Abr. Quarrel, Sir? no, Sir.

Sam. If you do, Sir, I am for you; I ferve as good a

man, as you.

Abr. No better.

Sam. Well, Sir.

Enter Benvolio.

Greg. Say, better: here comes one of my mafter's kinfmen.

Sam. Yes, better, Sir.

Abr. You lie.

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?

Turn 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 Montagues and thee:
Have at thee, coward.

[Fight

Enter three or four citizens with clubs.

Offic. Clubs, bills, and partisans ! strike! beat them down!

Down with the Capulets, down with the Montagues!

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. My fword, I fay: old Montague is come, And flourishes his blade in fpight of me.

A. 5

Enter

Enter old Montague, and Lady Montague.

Mon. Thou villain, Capulet –

me go.

La. Mon. Thou shalt not ftir a foot to feek a foc.

Hold me not, let

Enter Prince with attendants.

Prin. Rebellious Subjects, enemies to peace,
Prophaners of this neighbour-ftained steel
Will they not hear? what ho! you men, you beafts,
That quench the fire of your pernicious rage
With purple fountains iffuing from your veins ;
On pain of torture, from those bloody hands
Throw your mif-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 Montague,
Have thrice difturb'd the Quiet of our streets;
And made Verona's antient Citizens
Caft by their grave, befeeming, ornaments;
To wield old partizans, in hands as old,
Cankred with peace, to part your cankred hate ;
If ever you disturb our streets 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, Montague, come you this afternoon,
To know our further pleasure in this case,
To old Free-town, our common judgment-place :
Once more, on pain of death, all men depart.
[Exeunt Prince and Capulet, &c.
La. Mon. Who fet this antient quarrel new abroach
Speak, nephew, were you by, when it began ?

Ben. Here were the fervants of your adversary,
And yours, close fighting, ere I did approach;
I drew to part them: In the instant 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 :
Who, nothing hurt withal, hifs'd him in fcorn,

While we were interchanging thrufts and blows, Came more and more, and fought on part and part, 'Till the Prince came, who parted either Part.

La. Mon. O where is Romeo! Saw you him to day? Right glad am I, he was not at this fray.

Ben. Madam, an hour before the worshipp'd Sun
Peer'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 the City fide,
So early walking did I fee your fon.
Tow'rds him I made; but he was 'ware of me,
And ftole 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 fhun'd, who gladly fled from me.

Mon. Many a morning hath he there been seen
With tears augmenting the fresh morning-dew;
Adding to clouds more clouds with his deep fighs:
But all fo foon as the all-cheering Sun
Should, in the fartheft Eaft, begin to draw
The shady curtains from Aurora's bed;
Away from light fteals home my heavy fon,
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 must this humour prove,
Unless good counsel may the cause remove.

Ben. My noble uncle, do you know the cause?
Mon. I neither know it, nor can learn it of him.
Ben. Have you importun'd him by any means?
Mon. 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 fo close,
So far from founding and discovery;
As is the bud bit with an envious worm,

(1)

(1) As is the Bud, bit with an envious Worm, Ere he can spread his fweet Leaves to the Air,

Ere

Or

Ere he can spread his fweet wings to the Air,
Or dedicate his beauty to the Sun,

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.

Mon. I would, thou wert fo happy by thy ftay To hear true fhrift. Come, Madam, let's away. [Exe. Ben. Good morrow, coufin.

Rom. Is the day fo young?

Ben. But new struck 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 will! Where fhall we dine? O me!

What fray was

here?

--

Sure,

Or dedicate his Beauty to the Same.] To the fame ?all the Lovers of Shakespeare and Poetry will agree, that this is a very idle, dragging Parapleromatic, as the Grammarians ftyle it. But our Author generally in his Similies is accurate in the cloathing of them, and therefore, I believe, would not have Overcharg'd this fo infipidly. When we come to confider, that there is fome power elfe befides balmy Air, that brings forth, and makes the tender Buds spread themselves, I do not think it improbable that the Poet wrote;

Or dedicate his Beauty to the Sun.

Or, according to the more obfolete Spelling, Sunne; which brings it nearer to the Traces of the corrupted Text,

Yet

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!
Oh, any thing of nothing first create!
O heavy lightness! ferious vanity!
Mif-shapen 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. Why, fuch is love's tranfgreffion.
Griefs of mine own lie 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 fmoke 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 most discreet,
A choaking gall, and a preferving fweet:
Farewel, my coufin.

Ben. Soft, I'll go along. And if you

leave me fo, you do me wrong. Rom. Tut, I have loft my felf, I am not here This is not Romeo, he's fome other where.

[Going

Ben. Tell me in fadnefs, who fhe is 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 fadness 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; the hath Dian's wit:

And