Sam. Draw, if you be men. Gregory, remember thy fwashing blow. [They fight. Ben. Part, fools, put up your fwords, you know not what you do.
Enter Tybalt.
Tyb. What, art thou drawn among these heartless hinds? Tum thee, Benvolio, look upon thy death.
Ben, I do but keep the peace; put up thy fword, Or manage it to part thefe men with me.
Tyb. What! drawn, and talk of peace? I hate the word As I hate hell, all Mountagues, and thee: Have at thee, coward.
[Fight.
Enter three or four Citizens with clubs. Off. Clubs, bills, and partizans! ftrike! beat them down! Down with the Capulets, down with the Mountagues!
Enter old Capulet in his gown, and Lady Capulet. Cap. What noife is this? give me my long fword, ho! La. Cap. A crutch, a crutch: why call you for a fword? Cap. A fword, I fay old Montague is come, And flourishes his blade in fpight of me.
Enter old Mountague and Lady Mountague. Moun. Thou villain, Capulet Hold me not, let me gos La. Moun. Thou shalt not ftir a foot to feek a foe. Enter Prince with Attendants.
Prin. Rebellious fubjects, enemies to peace,
Prophaners of this neighbour-ftained feel
Will they not hear? what ho! you men, you beats,
That quench the fire of your pernicious rage,
With purple fountains iffuing from your veins :
On pain of torture, from thofe bloody hands
Throw your fif-temper'd weapons to the ground,
And hear the fentence of your moved Prince.
Three civil broils, bred of an airy word,
By thee, old Capulet, and Mountague,
Have thrice difturb'd the quiet of our streets,
And made Verona's ancient citizens
Caft by their grave befeeming ornaments,
To wield old partizans in hands as old.
If ever you disturb our ftreets again,
Your lives fhall pay the forfeit of the peace.
For this time all the reft depart away,
You, Capulet, fhall go along with me';
And, Mountague, come you this afternoon,
To know our further pleasure in this cafe,
To old Free-town, our common judgment-place:
Once more, on pain of death, all men depart.
[Exeunt Prince and Capulet, &c. SCENE II.
La. Moun. Who fet this ancient quarrel new abroach?
Speak, nephew, were you by when it began ?
Ben. Here were the fervants of your adversary,
And yours, clofe fighting, ere I did approach;
I drew to part them: In the inftant came
The fiery Tybalt, with his fword prepar'd,
Which, as he breath'd defiance to my ears,
He fwung about his head, and cut the winds/
While we were interchanging thrufts and blows,
Came more and more, and fought on part and part,
"Till the Prince came.
La. Moun. O, where is Romeo? faw you him to-day?
Right glad am I, he was not at this fray.
Ben. Madam, an hour before the worshipp'd fun
Peep'd through the golden window of the Eaft,
A troubled mind drew me to walk abroad;
Where underneath the grove of fycamour,
That weftward rooteth from this city fide,
So early walking did I fee your fon.
Tow'rds him I made, but he was 'ware of me,
And stole into the covert of the wood.
I measuring his affections by my own,
That most are bufied when they're most alone,
Purfued my humour, not purfuing him;
And gladly fhunn'd, who gladly fled from me.
Moun. Many a morning hath he there been seen
With tears augmenting the fresh morning dew ;
But all fo foon as the all-cheering fun
Should, in the fartheft Eaft, begin to draw
The fhady curtains from Aurora's bed;
Away from light fteals home my heavy fon,
And private in his chamber pens himfelf fi
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 cause remove.
Ben. My noble uncle, do you know the caufe?
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 affection's counsellor,
Is to himself, I will not fay how true,
But to himself fo fecret and fo close,
So far from founding and discovery;
As is the bud bit with an envious worm,
Ere he can spread his sweet leaves to the air,
Or dedicate his beauty to the fun.
Could we but learn from whence his forrows grow,
We would as willingly give cure, as know.
Enter Romeo.
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 fo 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 fadness lengthens Romeo's hours?
Rom. Not having that, which having makes them fhort.
Ben. In love?
Rom. Out
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 ill!
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
Why then, O brawling love! O loving hate !
Oh any thing of nothing firft create!
O heavy lightnefs! ferious vanity!
Mif-fhapen chaos of well-feeming forms!"
Feather of lead, bright smoke, cold fire, fick health!
Still-waking fleep, 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. Griefs of mine own lye heavy in my breaft;
Which thou wilt propagate to have them preft
With more of thine; this love that thou haft fhewn
Doth add more grief to too much of mine own.
Love is a smoke rais'd with the fume of fighs,
Being purg'd, a fire fparkling in lovers eyes,
Being vext, a fea nourish'd with lovers tears;
What is it elfe? a madness moft difcreet,
A choaking gall, and a preserving sweet
Farewel, my cozen.
Ben. Soft, I'll go along.
An 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 fadnefs, who is the you love.
Rom. What, fhall I groan and tell thee?
Ben. Groan? why, no;
But fadly tell me, who.
Rom. Bid a fick man in sadness make 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. 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 stay the fiege of loving terms,
Nor bide th' encounter of affailing eyes,
Nor ope her lap to faint-feducing gold.
O, the is rich in beauty; only poor,
That when the dies, with her dies beauty's store.
Ben. Then the hath sworn, that she will still live chaste?
Rom. She hath, and in that sparing makes huge waste.
For beauty starv'd with her feverity,
Cuts beauty off from all pofterity.
She is too fair, too wife; too wifely fair,
To merit bliss 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 mafks 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 lost.
Shew me a mistress that is paffing fair;
What doth her beauty ferve but as a note,
Where I may read who past that paffing fair?
Farewel, thou canst not teach me to forget.
Ben. I'll pay that doctrine, or elfe die in debt. [Exeunt,
SCENE III.
Enter Capulet, Paris, and Servant.
Cap. And Mountague 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:
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 ftranger 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.
VOL. IX.
B
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