thing you will, And drink it off; and, if you had the strength Of twenty men, it would dispatch you straight. There is thy gold, worse poison to men's souls, Doing more murders in this loathsome world, Than these poor compounds that thou mayst not sell. I sell thee poison; thou hast sold me none. Farewell: buy food, and get thyself in flesh. Come, cordial and not poison, go with me To Juliet's grave; for there must I use thee. Holy Franciscan friar! brother, ho! This same should be the voice of Friar John. Welcome from Mantua: what says Romeo? Or, if his mind be writ, give me his letter. Going to find a bare-foot brother out One of our order, to associate me, Here in this city visiting the sick, And finding him, the searchers of the town, Suspecting that we both were in a house Where the infectious pestilence did reign, Seal'd up the doors, and would not let us forth; So that my speed to Mantua there was stay'd. Who bare my letter, then, to Romeo? I could not send it,--here it is again,-- Nor get a messenger to bring it thee, So fearful were they of infection. Unhappy fortune! by my brotherhood, The letter was not nice but full of charge Of dear import, and the neglecting it May do much danger. Friar John, go hence; Get me an iron crow, and bring it straight Unto my cell. Brother, I'll go and bring it thee. Now must I to the monument alone; Within three hours will fair Juliet wake: She will beshrew me much that Romeo Hath had no notice of these accidents; But I will write again to Mantua, And keep her at my cell till Romeo come; Poor living corse, closed in a dead man's tomb! Give me thy torch, boy: hence, and stand aloof: Yet put it out, for I would not be seen. Under yond yew-trees lay thee all along, Holding thine ear close to the hollow ground; So shall no foot upon the churchyard tread, Being loose, unfirm, with digging up of graves, But thou shalt hear it: whistle then to me, As signal that thou hear'st something approach. Give me those flowers. Do as I bid thee, go. I am almost afraid to stand alone Here in the churchyard; yet I will adventure. Sweet flower, with flowers thy bridal bed I strew,-- O woe! thy canopy is dust and stones;-- Which with sweet water nightly I will dew, Or, wanting that, with tears distill'd by moans: