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Ere he can spread his fweet leaves to the air,
Or dedicate his beauty to the fun.
Could we but learn from whence his forrows grow,
Ben. See, where he comes: fo please you, step afide,
Mon. I would, thou wert so happy by thy ftay
Rom. Is the day fo young?
Ben. But new ftruck nine.
Rom. Ah me, fad hours feem long!
Was that my father that went hence fo faft?
Ben. It was: what fadness lengthens Romeo's hours? .
Ben. Of love?
Rom. Out of her favour, where I am in love.
Rom. Alas, that love, whofe view is muffled ftill,
Or dedicate bis Beauty to the Same.] To the fame?all the Lovers of Shakespeare and Poetry will agree, that this is a very idle, dragging Parapleromatic, as the Grammarians ftyle it. But our Author generally in his Similies is accurate in the cloathing of them, and therefore, I believe, would not have overcharged this fo infipidly. When we come to confider, that there is fome power elfe befides balmy Air, that brings forth, and makes the tender Buds Spread themfelves, I do not think it improbable that the Poet wrote;
Or dedicate his Beauty to the Sun.
Or, according to the more obfolete fpelling, Sunne; which brings it
Yet tell me not, for I have heard it all.
Here's much to do with hate, but more with love :
O heavy lightnefs! ferious vanity!
Mif-fhapen chaos of well-feeming forms!
Feather of lead, bright smoke, cold fire, fick health!
Still-waking fleep, that is not what it is!
This love feel I, that feel no love in this.
Doft thou not laugh?
Ben. No, coz, I rather weep.
Rom. Good heart, at what?
Ben. At thy good heart's oppreffion.
Rom. Why, fuch is love's tranfgreffion.Griefs of mine own lie heavy in my breaft;" Which thou wilt propagate, to have them preft With more of thine; this love, that thou haft fhewn, Doth add more grief to too much of mine own. Love is a smoke rais'd with the fume of fighs, Being purg'd, a fire fparkling in lovers' eyes; Being vext, a fea nourish'd with lovers' tears; What is it elfe? a madness most discreet, A choaking gall, and a preferving sweet: Farewel, my coufin;
Ben. Soft, I'll go along."
And if you leave me fo, you do me wrong,
Ben. Tell me in fadness, who fhe is you love?
Ben. I aim'd fo near, when I fuppos'd you lov'd. Rom. A right good marks-man ;-and fhe's fair, I love.. Ben. A right fair mark, fair coz, is fooneft hit. Rom. But, in that hit, you mifs;-she'll not be hit With Cupid's arrow; fhe hath Dian's wit:
And, in ftrong proof of chastity well arm'd,
That when the dies, with her dies beauty's ftore.
She is too fair, too wife; wifely too fair,
Ben. Be rul'd by me, forget to think of her!
Rom. 'Tis the way
To call hers (exquifite) in queftion more;
Enter Capulet, Paris, and Servant.
Cap. And Montague is bound as well as I,
Cap. But faying o'er what I have said before:
Par. Younger than fhe are happy mothers made. Cap. And too foon marr'd are thofe fo early made: The earth hath fwallowed all my hopes but fhe. She is the hopeful lady of my earth: But woo her, gentle Paris, get her heart, My will to her confent is but a part; If the agree, within her scope of choice Lies my confent, and fair according voice: This night, I hold an old accustom❜d feast, Whereto I have invited many a guest, Such as I love; and you among the store, One more, moft welcome, makes my number more. At my poor houfe, look to behold this night Earth-treading ftars that make dark heaven's light. Such comfort as do lufty young men feel,
When well-apparel'd April on the heel
Of limping winter treads, ev'n fuch delight
And like her most, whose merit most shall be :
[Exeunt Capulet and Paris. Serv. Find them out whofe names are written here? -It is written, that the Shoemaker fhould meddle with his yard, and the Taylor with his laft, the Fisher with his pencil, and the Painter with his nets. But I am fent to find thofe perfons whofe 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,
Rom. Your plantan leaf is excellent for that.
Rom. For your broken fhin.
Ben. Why, Romeo, art thou mad?
Rom. Not mad, but bound more than a mad-man is: Shut up in prifon, kept without my food,
Whipt and tormented: and-Good-e'en, good fellow. [To the Servant. Serv. God gi' good e'en: I pray, Sir, can you read ? Rom. Ay, mine own fortune in my mifery. Serv. Perhaps, you have learn'd it without book but, I pray,
Can you read any thing you fee ?
Rom. Ay, if I know the letters and the language.
[He reads the letter.]
Ignior Martino, and his wife and daughters: Count Anfelm and his beauteous fifters; the lady widow of Vitruvio; Signior Placentia, and his lovely nieces; Mercutio and his brother Valentine; mine uncle Capulet, his wife and daughters; my fair niece Rofaline; Livia; Signior Vas lentio, and his coufin Tybalt; Lucio, and the lively Helena. A fair aflembly; whither fhould they come? (2)
(2) A fair Aflembly: Whither fhould they come?
Rom. Wbitber? to Supper?
Serv. To our Houfe.] Romeo had read over the Lift of invited Guefts; but he must be a Prophet, to know they were invited to Supper. This comes much more aptly from the Servant's Anfwer, than Romeo's Question; and muft undoubtedly be placed to him.