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Whence hope and dread by striving thoughts had banished friendly rest.

Know therefore, daughter, that with other gifts which I

Have well attainéd to, by grace and favour of the sky,

Long since I did find out, and yet the way I know

Of certain roots and savoury herbs to make a kind of dough,

Which bakéd hard, and beat into a powder fine,

And drunk with conduit water, or with any kind of wine,

It doth in half an hour astonne the taker so,

And mast'reth all his senses, that he feeleth weal nor woe:

And so it burieth up the sprite and living breath,

That even the skilful leech would say, that he is slain by death.

One virtue more it hath, as marvellous as this;

The taker, by receiving it, at all not grievéd is;

But painless as a man that thinketh nought at all,

Into a sweet and quiet sleep immediately doth fall;

From which, according to the quantity he taketh,

Longer or shorter is the time before the sleeper waketh;

And thence, th'effect once wrought, again it doth restore

Him that received unto the state wherein he was before.

Wherefore, mark well the end of this my tale begun,

And thereby learn what is by thee hereafter to be done.

Cast off from thee at once the weed of womanish dread,

With manly courage arm thyself from heel unto the head;

For only on the fear or boldness of thy breast

The happy hap or ill mishap of thy affair doth rest.

Receive this vial small and keep it as thine eye;

And on thy marriage day, before the sun do clear the sky,

Fill it with water full up to the very brim,

Then drink it off, and thou shalt feel throughout each vein and limb

A pleasant slumber slide, and quite dispread at length

On all thy parts, from every part reave all thy kindly strength;

Withouten moving thus thy idle parts shall rest,

No pulse shall go, ne heart once beat within thy hollow breast,

But thou shalt lie as she that dieth in a trance:

Thy kinsmen and thy trusty friends shall wail the sudden chance;

Thy corpse then will they bring to grave in this churchyard,

Where thy forefathers long ago a costly tomb prepared,

Both for themself and eke for those that should come after,

Both deep it is, and long and large, where thou shalt rest, my daughter,

Till I to Mantua send for Romeus, thy knight;

Out of the tomb both he and I will take thee forth that night.

And when out of thy sleep thou shalt awake again,

Then may'st thou go with him from hence; and, healéd of thy pain,

In Mantua lead with him unknown a pleasant life;

And yet perhaps in time to come, when cease shall all the strife,

And that the peace is made 'twixt Romeus and his foes,

Myself may find so fit a time these secrets to disclose,

Both to my praise, and to thy tender parents' joy,

That dangerless, without reproach, thou shalt thy love enjoy."

When of his skilful tale the friar had made an end,

To which our Juliet well her ear and wits did bend,

That she hath heard it all and hath forgotten nought,

Her fainting heart was comforted with hope and pleasant thought,

And then to him she said: "Doubt not but that I will

With stout and unappalléd heart your happy hest fulfil.

Yea, if I wist it were a venomous deadly drink,

Rather would I that through my throat the certain bane should sink,

Than I, not drinking it, into his hands should fall,

That hath no part of me as yet, ne ought to have at all.

Much more I ought with bold and with a willing heart

To greatest danger yield myself, and to the deadly smart,

To come to him on whom my life doth wholly stay,

That is my only heart's delight, and so he shall be aye."

"Then go," quoth he, "my child, I pray that God on high

Direct thy foot, and by thy hand upon the way thee guie.

God grant he so confirm in thee thy present will,

That no inconstant toy thee let thy promise to fulfil."

A thousand thanks and more our Juliet gave the friar,

And homeward to her father's house joyful she doth retire;

And as with stately gait she passéd through the street,

She saw her mother in the door, that with her there would meet,