Act 5 - Scene 1
Mantua. A street.
If I may trust the flattering truth 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
I dreamt my lady came and found me dead
Strange dream, that gives a dead man leave
breathed such life with kisses in my lips,
That I revived, and was an emperor.
Ah me! how sweet is love
When but love's shadows are so rich in joy!
Enter BALTHASAR, booted
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.
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:
me for bringing these ill news,
Since you did leave it for my office, sir.
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.
I do beseech you, sir, have patience:
Your looks are pale and wild, and do import
Tush, thou art deceived:
Leave me, and do the thing I bid thee do.
Hast thou no letters to me from the
No, my good lord.
No matter: get thee gone,
And hire those horses; I'll be with thee straight.
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,
And hereabouts he dwells, which late I noted
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
fishes; and about his shelves
A beggarly account of empty boxes,
Green earthen pots, bladders and musty
Remnants of packthread and old cakes of roses,
Were thinly scatter'd, to make up a show.
this penury, to myself I said
'An if a man did need a poison now,
Whose sale is present death in Mantua,
lives a caitiff wretch would sell it him.'
O, this same thought did but forerun my need;
And this same needy
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