« ZurückWeiter »
Should, in the farthest East, begin to draw
The shady Curtains from Aurora's Bed,
Away from light steals home my heavy Son,
And private in his Chamber pens himself,
Shuts up his Windows, locks fair Day-light out,
And makes himself an artificial Night.
Black and portentous must this Humour prove,
Unless good Counsel may the Cause remove.
Ben. My Noble Uncle, do you know the Cause?
Moun. I neither know it, nor can learn it of him.
Ben. Have you importun'd him by any means?
Moun. Both by my self, and many other Friends;
But he, his own Affections Counsellor,
Is to himself (I will not say how true)
But to himself so secret and so close,
So far from sounding and discovery,
As is the bud bit with an envious Worm,
E’er he can spread his sweet Leaves to the Air,
Or dedicate his Beauty to the fame.
Could we but learn from whence his Sorrows grow,
We would as willingly give Cure, as know.
Ben. See where he comes: so please you step aside,
I'll know his Grievance, or be much deny d.
Moun. I would thou wert so happy by thy stay,
To hear true Shrift. Come, Madam, let's away.' (Exeunt,
Ben. Good Morrow, Coufin,
Rom. Is the day so young?
Ben. But new ftruck nine.
Rom. Ah me, sad hours seem long.
Was that my Father that went hence so fast?
Ben. It was: What sadness lengthens Romeo's hours?
Rom. Not having that, which having, makes them short,
Ben. In Love?
Ben, Of Love?
Rom. Qut of her Favour, where I am in Love,
Ben. Alas, that Love so gentle in his view,
Should be so tyrannous and rough in proof.
Rom. Alas, that Love, whose view is muffled ftill, Should without Eyes, see path-ways to his will:
Where shall we dine?-Ome !----what fray was here!
Yet tell me not, for I have heard it all:
Here's much to do with Hate, but more with Love:
Why then, Obrawling Love! O loving Hate!
any thing of nothing first create :
O heavy Lightness, serious Vanity,
Mishapen Chaos of well-seeming Forms,
Feather of Lead, bright Smoke, cold Fire, lick Health,
Still-waking Sleep, that is not what it is:
feel I, that feel no Love in this. Doft thou not laugh?
Ben. No Coz, I rather weep.
Rom. Good Heart, at what?
Ben. At thy good Heart's Oppression.
Rom. Why such is Love's Transgression.
Griefs of mine own lye heavy in my Breast;
Which thou wilt propagate to have it prest
With more of thine, this Love that thou hast shewn.
Doth add more Grief to too much of mine own.
Love is a smoke made of the fume of Sighs,
Being purg'd, a Fire sparkling in Lovers Eyes,
Being vext, a Sea nourish'd with loving Tears ;
What is it else? a madness most discreet,
A choaking Gall, and a preserving Sweet:
Farewel, my Cor.
Ben. Soft, I will go along.
And if you leave me so, you do me wrong.
Rom. But I have lost my self, I am not here,
This is not Romeo, he's some other where.
Ben. Tell me in fadness, who is that you love?
Rom. What, shall I groan and tell thee?
Beni Groan? why no; but sadly tell me, who.
Rom. A fick Man in good sadness makes his will....
O, word ill urg'd to one that is so ill-
In sadness, Coulin, I do love a Woman.
Bex. I aim'd so near, when I suppos'd you lov’d.
Rom. A right good Marks-man, and she's fair I love.
Ben. A right fair mark, fair Coz, is soonest hit.
Rom. Well in that hit you miss, she'll not be hit
With Cupid's Arrow; she hath Dian's Wit:
And in ftrong proof of Chastity well aim'd;
From Love's weak childish Bow, the lives uncharm’d.
She will not stay the Siege of loving Terms,
Nor bide th’ Encounter of assailing Eyes,
Nor ope her Lap to Saint-seducing Gold:
O fhe is rich in Beauty, only poor,
That when she dies, with Beauty dies her store.
Ben. Then she hath sworn, that she will still live chaltes
Rom. She hath, and in that sparing makes huge waste.
For Beauty starv'd with her severity,
Cuts Beauty off from all Pofterity.
She is too fair, too wise ; wisely too fair,
To merit Bliss by making me despair:
She hath forsworn to love, and in that Vow
Do I live dead, that live to tell it now.
Ben. Be ruld by me, forget to think of here
Rom. O. teach me how I Would forget to think.
Ben. By giving liberty unto thine Eyes ;
Examine other Beauties.
