A Story of Woe

Prince: This letter doth make good the Friar's words,
Their course of love, the tidings of her death:
And here he writes, that he did buy a poison
Of a poor 'pothecary, and therewithal,
Came to this vault, to die and lie with Juliet.
Where be these enemies? Capulet, Montague?
See what a scourge is laid upon your hate!
That heaven finds means to kill your joys with love,
And I for winking at your discords too,
Have lost a brace of kinsmen: all are punish'd.

Capulet: O brother Montague, give me thy hand,
This is my daughter's jointure, for no more can I demand.

Montague: But I can give thee more,
For I will raise her statue in pure gold,
That whiles Verona by that name in known,
There shall no figure at such rate be set,
As that of true and faithful Juliet.
Capulet: As rich shall Romeo's by his Lady's lie,
Poor sacrifices of our enmity.

Prince: A glooming peace this morning with it brings,
The Sun for sorrow will not show his head:
Go hence to have more talk of these sad things,
Some shall be pardon'd, and some punished.
For never was a story of more woe,
Than this of Juliet and her Romeo.