Pet. I will then give it you soundly. 1 Mus. What will you give us? Pet. No money, on my faith; but the gleek 59: I will give you the minstrel. 1 Mus. Then will I give you the serving-creature. Pet. 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 Mus. An you re us, and fa us, you note us. 2 Mus. Pray you, put up your dagger, and put out your wit. Pet. Then have at you with my wit; I will drybeat you with an iron wit, and put up my iron dagger:-Answer me like men: When griping grief the heart doth wound, Then musick, with her silver sound; Why, silver sound? why, musick with her silver sound? What say you, Simon Catling? I Mus. Marry, sir, because silver hath a sweet sound. Pet. Pretty! What say you, Hugh Rebeck "? 2 Mus. I say-silver sound, because musicians sound for silver. Pet. Pretty too!-What say you, James Soundpost? 3 Mus. 'Faith, I know not what to say. Pet. O, I cry you mercy! you are the singer: I will say for you. It is-musick with her silver sound, because such fellows as you have seldom gold for sounding: Then musick with her silver sound, With speedy help doth lend redress. [Exit, singing. 1 Mus. What a pestilent knave is this same? 2 Mus. Hang him, Jack! Come, we'll in here; tarry for the mourners, and stay dinner. [Exeunt. ACT V. SCENE I. Mantua. A Street, Enter ROMEO. Rom. If I may trust the flattering eye of sleep, Lifts me above the ground with cheerful thoughts. And breath'd such life with kisses in my lips, Ah me! how sweet is love itself possess'd, Enter BALTHASAR. News from Verona!-How now, Balthasar? Bal. Then she is well, and nothing can be ill; O pardon me for bringing these ill news, Rom. Is it even so? then I defy you, stars!- Bal. Pardon me, sir, I will not leave you thus; Your looks are pale and wild, and do import Some misadventure. Rom.. Tush, thou art deceiv'd; Leave me, and do the thing I bid thee do: Bal. No, my good lord. No matter: get thee gone, Rom. [Exit Balthasar. Well, Juliet, I will lie with thee to-night. And hereabouts he dwells,-whom late I noted roses, Noting this penury, to myself I said- Here lives a caitiff wretch would sell it him. Being holiday, the beggar's shop is shut.- Ap. Enter Apothecary. Who calls so loud? Rom. Come hither, man.-I see, that thou art poor; Hold, there is forty ducats: let me have 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, The world is not thy friend, nor the world's law: |