My man, Balthasar, did bring me news of the end of the world.
O, ’tis not the end of earth, nor sky, nor heaven nor hell—nay, those worlds go on, eternal, unaltered. ’Tis only my world that ends here, now, today.
The beginning of the end of it is Juliet’s death; the end of the end shall be my own, and to that end I have coerced a needy apothecary to disregard the edicts of Mantua by selling to me a potion bent for death. He at first denied me, then saw my gold. And so he sold the draught, and having convinced him to defy the law, I have enabled myself to defy the stars.
For if I cannot live with Juliet, I will surely die with her!
No matter the things I shall be missing. I shall not
think on them. I shall not wonder about all the games of billiards and pall-mall I shall miss, or the nights playing hands of basset with my fellows, wagering wisely on the turn of the cards and gladly relieving them of their ducats and silver. I will not think of the untasted sips of well-aged wine, nor of all the dances that will go undanced, the duels unduelled, the books I shall ne‘er read nor all the good trouble I will not be round to cause. I suppose I do not care that I will never again best Benvolio in a bocce match. Nay. ’Tis better to die, than to drink wine or play cards or dance or duel or bowl in a world where there is no Juliet.
’Tis the end of Juliet, and in the end, she is the only world that matters.
Balthasar complains that the march from Mantua is a taxing one. I speak not at all, clutching my vial of poison. When we reach the boundary of Verona, I lead him direct to the churchyard.
“Hold, take this letter,” I tell him. “Early in the morning see thou deliver it to my lord and father. Upon thy life, I charge thee, whate’er thou hearest or seest, stand all aloof and do not interrupt me in my course.”
“I will be gone, sir,” Balthasar assures me, “and not trouble you.”
As he takes his leave, methinks I hear him whisper that he will hide nearby, but I am too intent upon my purpose to pay him any heed.