So far from founding and difcovery:

As is the bud bit with an envious worm,
Ere he can fpread 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: so please you, step aside; 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 ftruck nine.

Rom. Ah me, fad hours feem long!
Was that my father that went hence fo faft?

Ben. It was: what fadnefs 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, 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 ill! Where fhall we dine ?- Q me!

here?

What fray was

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 firft create !

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 oppression. Rom. Why, fuch is love's tranfgreffion.Griefs of mine own lie heavy in my breaft; Which thou wilt propagate, to have them prest With more of thine; this love, that thou haft shewn, Doth add more grief to too much of mine own. Love is a smoke rais'd with the fume of fighs, Being purg'd, a fire sparkling 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 sweet: Farewel, my cousin.

[Going.

love?

Ben. Soft, I'll go along. And if you leave me fo, you do me wrong. Rom. Tut, I have loft myself, I am not here; This is not Romeo, he's fome other where. Ben. Tell me in sadness, who she is you Rom. What, fhall I groan and tell thee? Ben. Groan? why, no; but fadly tell me, who. Rom. Bid a fick man in fadnefs 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 sooneft hit.
Rom. But, in that hit, you miss ;-fhe'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, fhe lives unharm`d.
She will not ftay the fiege of loving terms,
Nor 'bide th' encounter of affailing eyes,
Nor ope her lap to faint-feducing gold.
O, the is rich in beauty; only poor,

That

That when he dies, with her dies Beauty's Store. Bru. Then fhe hath fworn, that he will live chafte?

Rom. She hath, and in that Sparing makes huge: wafte.

For beauty, ftarv'd with her feverity,
Cuts beauty off from all pofterity.
She is too fair, too wife; wifely too fair,
To merit blifs by making me despair;
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 fhould forget to think.
Ben. By giving liberty unto thine eyes;
Examine other Beauties.

Rom. 'Tis the way

To call hers (exquifite) in queftion more;
Thofe 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 treasure of his eye-fight loft.
Shew me a miftrefs, that is paffing fair;
What doth her beauty ferve, but as a note,
Where I may read, who pass'd that paffing fair?
Farewel, thou canst not teach me to forget.
Ben. I'll pay that doctrine, or elfe die in debt.

Cap.

SCENE

III.

Enter Capulet, Paris, and Servant.

A

[Exeunt.

ND Montague is bound as well as I,
In penalty alike; and 'tis not hard
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
Cap. But faying o'er what I have faid before:

to my

Suit ?

My

My child is yet a ftranger in the world,

She hath not feen the Change of fourteen years;
Let two more fummers wither in their pride,
Ere 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: The earth hath fwallow'd all my hopes but fhe. 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; If the agree, within her scope of choice Lies my confent, and fair according voice: This night, I hold an old-accuftom'd Feaft, Whereto I have invited many a gueft, Such as I love; and you, among the ftore, One more, most welcome, makes my number more. At my poor houfe, look to behold this night *Earth-treading ftars that make dark Even light. Such comfort as do lufty young men feel, When well-apparel'd April on the heel Of limping Winter treads, even fuch delight. Among fresh female-buds fhall you this night. Inherit at my house; hear all, all fee,

And like her moft, whofe merit moft fhall be: Which on more view of many, minc, being one, May ftand in number, tho' in reck'ning none. Come, go with me. Go, firrah, 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 stay.

[Exeunt Capulet and Paris. Ser. Find them out, whose names are written here? -It is written, that the Shoe-maker should meddle with his Yard, and the Tailor with his Last, the Fisher with his Pencil, and the Painter with his

Earth-treading ftars that make dark heaven's light.] This thould be reformed thus,

Earth-treading far's that make dark Even light.

Warb. the

Nets. But I am sent to find those Perfons, whofe names are here 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 lessen'd by another's Anguish :
Turn giddy, and be help'd by backward turning;
One defperate grief cure with another's Languish:
Take thou fome new infection to the eye,
And the rank poifon of the oil will die.

Rom. Your plantan leaf is excellent for That.
Ben. For what, I pray thee?

Rom. For your broken fhin.

Ben. Why, Romeo, art thou mad?

Rom. Not mad, but bound more than a mad-man is : Shut up in prison, kept without my food,

Whipt and tormented: and--Good-e'en, good fellow. [To the Servant. Ser. God gi' good e'en : I pray, Sir, can you read? Rom. Ay, mine own fortune in my misery. 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. teft you merry.-
Rom. Stay, fellow, I can read.

[He reads the letter.]

SIGNIOR Martino, and his wife and daughter:

Count Anfelm and his beauteous fifters; the lady widow of Vitruvio; Signior Placentio, and his lovely neices; Mercutio and his brother Valentine; mine uncle Capulet, his wife and daughters; my fair niece Rosaline; Livia; Signior Valentio, and his cousin Tybalt; Lucio, and the lively Helena.

A fair affembly; whither fhould they come?

Ser.