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Ben. My noble uncle, do you know the cause 2 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 deny'd, Mon. I would, thou wert so happy by thy stay, To hear true shrift.-Come, madam, let's away. - [Eaeunt Montague and Lady. Den. Good morrow, cousin.
Rom. Is the day so young?
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?
Ben. Of love 2
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! Where shall we dine?—O me!—What fray was
Yet tell me not, for I have heard it all.
Ben. No, coz, I rather weep.
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:
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 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, exquisite, in question more: 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? Farewel; thou canst not teach me to forget. Ben. I’ll pay that doctrine, or else die in debt. [Ereunt.
Enter CAPULET, PARIs, and Servant.
Cap. And Montague is bound as well as I,
In penalty alike; and ’tis not hard, I think,