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Iul. Romeo, Romeo, O for a falkners voice,
To lure is tassell gentle backe againe :
Bondage is hoarse and may not crie aloud,
Els would I teare the caue where eccho lies
And make her airie voice as hoarse as mine,
With repetition of my Romeos name.
Romeo ?

Re. It is my soule that calles vpon my name,
How siluer fweet sound louers tongues in night.

Iul. Romeo ?
Ro. Madame.
Iul. At what a clocke to morrow shall I send ?
Ro. At the houre of nine.

Iul. I will not faile, tis twentie yeares till then.
Romeo I haue forgot why I did call thee backe.

Rom. Let me stay here till you remember it.

Iul. I fall forget to haue thee still staie here, Remembring how I loue thy companie.

Rom. And Il'e stay still to haue thee ftill forget,
Forgetting any other home but this.

Iu. Tis almost morning I would haue thee gone,
But yet no further then a wantons bird,
Who lets it hop a little from her hand,
Like a pore prisoner in his twisted giues,
And with a silke thred puls it backe againe,
Too louing iealous of his libertie.

Rom. Would I were thy bird.

Iul. Sweet so would I,
Yet I should kill thee with much cherrishing thee.
Good night, good night, parting is such sweet forrow,
That I shall say good night till it be morrow.

Rom. Sleepe dwell vpon thine eyes, peace on thy breast,
I would that I were sleep and peace of sweet to rest.
Now will I to my ghostly fathers cell,
His help to craue, and my good hap to tell.

Enter

Enter frier Francis.

Frier. The gray ey'd morne smiles on the frowning night, Checkring the easterne clouds with streakes of light, And flecked darkenes like a drunkard reeles, From forth daies path, and Titans fierie wheeles : Now ere the funne aduance his burning eye, The world to cheare, and nights darke dew to drie. We must vp fill this oasier cage

of

ours,
With balefull weeds, and precious iuyced flowers,
Oh mickle is the powerfull grace that lies
In hearbes, plants, ftones, and their true qualities :
For nought so vile, that vile on earth doth liue,
But to the earth some speciall good doth giue :
Nor nought so good, but straind from that faire vse,
Reuolts to vice and stumbles on abuse :
Vertue it felfe turnes vice being misapplied,
And vice sometimes by action dignified.
Within the infant rinde of this small Aower,
Poyson hath residence, and medecine power :
For this being smelt too, with that part cheares ech hart,
Being tasted Naies all fences with the hart.
Two fuch opposed foes incampe them still,
In man as well as herbes, grace and rude will,
And where the worser is predominant,
Full soone the canker death eats vp that plant.

Rom. Good morrow to my ghostly confessor.

Fri. Benedicite, what earlie tongue so soone faluteth me? Yong fonne it argues a distempered head, So soone to bid good morrow to my bed. Care keepes his watch in cuerie old mans eye, And where care lodgeth, sleep can neuer lie : But where vnbrused youth with vnstuft braines Doth couch his limmes, there golden sleepe remaines :

There

Therefore thy earlines doth me assure,
Thou art vprows'd by some distemperature.
Or if not so, then here I hit it right
Our Romeo hath not bin a bed to night.

Ro. The last was true, the sweeter rest was mine.
Fr. God pardon sin, wert thou with Rosaline ?

Ro. With Rosaline my ghostly father no,
I haue forgot that name, and that names woe.

Fri. Thats my good sonne: but where hast thou bin then ?

Ro. I tell thee ere thou aske it me againe,
I haue bin feasting with mine enemie :
Where on the sodaine one hath wounded mee
Thats by me wounded, both our remedies
With in thy help and holy phisicke lies,
I beare no hatred blessed man : for loe
My interceffion likewise steades my foe.

Frier. Be plaine my sonne and homely in thy drift,
Ridling confeffion findes but ridling shrift.

Rom. Then plainely know my harts deare loue is set
On the faire daughter of rich Capulet :
As mine on hers, so hers likewise on mine,
And all combind, faue what thou must combine
By holy marriage : where, and when, and how,
We met, we woo'd, and made exchange of vowes,
Il'e tell thee as I passe: but this I pray,
That thou consent to marrie vs to day.

Fri. Holy S. Francis, what a change is here?
Is Rosaline whome thou didst loue so deare
So foone forsooke, lo yong mens loue then lies
Not truelie in their harts, but in their eyes.
lefu Maria, what a deale of brine
Hath washt thy fallow cheekes, for Rosaline ?
How much salt water cast away in wafte,
To season loue, that of loue doth not taste.

The

The sunne not yet thy fighes from heauen cleares,
Thy old grones ring yet in my ancient eares,
And loe vpon thy cheeke the staine doth sit,
Of an old teare that is not walht off yet.
If euer thou wert thus, and these woes thine,
Thou and these woes were all for Rosaline,
And art thou changde, pronounce this sentence then
Women may fal, when ther's no strength in men.

Rom. Thou chidit me oft for louing Rosaline.
Fri For doating, not for louing, pupill mine,
Rom. And badst me burie loue.

Fr. Not in a graue,
To lay one in another out to have.
Rom. I pree thee chide not, she whom I loue now

for

grace, and loue for loue allow : The other did not so.

Fr. Oh she knew well Thy loue did read by rote, and could not spell. But come young wauerer, come goe with mee, In one respect Ile thy assistant bee: For this alliaunce may so happie proue, To turne your housholds rancour to pure loue. Exeunt.

Doth grace

Enter Mercutio, Benuolio.

Mer. Why whats become of Romeo ? came he not home to night?

Ben. Not to his fathers, I spake with his man.

Mer. Ah that same pale hard hearted wench, that Rosaline, Torments him so, that he will sure run mad.

Mer. Tybalt, the kinsman of olde Craclet
Hath sent a letter to his fathers house :
Some challenge on my life.
Ben. Romeo will answere it.

Mer.

Mer. I, anie man that can write may answere a letter.

Ben. Nay he will answere the letters master if hee bee chaljenged.

Mer. Who, Romeo? why he is alreadie dead : stabd with a white wenches blacke eye, shot thorough the eare with a loue fong, the verie pinne of his heart cleft with the blinde bowboyes but-shaft. And is he a man to encounter Tybalt ?

Ben. Why what is Tybalt?
Mer. More than the prince of cattes I can tell

you.

Oh he is the couragious captaine of complements. Catso, he fightes as you sing pricke-long, keepes time dystance and proportion, rests me his minum rest one two and the thirde in your bosome, the very butcher of a filkeo button, a duellist a duellist, a gentleman of the very first house of the first and second cause, ah the immortall passado, the punto reuerso, the hay.

Ben. The what?

Me. The poxe of such limping antique affecting fantasticoes these new tuners of accents. By Iesu a very good blade, a very tall man, a very good whoore. Why graundfir is not this a miserable case that we should be stil afflicted with these strange flies: these fashionmongers, these pardonmees, that stand so much on the new forme, that they cannot fitte at ease on the old bench. Oh their bones, theyr bones.

Ben. Heere comes Romco.

Mer. Without his roe, like a dryed hering. O Refh flesh how art thou filhified. Sirra now is he for the numbers that Petrarch flowdin : Laura to his lady was but a kitchin drudg, yet he had a better loue to berime her : Dido a dowdy Cleopatra a gypsie, Hero and Helen hildings and harletries : Thisbie a gray eye or so, but not to the purpose. Signior Romeo bon jour, there is a French curtefie to your French flop : yee gaue vs the counterfeit fairely yesternight.

Rom. What counterfeit I pray you ?
Me. The slip the flip, can you not conceiue ?

Rom.

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