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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 first create!
O heavy lightness! 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
Doft thou not laugh?

AL

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 lie heavy in my breaft; Which thou wilt propagate, to, have them preft With more of thine; this love, that thou haft fhewn, 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 fparkling in lovers' eyes; Being vext, a fea nourish'd with lovers' tears; What is it else? a madness most discreet, A choaking gall, and a preferving fweet: Farewel, my coufin.

Ben. Soft, I'll go along.

[Going

And if you leave me fo,. you do me wrong.

Rom. Tut, I have loft my felf, I am not here;
This is not Romeo, he's fome other where.

Ben. Tell me in fadness, who fhe is you love?
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 fadnefs, coufin, I do love a woman.

Ben. I aim'd fo near, when I fuppos'd you lov'd.
Rom. A right good marks-mán;
and she's fair, I

gang

love.

Ben. A right fair mark, fair coz, is fooneft hit. Rom. But, in that hit, you mifs; fhe'll not be hit With Cupid's arrow; fhe hath Dian's wit :

And

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And, in ftrong proof of chastity well arm'd,
From love's weak childish bow, fhe lives unharm'a.
She will not stay the fiege of loving terms,
Nor 'bide th' encounter of affailing eyes,
Nor ope her lap to faint-feducing gold.
O, fhe is rich in beauty; only poor,

That when the dies, with der dies Beauty's Store.
Ben. Then he hath fworn, that he will ftill 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 mistress, that is paffing fair;
What doth her beauty ferve, but as a note,
Where I may read, who pafs'd that paffing fair?
Farewel, thou canst not teach me to forget.

Ben. I'll pay that doctrine, or else die in debt.

[Exeunt.

Enter Capulet, Paris, and Servant.

Cap. And 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

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 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 the are happy mothers made.
Cap. And too foon marr'd are those so early made:
The earth hath fwallow'd 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;
If the agree, within her fcope of choice
Lies my confent, 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 ftore,
One more, moft welcome, makes my number more.
At my poor houfe, look to behold this night
Earth-treading ftars that make dark heaven's 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 most, whose merit most shall be:
Which on more view of many, mine, 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, whofe names are written here?It is written, that the Shoe 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, whose names are here writ; and can never find what names the writing perfon hath here writ. I muft to the Learned. In good Enter

time,

Enter Benvolio and Roméo.

Ben. Tut, man! one fire burns out another's burning, One pain is leffen'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 poyfon of the old 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 prifon, kept without my food, Whipt and tormented: and

low.

Good-e'en, good fel-
[To the Servant.
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.

S

Ignior Martino, and his wife and daughters: Count Anfelm and his beauteous fiflers; 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 neice Rofaline; Livia; Signior Valentio, and his coufin Tybalt; Lucio, and the lively Helena.

A fair affembly; whither should they come? (2)

(2) A fair Assembly: Whither should they come? Serv. Vp.

Rom. Whither? to Supper?

Serv. To our Houfe.] Romeo had read over the Lift of invited Guefts; but he must be a Prophet, to know they were invited to Supper. This comes much more aptly from the Servant's Anfwer, than Romeo's Question; and muft undoubtedly be placed to him, Mr. Warburton.

burnin

g; anguif

ge.

Count

done of

Mer

pulet,

Livia;

and

you merry..

k: but,

Ben. At this fame antient Feaft of Capulet's manis Sups the fair Rofaline, whom thou so lov'ft; With all th' admired beauties of Verona. good Go thither, and, with unattainted eye, Servant Compare her face with fome that I. fhall fhow, read And I will make thee think thy Swan a Crow. Rom. When the devout religion of mine eye Maintains fuch falfehoods, then turn tears to fires! And thefe, who, often drown'd, could never die, Tranfparent hereticks, be burnt for liars! One fairer than my love! th' all-feeing Sun Ne'er faw her match, fince firft the world begun. Ben. Tut! tut! you faw her fair, none elfe being by; Her felf pois'd with her felf, in either eye: But in thofe cryftal fcales, let there be weigh'd Your Lady-love against fome other maid, (3) That I will fhew you, fhining at this feaft; And fhe will fhew fcant well, that now fhews beft. Rom. I'll go along, no fuch fight to be fhewn ; But to rejoice in fplendor of mine own.

[Exeunt

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Ser. My master'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 Montagues, I pray, come and crush a cup of wine. Reft [Exit.

13)

let there be weigh'd

Tour Lady's Love against some other Maid.] But the Compa-
tifon was not betwixt the Love that Romeo's Mistress paid him,
and the Perfon of any other young Woman: but betwixt Ro-
meo's Miftrefs herself, and fome other that should be match'd
against her. The Poet therefore must certainly have wrote;
Your Lady-love against fome other Maid.
So the Comparison fands right, and fenfibly.

SCENE

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