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

-Ro. It is my foule that calles vpon my name,
How filuer fweet found louers tongues in night.

Iul. Romeo?

Ro. Madame.

Iul. At what a clocke to morrow fhall I fend?
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 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,
Forgetting any other home but this.

Iu. Tis almoft 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 prifoner in his twisted giues,
And with a filke thred puls it backe againe,
Too louing iealous of his libertie.

Rom. Would I were thy bird.

Iul. Sweet fo would I,

Yet I fhould kill thee with much cherrifhing thee.
Good night, good night, parting is fuch fweet forrow,
That I fhall fay good night till it be morrow.

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

Enter frier Francis.

Frier. The gray ey'd morne fmiles 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 oafier 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 fo vile, that vile on earth doth liue,

But to the earth some speciall good doth giue :

Nor nought fo good, but ftraind from that faire vfc,
Reuolts to vice and ftumbles on abuse :
Vertue it felfe turnes vice being mifapplied,
And vice fometimes by action dignified.
Within the infant rinde of this fmall flower,
Poyfon hath refidence, and medecine power:

For this being fmelt too, with that part cheares ech hart,
Being tafted flaies all fences with the 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.
Care keepes his watch in euerie old mans eye,
And where care lodgeth, fleep can neuer lie:
But where vnbrufed youth with vnftuft braines
Doth couch his limmes, there golden fleepe remaines :

There

Therefore thy earlines doth me affure,
Thou art vprowf'd by fome diftemperature.
Or if not fo, then here I hit it right
Our Romeo hath not bin a bed to night.

Ro. The last was true, the fweeter rest was mine.
Fr. God pardon fin, wert thou with Rofaline?
Ro. With Rofaline my ghoftly father no,

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,
I haue bin feafting with mine enemie :
Where on the fodaine one hath wounded mee
Thats by me wounded, both our remedies
With in thy help and holy phificke lies,
I beare no hatred bleffed man for loe
My interceffion likewife fteades my foe.

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

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
By holy marriage: where, and when, and how,
We met, we woo'd, and made exchange of vowes,
Il'e tell thee as I paffe: but this I pray,

That thou confent to marrie vs to day.

Fri. Holy S. Francis, what a change is here?
Is Rofaline whome thou didst loue fo deare
So foone forfooke, lo yong mens loue then lies
Not truelie in their harts, but in their eyes.
Iefu Maria, what a deale of brine

Hath washt thy fallow cheekes, for Rofaline?
How much falt water caft away in waste,
To feafon loue, that of loue doth not tafte.

The

The funne not yet thy fighes from heauen cleares,
Thy old grones ring yet in my ancient eares,
And loe vpon thy cheeke the staine doth fit,
Of an old teare that is not washt 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 fentence then
Women may fal, when ther's no ftrength in men.

Rom. Thou chidst me oft for louing Rofaline.
Fr. For doating, not for louing, pupill mine,
Rom. And badft me burie loue.

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.
But come young wauerer, come goe with mee,
In one respect Ile thy afliftant bee:

For this alliaunce may fo happie proue,

To turne your houfholds rancour to pure loue.

Exeunt.

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.

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 ?

Rom.

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