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1 Mu. Then will I give you the serving-creature.
Peter. 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?
1 Mu. An you re us, and fa us, you note us.
2 Mu. Pray you, put up your dagger, and put out your wit.
Peter. Then have at you with my wit : I will dry-beat you with an iron wit, and put up my iron dagger.—Answer me like men.
When griping grief the heart doth wound,
And doleful dumps the mind oppress ; Then Music, with her silver sound,'Why, 'silver sound ?' why, “Music, with her silver sound ?'—What say you, Simon Catling?
1 Mu. Marry, sir, because silver hath a sweet sound.
Peter. Pretty !—What say you, Hugh Rebeck ?
2 Mu. I say "silver sound, because musicians sound for silver.
Peter. Pretty too !-What say you, James Sound. post?
3 Mu. Faith, I know not what to say.
Peter. O, I cry you mercy! you are the singer : I will say for you. It is— Music, with her silver sound,' because such fellows as you have seldom gold for sounding :• Then Music, with her silver sound, With speedy help doth lend redress.'
[Exit, singing. 1 Mu. What a pestilent knave is this same!
2 Mu. Hang him, Jack! Come, we 'll in here ; tarry for the mourners, and stay dinner. [Exeunt.
Mantua. A street.
Ro. If I may trust the flattering eye of sleep,
News from Verona !-How now, Balthasar ?
1 i. e. the god of love.
How fares my Juliet? That I ask again;
Bal. Then she is well, and nothing can be ill ;
Ro. 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.
Bal. Pardon me, sir ; I will not leave you thus : Your looks are pale and wild, and do import Some misadventure. Ro.
Tush, thou art deceived :
Bal. No, my good lord.
No matter : get thee gone, And hire those horses : I'll be with thee straight.
[Exit Balthasar. 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 tatter'd 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
Who calls so loud ?
Apo. Such mortal drugs I have; but Mantua's
Ro. Art thou so bare and full of wretchedness,
Apo. My poverty, but not my will consents.
Apo. Put this in any liquid thing you will,
'souls, Doing more murders in this loathsome world, Than these poor compounds that thou mayst not
I sell thee poison, thou hast sold me none.
Friar Laurence's cell.
Enter FRIAR JOHN.
F. John. Holy Franciscan friar! brother, ho!