Imatges de pÓgina

Being black, put us in mind they hide the fair;
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.


A Street.

Enter CAPULET, PARIS, and Servant,

to my

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 to long.
But now, my lord, what say you suit?

Cap. But saying o'er what I have said before :
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,

think her ripe to be a bride.
Par. Younger than the are happy mothers made.

Cap. And too soon marr'd are those so early made.
The earth hath swallow'd all my hopes but the,
She is the hopeful lady of my

But woo her, gentle Paris, get her heart,
My will to her consent is but a part;
An the agree, within her scope of choice
my confent and fair according voice.


Ere we may

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This night I hold an old accustom'd feast,
Whereto I have invited many a gueft,
Such as I love; and you, among the store,
One more, most welcome, makes my number more.
At my poor house, look to behold this night
Earth-treading stars, that make dark heaven light:
Such comfort, as do lusty young men feel
When well-apparell d April on the heel
Of limping winter treads, even fuch delight
Among fresh female buds shall you this night
Inherit at my house; hear all, all fee,
And like her most, whose merit most shall be:
Such, amongst view of many, mine, being one,
May ftand in number, though in reckoning none.
Come, go

with me;-Go, firrah, trudge about Through fair Verona ; find those persons out, Whose names are written there, (gives a paper.] and to

them say, My house and welcome on their pleasure stay.

[Exeunt CAPULET and Paris. Serv. Find them out, whose names are written here? It is written--that the shoemaker should meddle with his yard, and the tailor with his last, the fisher with his cil, and the painter with his nets; but I am sent to find those persons, whose names are here writ, and can never find what names the writing person hath here writ. I must to the learned :-In good time.


Enter BenVOLIO and Romeo.

Ben. Tut, man! one fire burns out another's burning,

One pain is leffen'd by another's anguish ;
Turn giddy, and be holp hy backward turning;
One desperate grief cures with another's languish :

Take thou some new infection to thy eye,
And the rank poison of the old will die.

Rom. Your plaintain leaf is excellent for that.
Ben. For what, I pray thee?

For your broken shin.
Ben. Why, Romeo, art thou mad ?

Rom. Not mad, but bound more than a madman is : Shut

up in prison, kept without my food, Whipp'd, and tormented, and-Good-e’en, good fellow.

Serv. God gi' good e’en.-I pray, sir, can you read ? Rom. Ay, mine own fortune in my misery.

Sery. Perhaps you have learn'd it without book : But I pray, can you read any thing you see?

Rom. Ay, if I know the letters, and the language.
Serv. Ye say honestly; Rest you merry!
Rom. Stay, fellow; I can read.

[reads. Signior Martinc, and his wife, and daughters; County Anselme, and his beauteous Sisters; The lady widow of Vi. truvio; Signior Placentio, and his lovely nieces; Mercutio, and his brother Valentine; Mine uncle Capulet, his wife, and daughters; My fair niece Rosaline; Livia ; Signior Valentio, and his cousin Tybalt; Lucio, and the lively Helena. A fair assembly ; [gives back the note.] Whither should

they come?
Serv. Up
Rom. Whither?
Serv. To supper; to our house,
Rom. Whose house ?
Serv. My master's.
Rom. Indeed, I should have ask'd you that before.

Serv. 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. Rest you merry.



Ben. At this fame ancient feast of Capulet's
Sups the fair Rosaline, whom thou so lov'it;
With all the admired beauties of Verona :
Go thither; and, with unattainted eye,
Compare her face with some that I shall show,
And I will make thee think thy swan a crow.

Rom. When the devout religion of mine eye

Maintains such falsehood, then turn téars to fires !
And these,who, often drown'd, could never die,

Transparent hereticks, be burnt for liars !
One fairer than my love! the all-seeing sun
Ne'er faw ber match, since first the world begun.

Ben. Tut! you saw her fair, none else being by,
Herself pois’d with herself in either eye :
But in those crystal scales, let there be weigh'd
Your lady's love against some other maid
That I will show you, shining at this feast,
And she shall scant show well, that now shows best.

Rom. I'll go along, no such fight to be shown,
But to rejoice in splendour of mine own. (Exeunt,


A Room in Capulet's House.

Enter Lady CAPULET and Nurse. L. Cap. Nurse, where's my daughter? call her forth to me.

Nurse. Now, by my maiden-head,-at twelve year old, -
I bade her come.-What, lamb! what, lady-bird !-
God forbid !-where's this girl :-what, Juliet !

71l. How now, who calls ?
Your mother.

Jul. Ful.

Madam, I am here, What is your will ?

La. Cap. This is the matter :-Nurse, give leave awhile,
We must talk in fecret.-Nurse, come back again;
I have remember'd me, thou shalt hear our counsel.
Thou know'st, my daughter's of a pretty age.

Nurse. 'Faith, I can tell her age unto an hour.
La. Cap. She's not fourteen.

I'll lay fourteen of my teeth,
And yet, to my teen be it spoken, I have but fourg-
She is not fourteen : How long is it now
To Lammas-tide ?
L. Cap.

A fortnight, and odd days.
Nurse. Even or odd, of all days in the year,
Come Lammas-eve at night, shall the be fourteen,
Susan and the God rest all Christian souls !-
Were of an age. Well, Susan is with God;
She was too good for me : But, as I said,
On Lammas-eye at night shall the be fourteen;
That shall the, marry; I remember it well.
'Tis since the earthquake now eleven years ;
And she was wean'd, I never shall forget it,
of all the days of the year, upon

that day:
For I had then laid wormwood to my dug,
Sitting in the sun under the dove-house wall,
My lord and you were then at Mantua :-
Nay, I do bear a brain :-but, as I said,
When it did taste the wormwood on the nipple
Of my dug, and felt it bitter, pretty fool !
To see it tetchy, and fall out with the dug.
Shake, quoth the dove-house : 'twas no need, I trow,
To bid me trudge.
And Gnce that time it is eleven years :
For then the could stand alone; nay, by the rood,


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