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 day-light 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 importun'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 Ro-
meo's hours?

Rom. Not having that, which having, makes them short.

Still-waking sleep, that is not what it is!-
This love feel 1, 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 press'd 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 a lover's 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; And if you leave me so, you do me wrong. Rom, Tut, I have lost myself; I am here;

not

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 5 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 marksman !—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 un-
harm'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 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 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.

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 11.-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 be-
fore:

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 swallow'd 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 1 have invited many a guest,

A compliment to Queen Elizabeth, in whose reiga the play was first represented.

And since that time it is eleven years: For then she could stand alone; nay, by the rood •

She could have run and waddled all about. For even the day before, she broke her brow: And then my husband-God be with his soul ! 'A was a merry man ;-took up the child: Yea, quoth he, dost thou fall upon thy face? Thou wilt fall backward, when thou hast more wit;

Wilt thou not, Jule? and by my holy dam, t The pretty wretch left crying, and said-Ay: To see now, how a jest shall come about!

I warrant, an I should live a thousand years, I never should forget it; Wilt thou not, Jule? quoth he:

And, pretty fool, it stinted, and said—Ay.

La. Cap. Enough of this; I pray thee, hold thy peace.

Nurse. Yes, madam; Yet I cannot choose but laugh,

To think it should leave crying, and say-Ay:
And yet, I warrant, it had upon its brow
A bump as big as a young cockrel's stone;
A parlous knock; and it cried bitterly.
Yea, quoth my husband, fall'st upon thy face!
Thou wilt fall backward, when thou com'st
to age;

Wilt thou not, Jule? it stinted, and said-Ay. Jul. And stint thou too, I pray thee, nurse, say I.

Nurse. Peace, I have done. God mark thee to his grace!§

Thou wast the prettiest babe that e'er I nurs❜d:
An I might live to see thee married once,
I have my wish.

La. Cap. Marry, that marry is the very theme

I came to talk of :-Tell me, daughter Juliet,
How stands your disposition to be married?

Jul. It is an honour that I dream not of. Nurse. An honour! were not I thine only nurse, I'd say, thou hadst suck'd wisdom from thy teat. La. Cap. Well, think of marriage now; younger than you,

Here in Verona, ladies of esteem,
Are made already mothers: by my count,
I was your mother much upon these years
That you are now a maid. Thus then,

brief ;

The valiant Paris seeks you for his love. Nurse. A man, young lady lady, such man,

in

a

As all the world-why, he's a man of wax. | La. Cap. Verona's summer hath not such a flower,

Nurse. Nay, he's a flower; in faith, a very flower.

La. Cap. What say you? can you love the gentleman?

This night you shall behold him at our feast:
Read o'er the volume of young Paris' face,
And find delight writ there with beauty's pen;
Examine every married lineament,
And see how one another lends content;
And what obscur'd in this fair volume lies,
Find written in the margin of his eyes. T
This precious book of love, this unbound lover,
To beautify him, only lacks a cover:
The fish lives in the sea; ** and 'tis much
pride,

For fair without the fair within to hide :
That book in many's eyes doth share the glory,
That in gold clasps Vcks in the golden story;
So shall you share all that he doth possess,
By having him, making yourself no less.
Nurse. No less? nay, bigger; women grow by

La. Cap. Speak briefly, can you like of Paris' love?

Jul. I'll look to like, if looking king move : But no more deep will I endart mine eye, Than your consent gives strength to make it fly. Enter a SERVANT.

Serv. Madam, the guests are come, supper served up, you called, my young lady asked for, the nurse cursed in the pantry, and every thing in extremity. I must hence to wait; I beseech you, follow straight.

La. Cap. We follow thee.-Juliet, the county stays.

Nurse. Go, girl, seek happy nights to happy days. [Exeunt.

SCENE IV.-A Street.

Enter ROMEO, MERCUTIO, BENVOLIO, with five or six Maskers, Torch-bearers, and others.

Rom. What, shall this speech be spoke for our excuse?

Or shall we on without apology?

Ben. The date is out of such prolixity: * We'll have no Cupid hood-wink'd with a scarf, Bearing a Tartar's painted bow of lath, Scaring the ladies like a crow-keeper; t Nor no without-book prologue, faintly spoke After the prompter, for our entrance: But, let them measure us by what they will, We'll measure them a measure, and be gone. Rom. Give me a torch, 3-1 am not for this ambling;

Being but heavy, I will bear the light. Mer. Nay, gentle Romeo, we must have you dance.

Rom. Not I, believe me: you have dancing shoes,

With nimble soles: I have a soul of lead
So stakes me to the ground, I cannot move.
Mer. You are a lover; borrow Cupid's wings,
And soar with them above a common bound.
Rom. I am too sore enpierced with his shaft,
To soar with his light feathers; and so bound,
I cannot bound a pitch above dull woe:
Under love's heavy burden do I sink.

Mer. And, to sink in it, should you burden love;

Too great oppression for a tender thing.
Rom. Is love a tender thing? it is too rough,
Too rude, too boist'rous; and it pricks like

thorn.

