Above the Clouds, as high as Heav'n himself?
Oh, in this Love you love your Child fo ill,
That you run mad, feeing, that she is well.
She's not well married, that lives married long;
But fhe's beft married, that dyes married young..
Dry up your Tears, and ftick your Rosemary
On this fair Coarfe; and, as the Cuftom is,.
And in her best Array, bear her to Church.
For tho' fond Nature bids us all lament, (14)
Yet Nature's Tears are Reafon's Merriment.
Cap. All Things, that we ordained festival,
Turn from their Office to black Funeral;
Our Inftruments to melancholy Bells,
Our wedding Chear to a fad Funeral Feaft;
Our folemn Hymns to fullen Dirges change,
Our bridal Flow'rs ferve for a buried Coarfe;
And all things change them to the contrary.

Fri. Sir, go you in, and, Madam, go with him; And go, Sir Paris; ev'ry one prepare

To follow this fair Coarfe unto her Grave.
The Heav'ns do low'r upon you, for fome Ill;
Move them no more, by croffing their high Will.

[Exeunt Capulet, Lady Capulet, Paris, and Friar.
Manent Muficians, and Nurse.

Muf. Faith, we may put up our pipes and be gone. Nurfe. Honeft good fellows: ah, put up, put up For, well you know, this is a pitiful cafe.

[Exit Nurfe. Muf. Ay, by my troth, the cafe may be amended.

(14) For the fome Nature bids us all lament,] Some Nature? Sure, it is the general Rule of Nature, or fhe could not bid us all lament. I have ventur'd to fubftitute an Epithet, which, I fufpect, was loft in the idle, corrupted Word, Some; and which admirably quadrates with the Verfe fucceeding this; that tho' the Fondness of Nature lay fuch an Injunction upon us, yet that Reafon does but mock our unavailing Sorrow.

Enter

Enter Peter.

Pet. Muficians, oh muficians, heart's eafe, heart's
cafe:

Oh, an you will have me live,y play heart's ease.
Muf. Why, heart's ease?

Pet. O muficians, because my heart it felf plays, my beart it felf is full of woe. O, play me fome merry dump, to comfort me!

Muf. Not a dump we, 'tis no time to play now.
Pet. You will not then?

Muf. No.

Pet. I will then give it you foundly.

Muf. What will you give us?

Pet. No mony, on my faith, but the gleek: I wilt give you the Minstrell.

Muf. 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?

Muf. An you re us, and fa us, you note us.
2 Muf. 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: anfwer me like men :

When griping grief the heart doth wound,

Then mufic with her filver found.

Why, filver found? why, mufick with her filver found?
What fay you, Simon Catling?

Muf. Marry, Sir, becaufe filver hath a sweet found.
Pet. Pretty! what fay you, Hugh Rebeck?

2 Muf. I fay, filver found, because musicians found for filver.

Pet. Pretty too! what fay you, Samuel Sound-board? 3 Muf. Faith, I know not what to say.

Pet. O, I cry you mercy, you are the finger, I will fay for you. It is mufick with her filver found, because fuch fellows, as you, have no gold for founding.

The mufick with her filver found
Doth lend redress.

[Exit finging.

Muf. What a peftilent knave is this fame?

2 Muf. Hang him, Jack; come, we'll in here, tarry for the mourners, and stay dinner. [Exeunt.

A CT

V.

SCENE, in MANTUA.

Enter RO ME O.

F I may truft the flattering Truth of sleep,
My dreams prefage fome joyful news at hand
My bofom's Lord fits lightly on his Throne,
And, all this day, an unaccustom'd fpirit

Lifts me above the ground with chearful thoughts.
I dreamt, my lady came and found me dead,
(Strange dream! that gives a dead man leave to think)
And breath'd fuch life with kiffes in my lips,
That I reviv'd, and was an Emperor.
Ah me! how fweet is love it felf poffeft,
When but love's fhadows are fo rich in joy?

Enter Balthafar.

News from Verona How now, Balthafar ?
Doft thou not bring me letters from the Friar?
How doth my lady is my father well?
How doth my Juliet? That I ask again;
For nothing can be ill, if fhe be well.

Balth. Then fhe is well, and nothing can be ill
Her body fleeps in Capulets' monument,
And her immortal part with angels lives:
I faw her laid low in her kindred's vault,
And presently took poft 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 fo? then I defy you, Stars!
Thou know'ft my lodging, get me ink and paper,
And hire poft-horfes. I will hence to night.

Balth

Balth. Pardon me, Sir, I dare not leave you thus. Your looks are pale and wild, and do import

Some misadventure.

Rom. Tufh, thou art deceiv'd;

Leave me, and do the thing I bid thee do:

Haft thou no letters to me from the Friar ?
Balth. No, my good lord.

Rom. No matter: get thee gone,

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

[Exit Balthafar Well, Juliet, I will lye with thee to night; Let's fee for means O mifchief! thou art swift To enter in the thought of defperate men! I do remember an Apothecary,

And hereabouts he dwells, whom late I noted
In tatter'd weeds, with overwhelming brows,
Culling of fimples; meager were his looks;
Sharp mifery had worn him to the bones :
And in his needy fhop a tortoife hung,
An alligator ftuft, and other skins
Of ill-fhap'd fishes; and about his shelves
A beggarly account of empty boxes;

Green earthen pots, bladders, and mufty feeds,
Remnants of packthread, and old cakes of rofes
Were thinly scatter'd to make up a fhow.
Noting this penury, to my felf, I faid,
An if a man did need a poifon now,
Whofe fale is prefent death in Mantua,
Here lives a caitiff wretch would fell it him.
Oh, this fame thought did but fore-run my need,
And this fame needy man must fell it me.
As I remember, this fhould be the houfe.
Being holy-day, the beggar's fhop is fhut:
What, ho! apothecary!

Enter Apothecary.

Ap. Who calls fo loud?

Rom. Come hither, man; I fee, that thou art poor Hold, there is forty ducats: let me have

A dram of poifon, fuch foon-fpeeding geer,

As

As will disperse it felf thro' all the veins,
That the life-weary Taker may fall dead;
And that the Trunk may be discharg'd of breath,
As violently, as hafty 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 fo bare and full of wretchedness,
And fear'st to die? famine is in thy cheeks ;
Need and oppreffion ftare within thine eyes,
Contempt and beggary hang upon thy back :
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, confents.
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 ftrength
Of twenty men, it would difpatch you ftraight.

Rom. There is thy gold; worfe poifon to men's fouls, Doing more murthers in this loathfom world,

Than these poor compounds that thou may'st not fell :
I fell thee poifon, thou haft fold me none.
Farewel, buy food, and get thee into flesh.
Come, cordial, and not poifon; go

with me

To Juliet's grave, for there muft I ufe thee. [Exeunt.

SCENE changes to the Monaftery at Verona.

Enter Friar John.

John.TTOLY Francifcan Friar! brother! ho!

HOLY

Enter Friar Lawrence to him.

Law. This fame should be the voice of Friar John.-
Welcome from Mantua; what fays Romeo?
Or, if his mind be writ, give me his letter.
John. Going to find a bare-foot brother out,

One of our Order, to affociate me,
Here in this city vifiting the fick;

And