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Jul. Romeo, Romeo, O for a falkners voice,
-Ro. It is my foule that calles vpon my name,
Iul. At what a clocke to morrow fhall I fend?
Iul. I will not faile, tis twentie yeares till then. Romeo I haue forgot why I did call thee backe.
Rom. Let me ftay here till you remember it. Iul. I fhall forget to haue thee ftill staie here, Remembring how I loue thy companie.
Rom. And Il'e stay still to haue thee still forget,
Iu. Tis almoft morning I would haue thee gone,
Rom. Would I were thy bird.
Iul. Sweet fo would I,
Yet I fhould kill thee with much cherrifhing thee.
Rom. Sleepe dwell vpon thine eyes, peace on thy breast, I would that I were fleep and peace of sweet to rest.
Now will I to my ghoftly fathers cell,
His help to craue, and my good hap to tell.
Enter frier Francis.
Frier. The gray ey'd morne fmiles on the frowning night,
The world to cheare, and nights darke dew to drie.
With balefull weeds, and precious iuyced flowers,
In hearbes, plants, ftones, and their true qualities:
But to the earth some speciall good doth giue :
Nor nought fo good, but ftraind from that faire vfc,
For this being fmelt too, with that part cheares ech hart,
Two fuch oppofed foes incampe them still,
In man as well as herbes, grace and rude will,
And where the worfer is predominant,
Full foone the canker death eats vp that plant.
Rom. Good morrow to my ghoftly confeffor.
Fri. Benedicite, what earlie tongue fo foone faluteth me? Yong fonne it argues a diftempered head,
So foone to bid good morrow to my bed.
Therefore thy earlines doth me affure,
Ro. The last was true, the fweeter rest was mine.
I haue forgot that name, and that names woe.
Fri. Thats my good fonne: but where haft thou bin then?
Ro. I tell thee ere thou afke it me againe,
Frier. Be plaine my fonne and homely in thy drift,
Rom. Then plainely know my harts deare loue is fet On the faire daughter of rich Capulet :
As mine on hers, fo hers likewife on mine,
And all combind, faue what thou must combine
That thou confent to marrie vs to day.
Fri. Holy S. Francis, what a change is here?
Hath washt thy fallow cheekes, for Rofaline?
The funne not yet thy fighes from heauen cleares,
If euer thou wert thus, and these woes thine,
Rom. Thou chidst me oft for louing Rofaline.
Fr. Not in a graue,
To lay one in another out to have.
Rom. I pree thee chide not, fhe whom I loue now Doth for and loue for loue allow: grace grace, The other did not fo.
Fr. Oh fhe knew well
Thy loue did read by rote, and could not spell.
For this alliaunce may fo happie proue,
To turne your houfholds rancour to pure loue.
Enter Mercutio, Benuolio.
Mer. Why whats become of Romeo? came he not home to night?
Ben. Not to his fathers, I fpake with his man.
Mer. Ah that fame pale hard hearted wench, that Rofaline, Torments him fo, that he will fure run mad.
Mer. Tybalt, the kinfman of olde Capelet Hath fent a letter to his fathers houfe: Some challenge on my life.
Ben. Romeo will anfwere it.
Mer. I, anie man that can write may answere a letter. Ben. Nay he will anfwere the letters master if hee bee chaljenged.
Mer. Who, Romeo? why he is alreadie dead: ftabd with a white wenches blacke eye, fhot thorough the eare with a loue fong, the verie pinne of his heart cleft with the blinde bowboyes but-fhaft. 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. Catfo, he fightes as you fing pricke-fong, keepes time dystance and proportion, refts me his minum reft one two and the thirde in your bofome, the very butcher of a filken button, a duellist a duellist, a gentleman of the very first houfe of the first and fecond cause, ah the immortall paffado, the punto reuerfo, the hay.
Ben. The what?
Me. The poxe of fuch limping antique affecting fantasticoes these new tuners of accents. By Iefu a very good blade, a very tall man, a very good whoore. Why graundfir is not this a miferable cafe that we fhould be ftil afflicted with these strange flies: these fashionmongers, these pardonmees, that ftand fo much on the new forme, that they cannot fitte at eafe on the old bench. Oh their bones, theyr bones.
Ben. Heere comes Romeo.
Mer. Without his roe, like a dryed hering. O flesh flesh how art thou fifhified. 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: Thifbie a gray eye or fo, but not to the purpose. Signior Romeo bon iour, there is a French curtefie to your French flop: yee gaue vs the counterfeit fairely yefternight.
Rom. What counterfeit I pray you?
Me. The flip the flip, can you not conceiue ?