Mer. If love be rough with you, be rough

with love; [down.Prick love for pricking, and you beat love Give me a case to put my visage in: [Putting on a Mask,

A visor for a visor !-what care I,
What curious eye doth quote || deformities?
Here are the beetle-brows, shall blush for me.
Ben. Come, knock, and enter; and no sooner
But every man betake him to his legs. [in,
Rom. A torch for me: let wantons, light of
heart,
Tickle the senseless rushes ¶ with their heels;
For I am proverb'd with a grandsire phrase,—
I'll be a candle-holder, and look on,-
The game was ne'er so fair, and I am done. **
Mer. Tut! dun's the mouse, the constable's

own word:

Rom. Nay, that's not so. Mer. I mean, Sir, in delay

Ve waste our lights in vain, like lamps by day. Take our good nieaning; for our judgment sits Five times in that, ere once in our five wits. Rom. And we mean well, in going to this mask; But 'tis no wit to go.

Mer. Why, may one ask?

Rom. I dreamt a dream to-night.
Mer. And so did I.

Rom. Well, what was yours?
Mer. That dreamers often lie.

Rom. In bed, asleep, while they do dream things true.

Mer. O then, I see, queen Mab hath been with

you.

She is the fairies' midwife; and she comes
In shape no bigger than an agate-stone
On the fore-finger of an alderman,
Drawn with a team of little atomies.
Athwart men's noses as they lie asleep :
Her waggon-spokes made of long spinners' legs;
The cover, of the wings of grasshoppers;
The traces, of the smallest spider's web;
The collars, of the moonshine's wat'ry beams :
Her whip, of cricket's bone; the lash of film:
Her waggoner, a small grey-coated gnat,
Not half so big as a round little worm
Prick'd from the lazy finger of a maid :
Her chariot is an empty hazel-nut,
Made by the joiner squirrel, or old grub,
Time out of mind the fairies' coach-makers.
And in this state she gallops night by night
Through lovers' brains, and then they dream

Tickling a parson's nose as 'a lies asleep,
Then dreams he of another benefice:
Sometime she driveth o'er a soldier's neck,
And then dreams he of cutting foreign throats,
Of breaches, ambuscadoes, Spanish blades,
Of healths five fathom deep; and then anon
Drums in his ear; at which he starts, and
wakes,

And, being thus frighted, swears a prayer or two,
And sleeps again. This is that very Mab,
That plats the manes of horses in the night,
And bakes the elf-locks in foui sluggish hairs,
Which, once untaniged, much misfortune bodes.
This is the hag, when maids lie on their backs,
That presses them, and learns them first to
bear,

Making them women of good carriage.
This, this is she-

Rom. Peace, peace, Mercutio, peace;
Thou talk'st of nothing.

Mer. True, I talk of dreams;

Which are the children of an idle brain,
Begot of nothing but vain fantasy ;
Which is as thin of substance as the air;
And more inconstant than the wind, who wooes
Even now the frozen bosom of the north,
And, being anger'd, puffs away from thence,
Turning his face to the dew-dropping south.
Ben. This wind you talk of blows us from
ourselves;

Supper is done, and we shall come too late.
Rom. I fear, too early: for my mind mis-
gives

Some consequence, yet hanging in the stars,

SCENE V-A Hall in CAPULET'S House.

Musicians waiting. Enter SERVANTS.

1 Serv. Where's Potpan, that he helps not to take away? he shift a trencher! he scrape a trencher !

2 Serv. When good manners shall lie all in one or two men's hands, and they unwashed too, 'tis a foul thing.

1 Serv. Away with the joint-stools, remove the court-cupboard, look to the plate :-good thou, save me a piece of marchpane:+ and, as thou lovest me, let the porter let in Susan Grindstone and Nell.-Antony! and Potpau! 2 Serv. Ay, boy; ready.

1 Serv. You are looked for, and called for, asked for, and sought for, in the great chamber. 2 Serv. We cannot be here and there too.Cheerly, boys; be brisk a while, and the longer liver take all. [They retire behind. Enter CAPULET, &c. with the Guests and the Maskers.

Cap. Gentlemen, welcome! ladies, that have their toes [you :Unplagu'd with corns, will have a bout with Ah ha! my mistresses! which of you all Will now deny to dance? she that makes dainty, she,

I'll swear, hath corns; Am I come near you now? You are welcome, gentlemen! I have seen the

day,

That I have worn a visor, and could tell
A whispering tale in a fair lady's ear,
Such as would please ;-'tis gone, 'tis gone, 'tis
gone :
[play.
You are welcome, gentlemen!-Come, musicians,
A hall! a hall! give room, and foot it, girls.
[Music plays, and they dance.
More light, ye knaves; and turn the tables up,
And quench the fire, the room is grown too
hot.-

Ah! Sirrah, this unlook'd-for sport comes well.
Nay, sit, nay, sit, good cousin Capulet;
For you and I are past our dancing days:
How long is't now, since last yourself and I
Were in a mask ?

2 Cap. By'r lady, thirty years.

1 Cap. What, man! 'tis not so much; 'tis not so much :

'Tis since the nuptial of Lucentio, Come pentecost as quickly as it will, Some five and twenty years; and then we mask'd.

2 Cap. 'Tis more, 'tis more: his son is elder, His son is thirty.

1 Cap. Will you tell me that?

His son was but a ward two years ago.

[Sir:

A cupboard set in a corner like a beaufet on which the plate was placed.

+ Almond-cake.

An Ethiopian.

A clear hall, or make room The dance,