Sam. Draw, if you be men. Gregory, remember thy fwashing blow. [They fight. Ben. Part, fools, put up your fswords, 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 these 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 sword? Cap. A fword, I fay old Montague is conre, And flourishes his blade in fpight of me. Enter old Mountague and Lady Mountague. Moun. Thou villain, Capulet-Hold me not, let me go Prin. Rebellious fubjects, enemies to peace, For For this time all the reft depart away, To old Free-town, our common judgment-place : [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 Where underneath the grove of fycamour, Tow'rds him I made, but he was 'ware of me, Shuts Shuts up his windows, locks fair day-light out, Ben. My noble uncle, do you know the caufe? Could we but learn from whence his forrows grow, 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 fhrift. 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 sadness 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, Here's much to do with hate, but more with love : Why Why then, O brawling love! O loving hate! Mif-fhapen chaos of well-feeming forms! Feather of lead, bright smoke, cold fire, fick health!.. This love feel I, that feel no love in this. Ben. No, coz, I rather weep. Ben. At thy good heart's oppreffion. Ben. Soft, I'll go along. An if you leave me fo, you do me wrong. 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. [Going, and fhe's fair I love, Ben. A right fair mark, fair coz, is fooneft hit. With Cupid's arrow; fhe hath Dian's wit: From love's weak childish bow the lives unharm'd. No Nor bide th' encounter of affailing eyes, That when the dies, with her dies beauty's ftore. Ben. Then the hath sworn, that she will still live chafte? 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; too wifely fair, Ben. Be rul'd by me, forget to think of her. Rom. 'Tis the way To call hers (exquifite) in queftion more: Ben. I'll pay that doctrine, or elfe die in debt. [Exeunt. 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: She hath not feen the change of fourteen years; VOL. IX. Par. |