Unknown Story

Three words, dear Romeo, and good night indeed.If that thy bent of love be honourable,Thy purpose marriage, send me word to-morrow,By one that I'll procure to come to thee,
O blessed, blessed night! I am afeard.Being in night, all this is but a dream,Too flattering-sweet to be substantial.
Ah, Juliet, if the measure of thy joyBe heaped like mine, and that thy skill be moreTo blazon it
Romeo shall thank thee, daughter, for us both.
As much to him, else is his thanks too much.
alas! she's cold:Her blood is settled, and her joints are stiff;Life and these lips have long been separated:Death lies on her like an untimely frostUpon the sweetest flower of all the field.
She's dead, deceased, she's dead; alack the day!
O me, O me! My child, my only life,Revive, look up, or I will die with thee!Help, help! Call help.
Then she is well, and nothing can be ill:Her body sleeps in Capel's monument,And her immortal part with angels lives.
News from Verona!—How now, Balthasar!Dost thou not bring me letters from the friar?How doth my lady?
Come, bitter conduct, come, unsavoury guide!Thou desperate pilot, now at once run onThe dashing rocks thy sea-sick weary bark!Here's to my love!

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