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 discharged of breath
As violently, as hasty powder fired
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 stareth in thy eyes;1
Upon thy back hangs ragged misery;
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.
Rom. There is thy gold, worse poison to men's souls,
Doing more murders in this loathsome world,
Than these 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 thee.
SCENE II. Friar Laurence's Cell.
John. Holy Franciscan friar! brother, ho!
1 The quarto of 1597 reads:
"Upon thy back hangs ragged miserie,
And starved famine dwelleth in thy cheeks."
The quartos of 1599 and 1609:—
"Need and oppression starveth in thy eyes."
Thou know'st my lodging; get me ink and paper,
And hire post-horses; I will hence to-night.
Bal. Pardon me, sir, I will not leave you thus.
Your looks are pale and wild, and do import
Some misadventure.
Leave me, and do the thing I bid thee do.
Hast thou no letters to me from the friar?
Bal. No, my good lord.
Rom.
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,-whom late I noted
In tattered 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 stuffed, and other skins
Of ill-shaped 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 scattered to make up a show.
Noting this penury, to myself I said-
And 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.
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 discharged of breath
As violently, as hasty powder fired
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 stareth in thy eyes;1
Upon thy back hangs ragged misery;
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.
Rom. There is thy gold, worse poison to men's souls,
Doing more murders in this loathsome world,
Than these 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 thee.
SCENE II. Friar Laurence's Cell.
John. Holy Franciscan friar! brother, ho!
1 The quarto of 1597 reads:
"Upon thy back hangs ragged miserie,
And starved famine dwelleth in thy cheeks."
The quartos of 1599 and 1609:
"Need and oppression starveth in thy eyes."
Thou know'st my lodging; get me ink and paper,
And hire post-horses; I will hence to-night.
Bal. Pardon me, sir, I will not leave you thus.
Your looks are pale and wild, and do import
Some misadventure.
Leave me, and do the thing I bid thee do.
Hast thou no letters to me from the friar?
Bal. No, my good lord.
Rom.
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,-whom late I noted
In tattered 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 stuffed, and other skins
Of ill-shaped 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 scattered to make up a show.
Noting this penury, to myself I said-
And 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.
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 discharged of breath
As violently, as hasty powder fired
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 stareth in thy eyes;1
Upon thy back hangs ragged misery;
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.
Rom. There is thy gold, worse poison to men's souls,
Doing more murders in this loathsome world,
Than these 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 thee.
SCENE II. Friar Laurence's Cell.
John. Holy Franciscan friar! brother, ho!
1 The quarto of 1597 reads:
"Upon thy back hangs ragged miserie,
And starved famine dwelleth in thy cheeks."
The quartos of 1599 and 1609:
"Need and oppression starveth in thy eyes."
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