_Romeo._ I doubt it not; and all these woes shall serve For sweet discourses in our time to come.
_Juliet._ O God, I have an ill-divining soul! Methinks I see thee, now thou art below, As one dead in the bottom of a tomb; Either my eyesight fails, or thou look'st pale.
_Romeo._ And trust me, love, in my eye so do you; Dry sorrow drinks our blood. Adieu, adieu! [_Exit._
_Juliet._ O Fortune, Fortune! all men call thee fickle; If thou art fickle, what dost thou with him 60 That is renown'd for faith? Be fickle, Fortune; For then, I hope, thou wilt not keep him long, But send him back.
_Lady Capulet._ [_Within_] Ho, daughter! are you up?
_Juliet._ Who is 't that calls? is it my lady mother? Is she not down so late, or up so early? What unaccustom'd cause procures her hither?
_Lady Capulet._ Evermore weeping for your cousin's death? What, wilt thou wash him from his grave with tears? An if thou couldst, thou couldst not make him live; 70 Therefore, have done. Some grief shows much of love, But much of grief shows still some want of wit.
_Juliet._ Yet let me weep for such a feeling loss.
_Lady Capulet._ So shall you feel the loss, but not the friend Which you weep for.
_Juliet._ Feeling so the loss, I cannot choose but ever weep the friend.
_Lady Capulet._ Well, girl, thou weep'st not so much for his death As that the villain lives which slaughter'd him.
_Lady Capulet._ That same villain, Romeo.
_Juliet._ Villain and he be many miles asunder.-- 80 God pardon him! I do, with all my heart; And yet no man like he doth grieve my heart.
_Lady Capulet._ That is, because the traitor murtherer lives.
_Juliet._ Ay, madam, from the reach of these my hands. Would none but I might venge my cousin's death!
_Lady Capulet._ We will have vengeance for it, fear thou not; Then weep no more. I'll send to one in Mantua, Where that same banish'd runagate doth live, Shall give him such an unaccustom'd dram That he shall soon keep Tybalt company; 90 And then, I hope, thou wilt be satisfied.
_Juliet._ Indeed, I never shall be satisfied With Romeo, till I behold him--dead-- Is my poor heart so for a kinsman vex'd.-- Madam, if you could find out but a man To bear a poison, I would temper it, That Romeo should, upon receipt thereof, Soon sleep in quiet. O, how my heart abhors To hear him nam'd, and cannot come to him, To wreak the love I bore my cousin 100 Upon his body that hath slaughter'd him!