_1._ I by my troth Mistresse is it, it had need be mended. _Enter Seruingman._ _Ser_: Alack alack what shal I doe, come Fidlers play me some mery dumpe. _1._ A sir, this is no time to play. _Ser_: You will not then? 85 _1._ No marry will wee. _Ser_: Then will I giue it you, and soundly to. _1._ What will you giue vs? _Ser_: The fidler, Ile re you, Ile fa you, Ile sol you. _1._ If you re vs and fa vs, we will note you. 90 _Ser_: I will put vp my Iron dagger, and beate you with my wodden wit. Come on Simon found Pot, Ile pose you, _1._ Lets heare. _Ser_: When griping griefe the heart doth wound, And dolefull dumps the minde oppresse: 95 Then musique with her siluer sound, Why siluer sound? Why siluer sound? _1._ I thinke because musicke hath a sweet sound. _Ser_: Pretie, what say you Mathew minikine? _2._ I thinke because Musitions sound for siluer. 100 _Ser_: Prettie too: come, what say you? _3._ I say nothing. _Ser_: I thinke so, Ile speake for you because you are the Singer. I saye Siluer sound, because such Fellowes as you haue sildome Golde for sounding. Farewell Fidlers, 105 farewell. _Exit._ _1._ Farewell and be hangd: come lets goe. _Exeunt._ [Sidenote: [SC. XX.]] _Enter Romeo._ _Rom_: If I may trust the flattering Eye of Sleepe, My Dreame presagde some good euent to come. My bosome Lord sits chearfull in his throne, And I am comforted with pleasing dreames. Me thought I was this night alreadie dead: 5 (Strange dreames that giue a dead man leaue to thinke) And that my Ladie _Iuliet_ came to me, And breathd such life with kisses in my lips, That I reuiude and was an Emperour. _Enter Balthasar his man booted._ Newes from _Verona_. How now _Balthasar_, 10 How doth my Ladie? Is my Father well? How fares my _Juliet_? that I aske againe: If she be well, then nothing can be ill. _Balt_: Then nothing can be ill, for she is well, Her bodie sleepes in _Capels_ Monument, 15 And her immortall parts with Angels dwell. Pardon me Sir, that am the Messenger of such bad tidings. _Rom_: Is it euen so? then I defie my Starres. Goe get me incke and paper, hyre post horse, I will not stay in _Mantua_ to night. 20 _Balt_: Pardon me Sir, I will not leaue you thus, Your lookes are dangerous and full of feare: I dare not, nor I will not leaue you yet. _Rom_: Doo as I bid thee, get me incke and paper, And hyre those horse: stay not I say. 25 _Exit Balthasar._