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Should, in the fartheft Eaft, begin to draw
The fhady Curtains from Aurora's Bed,
Away from light steals home my heavy Son,
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 muft this Humour prove,
Unless good Counsel may the Caufe 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 Affections Counsellor,

Is to himself (I will not fay how true)
But to himself fo fecret and fo clofe,
So far from founding and discovery,
As is the Bud bit with an envious Worm,
E'er he can spread his fweet Leaves to the Air,
Or dedicate his Beauty to the fame.

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

Enter Romeo.

Ben. See where he comes: fo please you step afide, I'll know his Grievance, or be much deny'd. Moun. I would thou wert fo happy by thy flay, 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 so fast?

Ben. It was: What fadnefs 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 ftil!, Should without Eyes, fee path-ways to his will:

B 4


Where shall 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!
O any thing of nothing first create:

O heavy Lightnefs, ferious Vanity,
Mishapen Chaos of well-feeming Forms,

Feather of Lead, bright Smoke, cold Fire, fick Health,
Still-waking Sleep, 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 lye heavy in my Breaft;
Which thou wilt propagate to have it 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 made of the fume of Sighs,
Being purg'd, a Fire (parkling in Lovers Eyes,
Being vext, a Sea nourish'd with loving Tears;
What is it elfe? a madnefs moft difcreet,
A choaking Gall, and a preferving Sweet:
Farewel, my Coz.

Ben. Soft, I will go along.

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

Ben. Tell me in fadnefs, who is that you love?
Rom. What, hali I groan and tell thee?
Ben. Groan? why no; but fadly tell me, who.
Ram. A fick Man in good sadness makes his will---
O, word ill urg'd to one that is fo ill-
În 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. Well in that hit you mif, she'll not be hit
With Cupid's Arrow; he hath Dian's Wit:


And in ftrong proof of Chastity well arm'd;
From Love's weak childish Bow, the lives uncharm'd,
She will not stay the Siege of loving Terms,
Nor bide th' Encounter of affailing Eyes,
Nor ope her Lap to Saint-feducing Gold:
O fhe is rich in Beauty, only poor,

That when the dies, with Beauty dies her ftore.

Ben. Then the hath fworn, that she will ftill 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; wifely too fair,
To merit Bliss by making me defpair;
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 should forget to think,
Ben. By giving liberty unto thine Eyes;

Examine other Beauties.

Rom. 'Tis the way to call hers (exquifite) in question morẹ. 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 Treafure of his Eye-fight loft. Shew me a Mistress that is paffing fair; What doth her Beauty ferve, but as a Note, Where I may read who paft that paffing fair. Farewel, thou canft net teach me to forget.

Ben. I'll pay that doârine, or else die in debt. [Exeunt.
Enter Capulet, Paris and Servant.

Cap. Mountague is bound as well as I,
In penalty alike; and 'tis not hard, I think,
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 Suit?
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,
Lt two more Summers wither in their Pride,
E'er we may think her ripe to be a Bride.



Par. Younger than fhe are happy Mothers made. Cap. And too foon marr'd are those fo early made: Earth up hath fwallowed all my hopes but the, 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, And the agree, within her fcope of choice Lies my confent, and fair according Voice: This Night, I hoid an old accuftom'd Feaft, Whereto I have invited many a Guest, Such as I love, and you among the store, Once more, most welcome makes my number more: At my poor Houfe, look to behold this Night, Earth-treading Stars that make dark Heav'n 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 shall you this Night Inherit at my Houfe; hear all, all fee, And like her moft, whofe merit moft shall be: Which one more view, of many, mine being one, May ftand in number, though in reck'ning none. Come, go with me. Go, Sirrah, trudge about, Through fair Verona, find thofe Perfons out, Whofe Names are written there, and to them fay, My House and Welcome on their pleasure ftay. [Ex. Cap. Par. Ser. Find them out whofe Names are written here? It is written, that the Shope-maker fhould meddle with his Yard, and the Tailor with his Laft, the Fisher with his Pencil, and the Painter with his Nets. But I am fent to find thofe Perfons whofe Names are writ, and can never find what Names

the writing Perfon hath here writ, (I muft 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 holp by backward turning,
One defperate Grief cures with another's languifh:
Take thou fome new Infection to the Eye,
And the rank Poifon of the old will die.


Rom. Your Plantan Leaf is excellent for that.
Ben. For what, I pray thee?

Rom. For your broken Shin.

Ben. Why, Romeo, art thou mad?

Rom. Not mad, but bound more than a mad Man is: Shut up in Prifon, keep without my Food,

Whipt and tormented; and-Good-e'en, good Fellow.
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..

Ignior Martino, and his Wife and Daughter: Count Anfelm and his beauteous Sifters; the Lady Widow of Vitruvio, Signior Placentino, and his lovely Nieces; Mercutio and his Brother Valentine; mine Uncle Capulet, his Wife and Daughters; my fair Niece Rofaline, Livia, Signior Valentio, and his Confin Tybalt; Lucio, and the lovely Helena.

A fair Affembly; whither should they come ?
Ser. Up.

Rom. Whither? to Supper?

Ser. To our House.

Rom. Whofe House?

Ser. My Mafter's.

Rom. Indeed I fhould have askt you that before.

Ser. Now I'll tell you without asking. My Mafter is the great rich Capulet, and if you be not of the House of Mountagues, I pray come and crush a Cup of Wine. Reft you merry.

Ben. At this fame ancient Feast of Capulets,
Sups the fair Rofaline, whom thou so loveft;
With all the admired Beauties of Verona :
Go thither, and with unattainted Eye,
Compare her Face with fome that I fhall fhew,
And I will make thee think thy Swan a Crow.



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