On the Wednesday night Juliet drank off the potion.  She had many misgivings, lest the friar, to avoid the blame which might be imputed to him for marrying her to Romeo, had given her poison; but then he was always known for a holy man:  then lest she should awake before the time that Romeo was to come for her; whether the terror of the place, a vault full of dead Capulets’ bones, and where Tybalt, all bloody, lay festering in his shroud, would not be enough to drive her distracted:  again she thought of all the stories she had heard of spirits haunting the places where their bodies are bestowed.  But then her love for Romeo, and her aversion for Paris, returned, and she desperately swallowed the draught, and became insensible.

When young Paris came early in the morning with music, to awaken his bride, instead of a living Juliet, her chamber presented the dreary spectacle of a lifeless corse.  What death to his hopes!  What confusion then reigned through the whole house!  Poor Paris lamenting his bride, whom most detestable death had beguiled him of, had divorced from him even before their hands were joined.  But still more piteous it was to hear the mournings of the old lord and lady Capulet, who having but this one, one poor loving child to rejoice and solace in, cruel death had snatched her from their sight, just as these careful parents were on the point of seeing her advanced (as they thought) by a promising and advantageous match.  Now all things that were ordained for the festival, were turned from their properties to do the office of a black funeral.  The wedding cheer served for a sad burial feast, the bridal hymns were changed to sullen dirges, the sprightly instruments to melancholy bells, and the flowers that should have been strewed in the bride’s path, now served but to strew her corse.  Now instead of a priest to marry her, a priest was needed to bury her; and she was borne to church indeed, not to augment the cheerful hopes of the living, but to swell the dreary numbers of the dead.

Bad news, which always travels faster than good, now brought the dismal story of his Juliet’s death to Romeo at Mantua, before the messenger could arrive, who was sent from friar Lawrence to apprize him that these were mock funerals only and but the shadow and representation of death, and that his dear lady lay in the tomb but for a short while, expecting when Romeo would come to release her from that dreary mansion.  Just before, Romeo had been unusually joyful and light-hearted.  He had dreamed in the night that he was dead (a strange dream, that gave a dead man leave to think), and that his lady came and found him dead, and breathed such life with kisses in his lips, that he revived, and was an emperor!  And now that a messenger came from Verona, he thought surely it was to confirm some good news which his dreams had presaged.  But when the contrary to this flattering vision appeared, and that it was his lady who was dead in truth, whom