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Where, -underneath the grove of sycamore,
That westward rooteth from the city's side,-
So early walking did I see your son:
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 busied when they are most alone,–
Pursu'd my humour, not pursuing his,
And gladly shunn'd who gladly fled from me.

Mon. Many a morning hath he there been seen,
With tears augmenting the fresh morning's dew,
Adding to clouds more clouds with his deep sighs:
But all so soon as the all-cheering sun
Should in the furthest east begin to draw
The shady 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 daylight 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 of him.
Ben. Have you impórtun'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 say, how true
But to himself so secret and so close,
So far from sounding 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 sun.
Could we but learn from whence his sorrows grow,
We would as willingly give cure, as know.

Enter Romeo, at a distance. Ben. See, where he comes: So please you, step

aside; I'll know his grievance, or be much denied.

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

[Exeunt Montague and Lady. Ben. Good morrow, cousin. Rom.

Is the day so young? Ben. But new struck nine. Rom.

Ah me! sad hours seem long. Was that my father that went hence so fast? Ben. It was:—What sadness lengthens Romeo's

hours? Rom. Not having that, which, having, makes

them short.
Ben. In love?
Rom. Out-
Ben. Of love?
Rom. Out of her favour, where I am in love.

Ben. Alas, that love, so gentle in his view,
Should be so tyrannous and rough in proof!

Rom. Alas, that love, whose view is muffled still, Should, without eyes, see pathways to his will ! 6 Where shall we dine?-0 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 lightness! serious vanity! Mis-shapen chaos of well-seeming forms!

to his will!] i. e. that the blind god should yet be able to direct his arrows at those whom he wishes to hit, that he should wound whomever he wills, or desires to wound.

Feather of lead, bright smoke, cold fire, sick health!
Still-waking sleep, that is not what it is! -
This love feel I, that feel no love in this.
Dost thou not laugh?
Ben.

No, coz, I rather weep.
Rom. Good heart, at what?
Ben.

At thy good heart's oppression.
Rom. Why, such is love's transgression.”—
Griefs of mine own lie heavy in my breast;
Which thou wilt propagate, to have it prest
With more of thine: this love, that thou hast

shown,
Doth add more grief to too much of mine own.
Love is a smoke rais’d with the fume of sighs;
Being purg'd, a fire sparkling in lovers' eyes;
Being vex'd, a sea nourish'd with lovers' tears:
What is it else? a madness most discreet,
A choking gall, and a preserving sweet.
Farewell, my coz.

[Going. Ben.

Soft, I will go along; An if you leave me so, you do me wrong.

Rom. Tut, I have lost myself; I am not here; This is not Romeo, he's some other where.

Ben. Tell me in sadness, who she is you love.
Rom. What, shall I groan, and tell thee?
Ben.

Groan? why, no; But sadly tell me, who.

Rom. Bid a sick man in sadness make his will:Ah, word ill urg'd to one that is so ill!In sadness, cousin, I do love a woman.

Ben. I aiın'd so near, when I suppos’d you lov'd. Rom. A right good marks-man! - And she's fair

I love. Ben. A right fair mark, fair coz, is soonest hit.

? Why, such is love's transgression.) Such is the consequence of unskilful and mistaken kindness.

8 Tell me in sadness,] That is, gravely, or seriously.

Rom. Well, in that hit, you miss: she'll not be hit With Cupid's arrow, she hath Dian's wit; And, in strong proof of chastity well arm’d, From love's weak childish bow she lives unharm'd. She will not stay the siege of loving terms, Nor bide the encounter of assailing eyes, Nor ope her lap to saint-seducing gold: O, she is rich in beauty; only poor, That, when she dies, with beauty dies her store. Ben. Then she hath sworn, that she will still live

chaste?
Rom. She hath, and in that sparing makes huge

waste;
For beauty, starv'd with her severity,
Cuts beauty off from all posterity.
She is too fair, too wise; wisely too fair,
To merit bliss by making me despair:
She hath forsworn to love; and, in that vow,
Do I live dead, that live to tell it now.

Ben. Be ruld 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.
To call hers, exquisite, in question more:-

'Tis the way

9 And, in strong proof, &c.) As this play was written in the reign of Queen Elizabeth, I cannot help regarding these speeches of Romeo as an oblique compliment to her majesty, who was not liable to be displeased at hearing her chastity praised after she was suspected to have lost it, or her beauty commended in the 67th year of her age, though she never possessed any when she was young. Her declaration that she would continue unmarried, increases the probability of the present supposition. Steevens.

- wisely too fair, &c.] There is in her too much sanctimonious wisdom united with beauty, which induces her to continue chaste with the hopes of attaining heavenly bliss.

? To call hers, exquisite, in question more:] More into talk; to make her unparalleled beauty more the subject of thought and conversation.

These happy masks, that kiss fair ladies' brows,
Being black, put us in mind they hide the fair;
He, that is strucken blind, cannot forget
The precious treasure of his eyesight lost:
Show me a mistress that is passing fair,
What doth her beauty serve, but as a note
Where I may read, who pass'd that passing fair?
Farewell; thou canst not teach me to forget.
Ben. I'll pay that doctrine, or else die in debt.

[Exeunt.

SCENE II.

A Street.

Enter CAPULET, Paris, and Servant.
Cap. And Montague is bound as well as I,
In penalty alike; and 'tis not hard, I think,
For men so old as we to keep the peace.

Par. Of honourable reckoning are you both;
And pity 'tis, you liv'd at odds so long.
But now, my lord, what say you to my suit ?

Cap. But saying o'er what I have said before:
My child is yet a stranger in the world,
She hath not seen the change of fourteen years;
Let two more suinmers wither in their pride,
Ere we may think her ripe to be a bride.

Par. Younger than she are happy mothers made.

Cap. And too soon marr'd are those so early made. The earth hath swallow'd all my hopes but she, She is the hopeful lady of my

earth:5

4

· These happy masks, &c.] i. e. the masks worn by female spectators of the play.

What doth her beauty serve,] i. e. what end does it answer?

She is the hopeful lady of my earth:] This is a Gallicism: Fille de terre is the French phrase for an heiress.

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