Abr. No better.

Sam. Well, fir.

Enter BENVOLIO.

Greg. Say-better; here's comes one of my mafter's kinfmen.

Sam. Yes, better, fir.

Abr. You lye.

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 Turn thee, Benvolio, look upon thy death. [hinds? Ben. I do but keep the peace; put up thy fword, Or manage it to part thefe men with me.

[word,

Tyb. What, drawn, and talk of peace; I hate the As I hate hell, all Montagues, and thee; Have at thee, coward.

Enter three or four Citizens, with clubs.

Cit. Clubs, bills, and partizans! ftrike! 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 3

Enter

Enter old MONTAGUE, and Lady MONTAGUE. Mon. Thou villain, Capulet,-Hold me not, let me go.

La. Mon. Thou shalt not stir one foot to seek a foe.

Enter Prince, with Attendants.

Prince. Rebellious fubjects, enemies to peace, Profaners of this neighbour-stained steel,Will they not bear?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 thofe bloody hands
Throw your mis-temper'd weapons to the ground,
And hear the fentence of your moved prince.-
Three civil brawls, bred of an airy word,
By thee, old Capulet and Montague,
Have thrice disturb'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,
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 cafe,
To old Free-town, our common judgment-place.
Once more, on pain of death, all men depart.

[Exeunt Prince, CAPULET, . Mon. Who fet this ancient quarrel new abroach? Speak, nephew, were you by, when it began?

Ben.

Ben. Here were the fervants of your adverfary, And yours, close 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, 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!- -faw you him to-
Right glad I am he was not at this fray. [day?
Ben. Madam, an hour before the worshipp'd fun
Peer'd forth the golden window of the east,
A troubled mind drave me to walk abroad;
Where-underneath the grove of fycamore,
That weftward rooteth from the city's fide-
So early walking did I fee your fon:
Towards 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 are most alone-
Purfu'd my humour, not purfuing his,

And gladly fhunn'd who gladly fled from me.
Mon. Many a morning hath he there been seen,
With tears augmenting the freth morning's dew,
Adding to clouds more clouds with his deep fighs:
But all fo foon as the all-cheering fun

Should in the furtheft east begin to draw
The fhady 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 himfelf an artificial night:

Black

Black and portentous muft this humour prove,
Unless good counfel may the caufe 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 myself, and many other friends; But he, his own affections' counsellor, Is to himself-I will not fay, how trueBut to himself fo fecret and fo clofe, So far from founding and difcovery, As is the bud bit with an envious worm, Ere he can fpread his fweet leaves to the air, Or dedicate his beauty to the fame.

Could we but learn from whence his forrows grow, We would as willingly give cure, as know.

Enter ROMEO, at a distance.

Ben. See, where he comes: So please you, step afide; I'll know his grievance, or be much deny'd.

Mon. I would thou wert so happy by thy stay, To hear true fhrift.- -Come, madam, let's away.

Ben. Good-morrow, cousin.
Rom. Is the day so young?

Ben. But new ftruck nine.

Rom. Ay me! fad hours feem long.

Was that my father that went hence so fast?

Ben. It was:

hours?

[Exeunt

-What fadness lengthens Romeo's

Rom. Not having that, which, having, makes them

Ben. In love?

Rom. Out

Ben. Of love?

[fhort,

Rom. Out of her favour, where I am in love.

Ben

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? Oh 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!
O any thing of nothing first created!

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. Why, fuch is love's tranfgreffion. Griefs of mine own lie heavy in my breaft; Which thou wilt propagate, to have it prest 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 lover's eyes; Being vex'd, a fea nourish'd with lover's tears: What is it elfe? a madness most difcreet, A choaking gall, and a preferving fweet. Farewel, my coz.

Ben. Soft, I will go along;

An if leave me fo, you

you do me wrong.

[Going.

Rom. Tut, I have loft myfelf; I am not here; This is not Romeo, he's fome other where.

Ben.