[ROSALINE kneels, in a simple white shift, on the cold ground in front of the tomb. She knows no stone will roll aside in three days' time to end this tale on a happy note.
In her hand, a dagger.]
Thy love for me ran warm, not hot.
And so, my love, love it was not.
Upon thy heart my heart was set
But thou, my love, loved Juliet.
I held myself aloof from thee
To stir thy soul to jealousy.
My love for thee I did not show,
To master thee, fair Romeo.
But now that tack I do regret:
Thy love for me thou didst forget.
With folded arms and brow hard-set
I drove thee straight to Capulet.
Where perished thee, in loving arms -
Had I but op'd to thee my charms!
Had I but chosen more to give,
In mine own arms thou yet wouldst live.
I saw thee buried yesterday
I can no more behind thee stay.
And so with thee at last I wed:
I lay me on mine own deathbed.
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