Who is calling Friar Laurence?
—Madam Juliet! how d'ye do?
Dear me—talk of the—beg pardon—
I've been talking about you.
Mistress Montagu, they tell me
You on Thursday mean to wed!
It is strange you never told me
That poor Mister M. was dead!
M.'s alive! yet County Paris
I'm to marry, people say!
(I shall marry the whole county
If I go on in this way:)
Once you've wedded me already,
If I wed again, you see,
Though in you a little error,
'Twill be very big o' me.
'Pon my life, it's very awkward!
I'll on some expedient hit;
If you'll find me ready money,
I will find you ready wit:
I can't let you wed a second
Ere I know the first has died;
Think of faggots! for such deeds, ma'am,
Holy friars have been fried!
'Tan't my wish, sir, nor intention,—
Any scheme of yours I'll hail;
To escape from County Paris,
Put me in the county jail:
Kill me dead! and make me food for
Earthworm, viper, toad, or rat;
Make a widower of Ro-me-
-O,—('twill hurt me to do that!)
If you've really resolution
That your life-blood should be spilt,
I will save you, for I'll have you
Not quite killed, but merely kilt:
Could you in a vault be buried—
Horizontal—in a niche?
And of death so good a copy,
None could find out which is which?
I would vault into a vault, sir,
With a dead man in his shroud;
I'd do any dirty work, sir,
Though my family's so proud!
I'll do whatsoe'er you bid me,
'Till you say I've done enough:
Nay, sir, much as I dislike it,
I'll take 'poticary's stuff!
Then go home, ma'am, and be merry;
Say that Paris you will wed;
Tell your nurse you've got a headache,
And go quietly to bed:
Ask for something warm,—some negus,
Grog, or gruel, or egg-flip,
Put in this, and then drink quickly,—
'Tis so nauseous if you sip.
Give, oh! give me quick the phial,
From the trial I'll not shrink,—
Is it shaken when it's taken?
Gracious me! it's black as ink!
There's no fear, I trust, of failure?—
No—I doubt not its effect;
From your conversation's tenor
No base phial I expect.
You will have the bridegroom follow,
Where he generally leads;
'Stead of hymeneal flowers,
He will wear sepulchral weeds:
I to Romeo will quickly
Write a letter by the post;
He will wake you, and should Paris
Meet you,—say you are your ghost!
'Tis an excellent arrangement,
As you bid me I will act;
But within the tomb, dear friar,
Place a basket nicely pack'd;—
Just a loaf, a tongue, a chicken,
Port and sherry, and some plums;
It will really be a comfort
Should I wake e'er Romeo comes!