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Should, in the fartheft Eaft, begin to draw
The fhady Curtains from Aurora's Bed,
Away from light fteals 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 muft this Humour prove,
Unless good Counsel may the Caufe 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 felf, and many other Friends;
But he, his own Affections Counsellor,
Is to himself (I will not fay how true)
But to himself fo fecret and so close,
So far from founding and discovery,
As is the bud bit with an envious Worm,
E'er he can spread his fweet 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: fo please you ftep afide, I'll know his Grievance, or be much deny'd.
Moun. I would thou wert fo happy by thy ftay, 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, fad hours feem long.
Was that my Father that went hence fo faft?
Ben. It was: What fadnefs lengthens Romeo's hours?
Rom. Not having that, which having, makes them short.
Ben. In Love?
Ben, Of Love?
Rom. Out of her Favour, where I am in Love, Ben. Alas, that Love fo gentle in his view, Should be fo tyrannous and rough in proof.
Rom. Alas, that Love, whofe view is muffled ftill, Should without Eyes, fee path-ways to his will:
Where shall we dine?O me!--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, O brawling Love! O loving Hate!
any thing of nothing firft create:
O heavy Lightness, serious Vanity,
Mishapen Chaos of well-feeming Forms,
Feather of Lead, bright Smoke, cold Fire, fick Health,
Still-waking Sleep, that is not what it is:
This Love 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 Oppreffion.
Rom. Why fuch is Love's Tranfgreffion.
Griefs of mine own lye heavy in my Breaft;
Which thou wilt propagate to have it prest
With more of thine, this Love that thou haft 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 fparkling in Lovers Eyes,
Being vext, a Sea nourish'd with loving Tears;
What is it elfe? a madness moft difcreet,
A choaking Gall, and a preferving Sweet:
Farewel, my Coz.
Ben. Soft, I will go along.
And if you leave me fo, you do me wrong.
Rom. But I have loft my felf, I am not here,
This is not Romeo, he's fome other where.
Ben. Tell me in fadness, who is that you love?
Rom. What, fhall I groan and tell thee?
Ben Groan? why no; but fadly tell me, who.
Rom. A fick Man in good fadnefs makes his will.
O, word ill urg'd to one that is fo ill
In fadness, Coufin, I do love a Woman.
Ben. I aim'd fo near, when I fuppos'd you lov'd. Rom. A right good Marks-man, and fhe's fair I love. Ben. A right fair mark, fair Coz, is fooneft hit. Rom. Well in that hit you mifs, fhe'll not be hit With Cupid's Arrow; the hath Dian's Wit:
And in ftrong proof of Chastity well arm'd;
From Love's weak childish Bow, fhe lives uncharm'd.
She will not flay the Siege of loving Terms,
Nor bide th' Encounter of affailing Eyes,
Nor ope her Lap to Saint-feducing Gold:
O fhe is rich in Beauty, only poor,
That when the dies, with Beauty dies her store.
Ben. Then the hath fworn, that the will ftill live chaftes Rom. She hath, and in that fparing makes huge waste. For Beauty ftarv'd with her feverity,
Cuts Beauty off from all Pofterity.
She is too fair, too wife; wifely too fair,
To merit Blifs by making me despair:
She hath forfworn to love, and in that Vow
Do I live dead, that live to tell it now.
Ben. Be rul'd by me, forget to think of her.
Rom. O teach me how I fhould forget to think,
Ben. By giving liberty unto thine Eyes;
Rom. 'Tis the way to call hers (exquifite) in queftion more. Thofe happy Masks that kifs fair Ladies Brows, Being black, put us in mind they hide the fair, He that is ftrucken blind, cannot forget The precious Treasure of his Eye-fight loft. Shew me a Miftrefs that is paffing fair; What doth her Beauty ferve, but as a Note, Where I may read who paft that paffing fair. Farewel, thou canst not teach me to forget.
Ben. I'll pay that doctrine, or elfe die in debt. [Exeunt
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 fo long:
But now, my Lord, what fay you to my Suit?
Cap. But faying o'er what I have faid before:
My Child is yet a Stranger in the World,
She hath not feen the change of fourteen Years,
Let two more Summers wither in their Pride,
E'er we may think her ripe to be a Bride.
Par, Younger than the are happy Mothers made,
Cap. And too foon marr'd are thofe fo early made;
Earth up hath fwallowed all my hopes but the,
She is the hopeful Lady of my Earth:
But woo her, gentle Paris, get her Heart,
My will to her confent is but a part,
And the agree, within her fcope of choice
Lies my confent, and fair according Voice:
This Night, I hold an old accuftom'd Feast,
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 Houfe, look to behold this Night,
Earth-treading Stars that make dark Heaven light,
Such comfort as do lufty young Men feel,
When well-apparell'd April on the heel
Of limping Winter treads, even fuch delight
Among fresh Female buds fhall you this Night
Inherit at my Houfe; hear all, all see,
And like her moft, whofe merit most shall be:
Which one more view, of many, mine being one,
May ftand in number, though in reck'ning none.
Come, go with me. Go, Sirrah, trudge about,
Through fair Verona, find thofe Perfons out,
Whose Names are written there, and to them fay,
My Houfe and Welcome on their pleafure ftay [Ex. Cap. Par
Ser. Find them out whofe Names are written here? It is
written, that the Shooe-maker fhould 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 thofe Per
fons whofe Names are writ, and can never find what Names.
the writing Perfon hath here writ, (1 must to the Learned}
in good time.
Enter Benvolio and Romeo.
Ben. Tut Man, one Fire burns out another's burning,
One pain is leffen'd by another's anguish;
Turn giddy, and be holp by backward turning,
One defperate Grief cures with another's languish:
Take thou fome new Infection to the Eye,
And the rank Poifon 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 Prifon, 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 Mifery.
Ser. Perhaps you have learn'd it without Book
But, I pray, can you read any thing you fee?
Rom. Ay, if I know the Letters and the Language.
Ser. Ye fay honeftly, reft you merry.
Rom. Stay Fellow, I can read.
Ignior Martino, and his Wife and Daughter: Count AnTelm and his beauteous Sifters; the Lady Widow of Vitruvio, Signior Placentio, and his lovely Nieces; Mercutio and his Brother Valentine; mine Uncle Capulet, his Wife and Daughters; my fair Niece Rofaline, Livia, Signior Valentio, and his Coufin Tybalt; Lucio, and the lovely Helena.
A fair Affembly; whither fhould they come?
Rom. Whither? to Supper?
Ser. To our Houfe.
Rom. Whofe Houfe?
Ser. My Mafter's.
Rom. Indeed I fhould have askt you that before.
Ser. Now I'll tell you without asking. My Mafter is the great rich Capulet, and if you be not of the Houfe of Mountagues, I pray come and crush a Cup of Wine. Reft you
Ben. At this fame ancient Feaft of Capulets,
Sups the fair Rofaline, whom thou fo loveft;
With all the admired Beauties of Verona:
Go thither, and with unattainted Eye,
Compare her Face with fome that I fhall fhew,
And I will make thee think thy Swan a Crow.