‘What said my man, when my betossed soul
Did not attend him as we rode? I think
He told me Paris should have married Juliet.’
And again, just before he hears the sudden tidings of her death—
‘If I may trust the flattery of sleep,
My dreams presage some joyful news at hand;
My bosom’s lord sits lightly on his throne,
And all this day an unaccustom’d spirit
Lifts me above the ground with cheerful thoughts.
I dreamt my lady came and found me dead,