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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 ili Where fhall 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!
Ob, any thing of nothing first create!
O heavy lightnefs? ferious vanity!
Mif fhapen chaos of well-feeming forms!

Feather of lead, bright imoak, cold fire, fick health,
Still-waking fleep, that is not what it is!
This love feel 1, that feel no love in this.
Doft chou 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 lie heavy in my breast;
Which thou wilt propagate, to have them prefs'd
With more of thine; this love that thou hast shewn,
Doth add more grief to too much of mine own.
Love is a imoak rais'd with the tume of fighs,
Being purg'd, a fire fparkling in lovers' eyes;.
Being vex'd, a fea nourifh'd with lovers' tears;;
What is it elfe? a madness most discreet,
A choking gall, and a preferving fweet.
Farewell, my coufin,

Ben. Soft, i'll go along.

And if you leave me lo, you do me wrong.
Rom. Tut, I have loft myself, I am not here;
This is not Romeo, he a fome other where.


Ben. Tell me in facnels, who fhe is you love..
Rom. What, thall I grone, and tell thee?
Ben. Grone? why, no; but fadly tell me who,
Rom. Bid a fick man in fadness make his will?
O word ill urg'd to one that is fo ill ! -.
In fadness, coufin, I do love a woman,

Ben, aim'd fo near, when I fuppos'd you lov'd.
Rom. A right good markfman;—and she's fair
I love.

Ben. A right fair mark, fair coz, is soonest hit.

Rom. But in that hit you mifs;-fhe'll not be hit With Cupid's arrow; fhe hath Dian's wit: And, in ftrong proof of chastity well arm'd, From love's weak childish bow the 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 her dies Beauty's ftore.

Ben. Then the hath fworn, that she will still live chafte?

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Rom. She hath, and in that fparing makes hugeFor 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 her's (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.

[Exeunt: SCENE III. Enter Capulet, Paris, and Servante

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


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 fuit?

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 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 those fo early made.
The earth hath fwallow'd 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 confent is but a part;
It the agree, within her scope of choice
Lies my confent, and fair according voice.
This night I hold an old-accustom'd feast,
Whereto I have invited many a guest,
Such as I love; and you among the store,
One more, most welcome, makes my number more:
At my poor houfe, look to behold this night
Earth-treading ftars that make dark even 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 fee,
And like her most whofe merit moft fhall be:
Which one more view of many, mine, being one,
May ftand in number, though 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 houfe and welcome on their pleasure stay.
[Exeunt Capulet and Paris,

Ser. Find them out whofe names are written here? It is written that the fhoemaker fhould meddle with his yard, and the tailor with his laft, the fifher with his pencil, and the painter with his nets. But I am fent to find those persons whofe names are here writ? and can never find what names the writing perfon hath here writ. I 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 help'd by backward turning;

One defperate grief cure with another's languish:
Take thou fome 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 fhin.

Ben. Why, Romeo, art thou mad?

Rom. Not mad, but bound more than a madman is : Shut up in prifon, kept without my food, Whipp'd and tormented: and-Good e'en, good fellow. [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.

Signior Martino, and his wife and daughters; Count Anfelm, and his beauteous fifters; the Lady, widow of Vitruvio; Signior Placentio, and his lovely nieces; Mercutio and his brother Valentine; mine uncle Gapulet, his wife and daughters; my fair niece Rofaline; Livia; Signior Valentic, and his coufin Tybalt; Lucio, and the lively Helena A fair affembly; whither should they come?

Ser. Up..

Rom. Whither?

Ser. To fupper, to our houfe,

Rom. Whofe houfe?

Ser. My mafter's.

Rom. Indeed I should have afk'd 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 Montagues, I pray, come, and crush a cup of wine. Reft you merry.



Ben. At this fame ancient 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 fhow,
And I will make thee think thy fwan a crow.

Rom. When the devout religion of mine eye Maintains fuch falfehoods, then turn tears to fires! And these who, often drown'd, could never die, Transparent heretics, be burnt for lyars! One fairer than my love! th' all-seeing fun Ne'er faw her match fince first the world begun.

Ben. Tut! tut! you saw her fair, none elle being by; Herself pois'd with herself, in either eye: But in thofe cryftal fcales, let there be weigh'd Your lady's love against some other maid, That I will fhew you, thining at this feast; And she will fhew fcant well, that now fhews best. Rom. I'll go along, no fuch fight to be fhewn; But to rejoice in fplendor of mine own.


SCENE IV. Changes to Capulet's house. Enter lady Capulet and Nurse.

La. Cap. Nurfe, where's my daughter? call her forth

to me.

Nurfe. Now (by my maidenhead, 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: nurie, come back again, I have remember'd me, thou fhalt hear our countel: thou know't 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,

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