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Enter PETER.

Pet. Musicians, O, musicians, Heart's Ease, Heart's Ease; O, an you will have me live, play Heart's Ease.

First Mus. Why Heart's Ease?

Pet. O, musicians, because my heart itself plays-My Heart is full of Woe. O play me some merry dump, to comfort me. Second. Mus. Not a dump we; 'tis no time to play now. Pet. You will not then?

Mus. No.

Pet. I will then give it you soundly.

First Mus. What will you give us?

Pet. No money, on my faith; but the gleek: I will give you the minstrel.

First Mus. Then will I give you the serving-creature.

Pet. 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?

First Mus. An you re us, and fa us, you note us.

Second Mus. 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 :-Answer me like men:

When griping griefs the heart doth wound,"

And doleful dumps the mind oppress,

Then music, with her silver sound.

Why, 'silver sound?' why 'music with her silver sound?'
What say you, Simon Catling?

First Mus. Marry, sir, because silver hath a sweet sound.
Pet. Pretty! what say you, Hugh Rebeck?

Second Mus. I say—‘silver sound,' because musicians sound for silver.

Pet. Pretty too! What say you, James Soundpost?
Third Mus. Faith, I know not what to say.

Pet. O, I cry you mercy! you are the singer: I will say for

you. It is as you have

music with her silver sound,' because such fellows seldom gold for sounding :

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Then music with her silver sound,

With speedy help doth lend redress.


First Mus. What a pestilent knave is this same!

Second Mus. Hang him, Jack! Come, we'll in here: tarry for the mourners, and stay dinner.


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Rom. If I may trust the flattering eye of sleep,1
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!


News from Verona !-How now, Balthasar?
Dost thou not bring me letters from the friar?

How doth my lady? Is my father well?
How doth my lady 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 Capels' 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. I do beseech you, sir, have patience. Your looks are pale and wild, and do import Some misadventure.


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.

And hire those horses; I'll be with thee straight.

No matter: get thee gone


Well, Juliet, I will lie with thee to-night.
Let's see for means :-O, mischief, thou art swift
To enter in the thoughts of desperate men!
I do remember an apothecary 2

y 2

And hereabouts he dwells-which late I noted
In tatter'd weeds, with overwhelming brows,
Culling of simples; meagre 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 forerun 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!



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 gear 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 law Is death to any he that utters them.

Rom. Art thou so bare and full of wretchedness, And fear'st to die? famine is in thy cheeks, Need and oppression starveth in thy eyes, Contempt and beggary hang upon thy back,3 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, And drink it off; and, if you had the strength Of twenty men, it would despatch you straight.

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