Jul. Art thou gone so? Love, lord, ay, husband, friend!
I must hear from thee every day in the hour, 44
For in a minute there are many days:
O! by this count I shall be much in years
Ere I again behold my Romeo.
Rom. Farewell! 48
I will omit no opportunity
That may convey my greetings, love, to thee.
Jul. O! think'st thou we shall ever meet again?
Rom. I doubt it not; and all these woes shall serve 52
For sweet discourses in our time to come.
Jul. O God! I have an ill-divining soul:
Methinks I see thee, now thou art so low,
As one dead in the bottom of a tomb: 56
Either my eyesight fails, or thou look'st pale.
Rom. And trust me, love, in my eye so do you:
Dry sorrow drinks our blood. Adieu! adieu! Exit.
Jul. O fortune, fortune! all men call thee fickle: 60
If thou art fickle, what dost thou with him
That is renown'd for faith? Be fickle, fortune;
For then, I hope, thou wilt not keep him long,
But send him back. 64
Lady Cap. [Within.] Ho, daughter! are you up?
Jul. 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?
Enter Mother.
Lady Cap. Why, how now, Juliet!
Jul. Madam, I am not well. 69
54 ill-divining: foreboding evil
59 Dry sorrow; cf. n.
67 down: in bed
68 procures: brings
