And let mischance be slave to patience. Fri. I am the greatest, able to do least, Prince. Then, say at once what thou dost know in this. Is not so long as is a tedious tale. Romeo, there dead, was husband to that Juliet; Or in my cell there would she kill herself. The form of death: meantime, I writ to Romeo, Of her awakening) here untimely lay Prince. We still have known thee for a holy man. Bal. I brought my master news of Juliet's death, To this same place, to this same monument. Prince. Give me the letter, I will look on it. - Page. He came with flowers to strew his lady's grave, And bid me stand aloof, and so I did: Anon, comes one with light to ope the tomb, And, by and by, my master drew on him; And then I ran away to call the watch. Prince. This letter doth make good the friar's words, Their course of love, the tidings of her death: And here he writes, that he did buy a poison Of a poor 'pothecary; and therewithal Came to this vault to die, and lie with Juliet. Where be these enemies? Capulet! Montague! See, what a scourge is laid upon your hate, That heaven finds means to kill your joys with love; And I, for winking at your discords too, Have lost a brace of kinsmen: all are punish'd. Cap. O, brother Montague! give me thy hand : This is my daughter's jointure; for no more Can I demand. Mon. But I can give thee more; For I will raise her statue in pure gold, That, while Verona by that name is known, As that of true and faithful Juliet. Cap. As rich shall Romeo by his lady lie; Poor sacrifices of our enmity! Prince. A glooming peace this morning with it brings, For never was a story of more woe, Than this of Juliet and her Romeo. [Exeunt. Lords, Senators, Officers, Soldiers, Thieves, and Attendants. SCENE, Athens; and the Woods adjoining. ACT I. SCENE I. Athens. A Hall in TIMON's House. Enter Poet, Painter, Jeweller, Merchant, and Others, at several Doors. Poet. Good day, Sir. Pain. I am glad y' are well. Poet. I have not seen you long. How goes the world? Pain. It wears, Sir, as it grows. Poet. But what particular rarity? what strange, Ay, that's well known; Which manifold record not matches? See, Jew. Nay, that 's most fix'd. Mer. A most incomparable man; breath'd, as it were, To an untirable and continuate goodness: Mer. O! pray, let's see 't. For the lord Timon, Sir? Jew. If he will touch the estimate; but, for that Poet. "When we for recompence have prais'd the vile, It stains the glory in that happy verse Which aptly sings the good.” Mer. 'T is a good form. Jew. And rich: here is a water, look ye. Pain. You are rapt, Sir, in some work, some dedication To the great lord. Poet. A thing slipp'd idly from me. From whence 't is nourish'd: the fire i' the flint Pain. A picture, Sir. When comes your book forth? Let's see your piece. Pain. 'Tis a good piece. Poet. So't is: this comes off well, and excellent. Pain. Poet. Indifferent. Admirable! How this grace Speaks his own standing; what a mental power |