Rom. 'Tis the way to call hers (exquisite) in question more.
Those happy Masks that kiss fair Ladies Brows,
Being black, put us in mind they hide the fair,
He that is strucken blind, cannot forget
The precious Treasure of his Eye-light loft.
Shew me a Mistress that is palling fair;
What doth her Beauty serve, but as a Note,
Where I may read who past that passing fair.
Farewel, thou canst not teach me to forget.
Ben. I'll pay that do&rine, or else die in debt. (Excunt.
Enter Capulet, Paris and Servant.
Cap, Mountague is bound as well as I,
In penalty alike; and 'tis not hard, I think,
For Men fo old as we to keep the Peace.
Par. Of honourable reck’ning are you both,
And pity 'tis you liv'd at odds so long:
But now, my Lord, what say you to my Suit?
Cap. But saying o'er what I have said before:
My Child is yet a Stranger in the World,
She hath not seen the change of fourteen Years,
Let two more Summers wither in their Pride,
E’er wę may think her ripe to be a Bride.
Par, Younger than she are happy Mothers made,
Cap. And too foon marr'd are those so early made :
Earth up hath swallowed all my hopes but she,
She is the hopeful Lady of my Earth:
But woo her, gentle Paris, get her Heart,
My will to her consent is but a part,
And she agree, within her scope of choice
Lies my consent, and fair according Voice:
This Night, I hold an old accustom'd Feaft,
Whereto I have invited many a Guest,
Such as I love, and you among the store,
Once more, most welcome makes my number more:
At my poor House, look to behold this Night,
Earth-treading Stars that make dark Heaven light,
Such comfort as do lusty young Men feel,
When well-apparelld April on the heel
Of limping Winter treads, even such delight
Among fresh Female buds shall you this Night
Inherit at my House; hear all, all see,
And like her most, whose merit most shall be:
Which one more view, of many, mine being one,
May stand in number, though in reck’ning none.
Come, go with me. Go, Sirrah, trudge about,
Through fair Verona, find those Persons out,
Whose Names are written there, and to them say,
My House and Welcome on their pleasure stay [Ex. Cap. Par,
Ser. Find them out whose Names are written here? It is written, that the Shooe-maker should meddle with his Yard, and the Tailor with his Laft, the Fisher with his Pencil, and the Painter with his Nets. But I am fent to find those Per sons whose Names are writ, and can never find what Names the writing Person hath here writ, (i must to the Learned) in good time.
Enter Benvolio and Romeo.
Ben. Tut Man, one Fire burns out anothei's burning,
One pain is lessend by another's anguish;
Turn giddy, and be holp by backward turning,
One desperate Grief cures with another's languilh :
Take thou some new Infection to the Eye,
And the rank Poison of the old will die.
Rom. Your Plantan Leaf is excellent for that.
Ben. For what, I pray thee?
Rom. For your broken Shin.
Ben. Why, Romeo, art thou mad?
Rom. Not mad, but bound more than a mad Man is:
Shut up in Prilon, kept without my Food,
Whipt and tormented; and Good-e’en, good Fellow.
Ser. God gi' Good-e'en : I pray, Sir, can you read?
Rom. Ay, mine own Fortune in my Misery.
Ser. Perhaps you have learn'd it without Book
But, I pray, can you read any thing you see?
Rom. Ay, if I know the Letters and the Language.
Ser. Ye Lay honestly, reft you merry.
Rom. Stay, Fellow, I can read.
He reads the Letter,
Ignior Martino, and his wife and Daughter : Count An-
lelm and his beauteous Sisters; the Lady Widow of Vitruyio, Signior Placentio, and his lovely Nieces; Mercutio and bis Brother Valentine; mine Uncle Capulet, bis wife and Daughters; my fair Nięce Rosaline, Livia, Signior Valentio, and his Cousin Tybalt; Lucio, and the lovely Helena. A fair Assembly; whither should they come?
Rom. Whither? to Supper?
Ser. To our House.
Ķome Whore House?
Ser. My Master's.
Rom. Indeed I should have askt you that before.
Ser. Now I'll tell you without asking. My Master is the great rich Capulet, and if you be not of the House of Mountagues, I pray come and crush a Cup of Wine. Rest you merry,
[Exit. Ben. At this same ancient Feast of Capulets, Sups the fair Rosaline, whom thou so lovest; With all the admired Beauties of Verona: Go thither, and with unattainted Eye, Compare her Face with some that I shall shew, And I will make thee think thy Swan a Crow.