Hold, daughter: I do spy a kind of hope,Which craves as desperate an execution.As that is desperate which we would prevent.If, rather than to marry County Paris,Thou hast the strength of will to slay thyself,Then is it likely thou wilt undertakeA thing like death to chide away this shame,That copest with death himself to scape from it:And, if thou darest, I’ll give thee remedy.

What if it be a poison, which the friarSubtly hath minister’d to have me dead,Lest in this marriage he should be dishonour’d,Because he married me before to Romeo

O me, O me! My child, my only life,Revive, look up, or I will die with thee!Help, help! Call help.