of a man; Thy dear love is set on mine; And all things change them to the sun. Could we but learn from whence his sorrows grow, We would as willingly give cure as know. Enter Romeo. ROMEO. Father, what news? What hast thou there? The cords that Romeo bid thee run away. PARIS. I do remember an apothecary,— And hereabouts he dwells,—which late I noted In tatter’d weeds, with overwhelming brows, Culling of simples, meagre were his looks,