Pet. Then have at you with my wit: I will drybeat you with an iron Wit, and put up my iron dag

ger:

-anfwer me like men:

When griping grief the heart doth wound,
Then mufick with her filver found→

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

1 Muf. Marry, Sir, because filver hath a fweet found.

Pet. Prateft! What fay you, Hugh Rebeck?

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

Pet. Prateft too! What fay you, Samuel SoundBoard?

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 musicians have no gold for founding. Then mufick with her filver found

With Speedy help doth lend redrefs.

[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.

ACT

I may truft the flattering Truth of fleep,

My dreams presage 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 itself poffeft,
When but love's fhadows are so 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 Capulet's monument,
And her immortal part with angels lives.
- I faw her laid low in her kindred's vault,
And prefently 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. Pardon me, Sir, I dare not leave you thus. Your looks are pale and wild, and do import › Some mifadventure.

9 My bofom's Lord-] Thefe three lines are very gay and pleafing. But why does Shake~Speare give Romeo this involuntary cheerfulness just before the extremity of unhappiness? Perhaps

to fhew the vanity of trufting to thofe uncertain and cafual exaltations or depreffions, which many confider as certain foretokens of good and evil.

Rom.

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 thofe horses; I'll be with thee ftraight.

[Exit Balthafar. Well, Juliet, I will lie 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 fhelves
'A beggarly account of empty boxes;

Green earthen pots, bladders, and mufty feeds,
Remnants of packthread, and old cakes of rofes
Were thinly fcatter'd to make up a show.
Noting this penury, to myself, I faid,
An if a man did need a poison now,
Whofe fale is present death in Mantua,

A BEGGARLY account of empty boxes] Though the boxes were empty, yet their titles, or the accounts of their contents, if like thofe in the shops of other apothecaries, we may be fure, were magnificent enough. I fuf pect therefore that Shakespear wrote,

the reading of the old Quarto of 1597:

whofe needy fhop is Rufft With beggarly accounts of emp

ty boxes;

Not but account may fignify number as well as contents; if the first, the common reading is right.

WARBURTON. Beggarly is probably right; if account of the boxes were empty, the account was more beggarly, as it was

A BRAGGARTLY empty boxes; Which is fomewhat confirmed by more pompous.

Here lives a caitiff wretch would fell it him.
Oh, this fame thought did but fore-run my need,
And this fame needy man' muft fell it me.
As I remember, this should be the house.
Being holy-day, the beggar's fhop is shut.
-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-speeding geer, As will difperfe itself thro' all the veins, That the life-weary Taker may fall dead; And that the Trunk may be difcharg'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 so 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 strength Of twenty men, it would dispatch you straight. Rom. There is thy gold; worse poison to men's

fouls,

Doing more murders in this loathfome world, Than these poor compounds that thou may'st not fell. "I fell thee poison, thou haft fold me none.

Farewel,