, and old cakes of Roses
    2775Were thinly scattered, to make vp a shew.
    Noting this penury, to my selfe I said,
    An if a man did need a poyson now,
    Whose sale is persent death in Mantua,
    Here liues a Caitiffe wretch would sell it him.
    2780O this same thought did but fore-run my need,
    And this same needie man must sell it me.
    As I remember, this should be the house,
    Being holy day, the beggers shop is shut.
    What ho? Appothecarie?
    2785Enter Appothecarie.
    App. Who call's so low'd?
    Rom. Come hither man, I see that thou art poore,
    Hold, there is fortie Duckets, let me haue
    A dram of poyson, such soone speeding geare,
    2790As will disperse it selfe through all the veines,
    That the life-wearie-taker may fall dead,
    And that the Trunke may be discharg'd of breath,
    As violently, as hastie powder fier'd
    Doth hurry from the fatall Canons wombe.
    2795App. Such mortall drugs I haue, but Mantuas law
    Is death to any he, that vtters them.
    Rom. Art thou so bare and full of wretchednesse,
    And fear'st to die? Famine is in thy cheekes,
    Need and opression starueth in thy eyes,
    2800Contempt and beggery hangs vpon thy backe:
    The world is not thy friend, nor the worlds law:
    The world affords no law to make thee rich.
    Then be not poore, but breake it, and take this.
    App. My pouerty, but not my will consents.
    2805Rom. I pray thy pouerty, and not thy will.
    App. Put this in any liquid thing you will
    And drinke it off, and if you had the strength
    Of twenty men, it would dispatch you straight.
    Rom. There's thy Gold,
    2810Worse poyson to mens soules,
    Doing more murther in this loathsome world,
    Then these poore compounds that thou maiest not sell.
    I sell thee poyson, thou hast sold me none,
    Farewell, buy food, and get thy selfe in flesh.
    2815Come Cordiall, and not poyson, go with me
    To Iuliets graue, for there must I vse thee.
    Exeunt.
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