Art thou gone so? love, lord, ay, husband, friend! I must hear from thee every day in the hour, For in a minute there are many days: O, by this count I shall be much in years Ere I again behold my Romeo!

Farewell! I will omit no opportunity That may convey my greetings, love, to thee.

I doubt it not; and all these woes shall serve For sweet discourses in our time to come.

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.

And trust me, love, in my eye so do you: Dry sorrow drinks our blood. Adieu, adieu! Exit.