|
To old Freetown, our common judgment place. `
`
Once more, on pain of death, all men depart. `
`
Exeunt [all but Montague, his Wife, and Benvolio]. `
`
Mon. Who set this ancient quarrel new abroach? `
`
Speak, nephew, were you by when it began? `
`
Ben. Here were the servants of your adversary `
`
And yours, close fighting ere I did approach. `
`
I drew to part them. In the instant came `
`
The fiery Tybalt, with his sword prepar'd; `
`
Which, as he breath'd defiance to my ears, `
`
He swung about his head and cut the winds, `
`
Who, nothing hurt withal, hiss'd him in scorn. `
`
While we were interchanging thrusts and blows, `
`
Came more and more, and fought on part and part, `
`
Till the Prince came, who parted either part. `
`
M. Wife. O, where is Romeo? Saw you him to-day? `
`
Right glad I am he was not at this fray. `
`
Ben. Madam, an hour before the worshipp'd sun `
`
Peer'd forth the golden window of the East, `
`
A troubled mind drave me to walk abroad; `
`
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, `
`
Which then most sought where most might not be found, `
`
Being one too many by my weary self- `
`
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 farthest East bean 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 `
`
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 importun'd him by any means? `
`
Mon. Both by myself and many other friend; `
`
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. `
`
`
`
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 Wife]. `
`
Ben. Good morrow, cousin. `
`
Rom. Is the day so young? `
`
Ben. But new struck nine. `
`
Rom. Ay 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! `
`
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 anything, of nothing first create! `
`
O heavy lightness! serious vanity! `
`
Misshapen chaos of well-seeming forms! `
`
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. `
`
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 is that 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 aim'd so near when I suppos'd you lov'd. `
`
Rom. A right good markman! And she's fair I love. `
`
Ben. A right fair mark, fair coz, is soonest hit. `
`
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 th' encounter of assailing eyes, `
`
Nor ope her lap to saint-seducing gold. `
`
O, she's 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 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 puts 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, County Paris, and [Servant] -the Clown. `
`
`
`
Cap. But 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 summers 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 swallowed all my hopes but she; `
`
She is the hopeful lady of my earth. `
`
But woo her, gentle Paris, get her heart; `
`
My will to her consent is but a part. `
`
An she agree, within her scope of choice `
`
Lies my consent and fair according voice. `
`
This night I hold an old accustom'd feast, `
`
Whereto I have invited many a guest, `
`
Such as I love; and you among the store, `
`
One more, most welcome, makes my number more. `
`
At my poor house look to behold this night `
`
Earth-treading stars that make dark heaven light. `
`
Such comfort as do lusty young men feel `
`
When well apparell'd April on the heel `
`
Of limping Winter treads, even such delight `
`
Among fresh female buds shall you this night `
`
Inherit at my house. Hear all, all see, `
`
And like her most whose merit most shall be; `
`
Which, on more view of many, mine, being one, `
`
May stand in number, though in reck'ning none. `
`
Come, go with me. [To Servant, giving him a paper] Go, `
`
sirrah, `
`
trudge about `
`
Through fair Verona; find those persons out `
`
Whose names are written there, and to them say, `
`
My house and welcome on their pleasure stay- `
`
Exeunt [Capulet and Paris]. `
`
Serv. Find them out whose names are written here? It is written `
`
that the shoemaker should meddle with his yard and the tailor `
`
with his last, the fisher with his pencil and the painter `
`
|