Imatges de pÓgina
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That quench the fire of your pernicious rage,
With purple fountains issuing from your veins;
On pain of torture, from those bloody hands
Throw your mistemper'd weapons to the ground,
And hear the sentence of your moved prince.
Three civil broils, bred of an airy word,
By thee, old Capulet, and Mountague,
Have thrice disturb'd the quiet of our streets :
Aud made Verona's ancient citizens
Cast by their grave beseeming ornaments ;
To wield old partizans in hands as old.
If ever you affright our streets again,
Your lives shall pay the forfeit of the peace.
For this time all the rest depart away,
You, Capulet, shall go along with me;
And Mountague, come you this afternoon,
To know our further pleasure in this case.
Once more, on pain of death, all men depart.

[Exeunt Prince and Capulet, &c.

S CE N E II.

Manent Mountague and Benvolio.
Moun. . 'HO set this ancient quarrel now abroach ?

Speak, nephew, were you by when

began?
Ben. Here were the servants of your adversary,
And yours, close fighting, ere I did approach ;
I drew to part them: In the instant came
The fiery Tibalt, with his sword prepard,
Which as he breath'd defiance to my ears,
He swung about his head, and cut the winds,
While we were interchanging thrusts and blows,
Came more and more, and fought on part and part,
'Till the Prince came.

Moun. O where is Romeo ? Saw you him to day?
Right glad, am I, he was not at this fray.

Ben. My lord, an hour before the worshipp'd fun
Peer'd through the golden window of the East,
A troubled mind drew me to walk abroad ;

Where

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Where underneath the grove of fycamoor,
That westward rooteth from this city side,
So early walking did I see your son,
Tow'rds him I made, but he was 'ware of me,
And stole into the covert of the wood.
I measuring his affections by my own,
(That most are busied when they're moft alone,)
Pursu'd my humour, not pursuing him,
And gladly shunn'd, who gladly fled from me.

Moun. Many a morning hath he there been seen
With tears augmenting the fresh morning dew;
But all so soon as the all-chearing sun
Should, in the farthest 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 ?
Moun. I neither know it, nor can learn it of him.
Ben. Have you importun'd him by any means ?

Moun. Both by myself and many other friends ;
But he, his own affection's counsellor,
Is to himself, I will not say, how true ;
But to himself so secret and so close.
So far from founding 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.

Ben. So please you, Sir, Mercutio and myself
Are most near to him ; be't that our years,
Statures, births, fortunes, studies, inclinations,
Measure the rule of his, I know not ; but
Friendship still loves to ført him with his like.
We will attempt upon his privacy,
And could we learn from whence his sorrows grow,
We would as willingly give cure, as knowledge.

Mun. 'Twill bind us to you : good Benvolio, go, Ben. We'll know his grievance, or be hard denied.

[Exeunt severally.

SCE N E

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S C E N E III.

Before Capulet's House.

Enter Capulet, Paris, and a Servant. Сар. . ND Mountague is bound as well as I,

In penalty alike; and 'tis not hard
For men so old as we to keep the peace.

Par Of honourable reck’ning 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 before,
My child is yet a stranger in the world,
She hath not seen the change of eighteen years ;
Let two more summers wither in their pride,
Ere we may think her ripe to be a wife.

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 her. But woo her, gentle Paris, get her heart ; If she agree, within her scope of choice Lies my confent; so woo her, gentle Paris. This night I hold an old accustom'd feast, Whereto I have invited many a friend, Such as I love, and you among the rest ; One more moft welcome! Come go with me. Go firrah trudge about

[To a fervant. Through fair Verona; find those persons out, Whose names are written there; and to them say, My house and welcome on their pleasures ftay. (Exeunt.

S. CE N E IV.

A Wood near Verona.

Enter Benvolio and Mercutio. Mer. E E where he steals-Told I you not, Benvoko,

That we should find this melancholy Cupid Lock'd in some gloomy covert, under key Of cautionary filence ; with his arms Threaded, like these cross boughs, in forrow's knot:

Enier

SE

Enter Romeo.
Ben. Good-morrow, Cousin.
Rom. Is the day so young ?
Ben. But new ftruck nine,
Rom. Ah me! sad hours seem long.
Mer. Prithee, what sadness lengthens Romeo's hours ?
Rom. Not having that, which having makes them short.

Ben. In love, me seems!
Alas, that love so gentle to the view,
Should be so tyrannous and rough in proof!

Rom. Where shall we dine ?-O me--Cousin Benvolio,
What was the fray this morning with the Capulets?
Yet, tell me not, for I have heard it all.
Here's much to do with hate, but more with love :
Love, heavy lightness! serious vanity!
Mil-shapen chaos of well-seeming forms !
This love feel I; but such my froward fate,
That there I love where most I ought to hate.
Dost thou not laugh, my friend : -Oh Juliet, Juliet !

Ben. No, coz, I rather weep.
Rom. Good heart, at what?
Ben. At thy good heart's oppression.
Mer. Tell me in sadness, who she is
Rom. In sadness then, I love a woman.
Mer. I aim'd so near, when I suppos'd you lov'd.

Rom. A right good marksman! and she's fair I love :
But knows not of my love, 'twas thro' my eyes
The shaft empierc'd my heart, chance gave the wound,
Which time can never heal: no star befriends me,
To each sad night succeeds a dismal morrow,
And still 'tis hopeless love, and endless forrow.
* Mer. Be ruld by me, forget to think of her.

Rom. O teach me how I thould forget to think.

Mer. By giving liberty unto thine eyes :
Take thou some new infection to thy heart,
And the rank poison of the old will die.
Examine other beauties.

Rom. He that is strucken blind cannot forget
The precious treasure of his eye fight loft.
Shew me a mistress that is palling fair;
What doth her beauty serve but as a note,

Remembring

you love ?

Remembring me, who past that pafling fair ;
Farewel, thou canst not teach me to forget.

Mer. I warrant thee. If thou'lt but stay to hear,
To night there is an ancient splendid feast
Kept by old Capulet, our enemy,
Where all the beauties of Verona meet.

Rom. At Capulet's !

Mer. At Capulet's, my friend,
Go there, and with an unattainted eye,
Compare her face with some that I shall show,
And I will make thee think thy fwan a crow !

Rom. When the devout religion of mine eye
Maintains such falfhoods, then turn tears to fires ;
And burn the hereticks. All-feeing Phoebus
Ne'er saw her match, fince first his course began.

Mer. Tut, tut, you saw her fair, none else being by, Herself pois'd with herself; but le: be weigh'd Your lady.love against some other fair, And she will shew fcant well.

Rom. I will along, Mercutio.

Mer. 'Tis well. Look to behold at this high feaft, Earth-treading stars, that make dim heaven's lights. Hear all, all see, try all; and like her most, That most shall merit thee.

Rom. My mind is chang'd
I will not go to night.

Mer. Why, may one ask ?
Rom. I dream'd a dream last night.

Mer. Ha ! ha! a dream!
O then I see queen Mab hath been with you.
She is the fancy's mid-wife, and the comes
In shape no bigger than an agat-stone
On the fore-finger of an Alderman,
Drawn with a team of little atomies,
Athwart mens noses as they lie asleep :
Her waggon-spokes made of long spinners legs ;
The cover, of the wings of grashoppers ;
The traces, of the smallest spider's web ;
The collars, of the moonshine's watry beams;
Her whip, of cricket's bone ; the lath, of film ;
Her waggoner a small gray.coated gnat,
Not half so big as a round little worm,

Prick'd

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