And, in ftrong proof of chastity well arm'd,
From love's weak childish bow, fhe lives unharm'd.
She will not ftay the fiege of loving terms,
Nor 'bide th' encounter of affailing eyes,
Nor ope her lap to faint-feducing gold.
O, fhe is rich in beauty; only poor,

That when she dies, with der dies Beauty's Store.
Ben. Then he hath fworn, that he will fill live
chafte ?

Rom. She hath, and in that Sparing makes huge
wafte.

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; Examine other Beauties.

Rom. 'Tis the way

To call hers (exquifite) in queftion more;
Those 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 pafs'd that paffing fair?
Farewel, thou canst not teach me to forget.

Ben. I'll pay that doctrine, or else die in debt.

Enter Capulet, Paris, and Servant.

Cap. And Montague is bound as well as I,
In penalty alike; and 'tis not hard
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:

[Exeunt.

But

But now, my lord, what fay you to my Suit?
Cap. But faying 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 fummers wither in their pride,
Ere 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: The earth hath fwallow'd 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; If the agree, within her fcope of choice Lies my confent, and fair according voice: This night, I hold an old-accuftom'd Feaft, Whereto I have invited many a guest, Such as I love; and you, among the flore, One more, most welcome, makes my number more. At my poor houfe, look to behold this night Earth-treading ftars that make dark heaven's light. Such comfort as do lufty young men feel, When well-apparel'd April on the heel Of limping Winter treads, even fuch delight Among fresh female-buds fhall you this night Inherit at my house; hear all, all fee, And like her moft, whofe merit moft fhall be: Which on more view of many, mine, being one, May ftand in number, tho' in reck'ning none. Come, go with me. Go, firrah, trudge about, Through fair Verona; find thofe perfons out, Whofe names are written there; and to them fay, My house and welcome on their pleasure stay. [Exeunt Capulet and Paris.

Ser. Find them out, whofe names are written here?— It is written, that the Shoe 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 Perfons, whofe names are here writ; and can never find what names the writing perfon hath here writ. I muft to the Learned. In good Enter

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 help'd by backward turning;
One defperate grief cure with another's Languish:
Take thou fome new infection to the eye,
And the rank poyfon of the old will die.
Rom. Your plantan leaf is excellent for That.
Ben. For what, I pray thee?

Rom. For your broken fhin.

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-

low.

Good-e'en, good fel[To the Servant. 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.

[He reads the letter.

Ignior Martino, and his wife and daughters: Count

Vitruvio; Signior Placentio, and bis lovely neices; Mercutio and his brother Valentine; mine uncle Capulet, his wife and daughters; my fair neice Rofaline; Livia; Signior Valentio, and his coufin Tybalt; Lucio, and the lively Helena.

A fair affembly; whither fhould they come? (2)

(2) A fair Assembly: Whither should they come? Serv. Up.

Rom. Whither? to Supper?

Serv. To our Houfe.] Romeo had read over the Lift of invited. Guests; but he must be a Prophet, to know they were invited to Supper. This comes much more aptly from the Servant's Answer, than Romeo's Question; and must undoubtedly be placed to him, Mr. Warburton

Ser. Up.
Rom. Whither?

Ser. To fupper, to our house.
Rom. Whole house?

Ser. My mafter's.

Rom. Indeed, I should 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 House of Montagues, I pray, come and crush a cup of wine. Reft [Exit.

you merry.

Ben. At this fame antient Feast of Capulet's
Sups the fair Rofaline, whom thou fo lov'ft;
With all th' admired beauties of Verona.
Go thither, and, with unattainted eye,
Compare her face with fome that I fhall show,
And I will make thee think thy Swan a Crow.

Rom. When the devout religion of mine eye Maintains fuch falsehoods, then turn tears to fires! And thefe, who, often drown'd, could never die, Transparent hereticks, be burnt for liars! One fairer than my love! th' all-feeing Sun Ne'er faw her match, fince first the world begun. Ben. Tut! tut! you faw her fair, none else being by; Her felf pois'd with her felf, in either eye; But in those cryftal fcales, let there be weigh'd Your Lady-love against some other maid, (3) That I will fhew you, fhining at this feaft; And she will fhew fcant well, that now fhews best.

Rom. I'll go along, no fuch fight to be shewn ; But to rejoice in fplendor of mine own,

[Exeunt

(3)

let there be weigh'd

Tour Lady's Love against fome other Maid.] But the Compazifon was not betwixt the Love that Romeo's Miftrefs paid him, and the Perfon of any other young, Woman: but betwixt Romea's Miftrefs herself, and fome other that should be match'd against her. The Poet therefore muft certainly have wrote; Tour Lady-love against some other Maid. So the Comparison stands right, and sensibly.

SCENE

SCENE changes to Capulet's House.

Enter Lady Capulet, and Nurse.

La. Cap.

NURSE, where's my daughter? call her

forth to me.

Nurfe. Now (by my maiden-head, at twelve Years old) I bade her come; what, lamb,-what, lady-bird, God forbid! where's this girl? what, Juliet ?

Enter Juliet.

Jul. How now, who calls?
Nurfe. Your mother.

Jul. Madam, I am here, what is your will? La. Cap. This is the matter Nurfe, give leave a while, we must talk in fecret; Nurfe, come back again, I have remember'd me, thou shalt hear our counsel : thou know'ft, my daughter's of a pretty age.

Nurfe. Faith, I can tell her age unto an hour.
La. Cap. She's not fourteen.

Nurfe. I'll lay fourteen of my teeth, (and yet to my teen be it spoken, I have but four;) fhe's not fourteen; how long is it now to Lammas-tide?

La. Cap. A fortnight and odd days.

Nurfe. Even or odd, of all days in the year, come Lammas eve at night, fhall fhe be fourteen. Sufan and fhe (God reft all chriftian fouls!) were of an age. Well, Sufan is with God, fhe was too good for me. But as I faid, on Lammas-eve at night shall fhe be fourteen, that shall she, marry, I remember it well. 'Tis fince the earthquake now eleven years, and fhe was wean'd; I never fhall forget it, of all the days in the year, upon that day; for I had then laid worm-wood to my dug, fitting in the Sun under the Dove-house wall, my lord and you were then at Mantua- nay, I do bear a brain. But, as I faid, when it did tafte the worm-woodon the nipple of my dug, and felt it bitter, pretty fool, to fee it teachy, and fall out with the dug. Shake, quoth the Dove-house -'twas no need, I trow, to bid

me