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  • Title: Romeo and Juliet (Quarto 2, 1599)
  • 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
    Peer Reviewed

    Romeo and Juliet (Quarto 2, 1599)

    Enter Romeo.
    Ro. 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 this day an vnaccustomd spirit,
    Lifts me aboue the ground with chearfull thoughts,
    I dreamt my Lady came and found me dead,
    Strange dreame that giues a deadman leaue to thinke,
    2730And Breathd such life with kisses in my lips,
    That I reuiude and was an Emperor.
    Ah me, how sweete is loue it selfe possest
    When but loues shadowes are so rich in ioy.
    Enter Romeos 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 liues.
    I saw her laid lowe 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 in so? then I denie you starres.
    Thou knowest my lodging, get me inke and paper,
    2750And hire post horses, I will hence tonight.
    Man. I do beseech you sir, haue patience:
    Your lookes are pale and wilde, and do import
    Some misaduenture.
    Ro. Tush thou art deceiu'd,
    2755Leaue me, and do the thing I bid thee do.
    The most lamentable Tragedie
    Hast thou no Letters to me from the Frier?
    Man. No my good Lord.
    Ro. No 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 Appothacarie,
    2765And here abouts a dwells which late I noted,
    In tattred weeds with ouerwhelming browes,
    Culling of simples, meager were his lookes,
    Sharpe miserie had worne him to the bones:
    And in his needie shop a tortoyes hung,
    2770An allegater stuft, and other skins
    Of ill shapte 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 present death in Mantua,
    Here liues a Catiffe wretch would sell it him.
    2780O this same thought did but forerun 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.
    Appo. Who calls so lowd?
    Kom. 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 dispearse it selfe through all the veines,
    That the life-wearie-taker may fall dead,
    And that the Trunke may be dischargd of breath,
    As violently, as hastie powder fierd
    of Romeo and Iuliet.
    Doth hurry from the fatall Canons wombe.
    2795 Poti. Such mortall drugs I haue, but Mantuas lawe
    Is death to any he that vtters them.
    Ro. Art thou so bare and full of wretchednesse,
    And fearest to die, famine is in thy cheekes,
    Need and oppression starueth in thy eyes,
    2800Contempt and beggerie hangs vpon thy backe:
    The world is not thy friend, nor the worlds law,
    The world affoords no law to make thee rich:
    Then be not poore, but breake it and take this.
    Poti. My pouertie, but not my will consents.
    2805Ro. I pray thy pouertie and not thy will.
    Poti. Put this in any liquid thing you will
    And drinke it off, and if you had the strength
    Of twentie men, it would dispatch you straight.
    Ro. There is thy Gold, worse poyson to mens soules,
    Doing more murther in this loathsome world,
    Then these poore cōpounds that thou maiest not sell,
    I sell thee poyson, thou hast sold me none,
    Farewell, buy foode, and get thy selfe in flesh.
    2815Come Cordiall and not poyson, go with me
    To Iuliets graue, for there must I vse thee.