Storyboard Text
- 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.
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