man must sell it me.
As I remember, this should be the house.
Being holiday, the beggar's shop is shut.
Who calls so loud?
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
And that the trunk may be discharged of breath
As violently as hasty powder fired
Doth hurry from
the fatal cannon's womb.
Such mortal drugs I have; but Mantua's law
Is death to any he that utters them.
Art thou so bare and full of wretchedness,
And fear'st to die? famine is in thy cheeks,
Need and oppression
starveth in thine eyes,
Contempt and beggary hangs upon thy back;
The world is not thy friend nor the
The world affords no law to make thee rich;
Then be not poor, but break it, and take this.
My poverty, but not my will, consents.
I pay thy poverty, and not thy will.
Put this in any liquid thing you will,
And drink it off; and, if you had the strength
Of twenty men, it would
dispatch you straight.
There is thy gold, worse poison to men's souls,
Doing more murders in this loathsome world,
poor compounds that thou mayst not sell.
I sell thee poison; thou hast sold me none.
Farewell: buy food,
and get thyself in flesh.
Come, cordial and not poison, go with me
To Juliet's grave; for there must I use
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