News from Verona!—How now, Balthasar? Dost thou not bring me letters from the friar? How doth my lady? Is my father well? How fares my Juliet? That I ask again, For nothing can be ill if she be well.
Who bare my letter, then, to Romeo?
Then she is well, and nothing can be ill. Her body sleeps in Capels' monument, And her immortal part with angels lives. I saw her laid low in her kindred’s vault
I am almost afraid to stand alone Here in the churchyard. Yet I will adventure.
Such mortal drugs I have, but Mantua’s law Is death to any he that utters them.
Come hither, man. I see that thou art poor. Hold, there is forty ducats. Let me have A dram of poison
I could not send it—here it is again— Nor get a messenger to bring it thee, So fearful were they of infection.
Give me thy torch, boy. Hence, and stand aloof. Yet put it out, for I would not be seen. Under yon yew trees lay thee all along, Holding thine ear close to the hollow ground— So shall no foot upon the churchyard tread,
Here’s to my love! O true apothecary, Thy drugs are quick. Thus with a kiss I die.