Imatges de pÓgina

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,
We would as willingly give cure, as know.

Enter Romeo.

Ben. See, where he comes: fo please you, step afide,
I'll know his grievance, or be much deny'd.

Mon. I would, thou wert so happy by thy ftay
To hear true fhrift. Come, Madam, let's away. [Exeunt.
Ben. Good-morrow, coufin.

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? .
Ro. Not having that, which, having, makes them short.
Ben. In love?

Rom. Out

Ben. Of love?

Rom. Out of her favour, where I am in love.
Ben. Alas, that love, fo gentle in his view,
Should be fo tyrannous and rough in proof!

Rom. Alas, that love, whofe view is muffled ftill,
Should without eyes fee path-ways to his will!
Where fhall we dine?O me!-What fray was here?


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
Bearer to the Traces of the corrupted Text.



Yet tell me not, for I have heard it all.

Here's much to do with hate, but more with love :
Why then, O brawling love! O loving hate!
Oh, any thing of nothing firft create!

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,
Rom. Tut, I have loft myfelf, I am not here;
This is not Romeo, he's fome other where.


Ben. Tell me in fadness, who fhe is you love?
Rom, What, fhall I groan and tell thee?
Ben. Groan? why, no; but fadly tell me, who.
Rom. Bid a fick man in fadness make his will ?.
O word, ill-urg'd to one that is fo ill!
In fadnefs, coufin, I do love a woman.

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,
From love's weak childish bow, fhe lives unharm'd.
She will not ftay the fiege of loving terms,
Nor 'bide th' encounter of affailing eyes,
Nor ope her lap to faint-feducing gold.
O fhe is rich in beauty; only poor,

That when the dies, with her dies beauty's ftore.
Ben. Then he hath fworn, that fhe will still live chafte?
Rom. She hath, and in that sparing makes huge waste.
For beauty, ftarv'd with her feverity,
Cuts beauty off from ali pofterity.

She is too fair, too wife; wifely too fair,
To merit blifs by making me despair;
She hath forfworn to love, and in that vow
Do I live dead, that live to tell it now.

Ben. Be rul'd by me, forget to think of her!
Rom. O, teach me how I fhould forget to think.
Ben. By giving liberty unto thine eyes;
Examine other beauties.

Rom. 'Tis the way

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To call hers (exquifite) in queftion more;
Those happy masks, that kifs fair ladies' brows,
Being black, put us in mind they hide the fair;
He that is ftrucken blind, cannot forget
The precious treafure of his eye-fight loft.
Shew me a mistress, that is paffing fair;
What doth her beauty ferve, but as a note,
Where I may read, who pafs'd that paffing fair?
Farewel, thou canst not teach me to forget.
Ben. I'll pay that doctrine, or elfe die in debt.

Enter Capulet, Paris, and Servant.

Cap. And Montague is bound as well as I,
In penalty alike; and 'tis not hard
For men fo old as we to keep the peaae.
Par. Of honourable reck'ning are you both,
And, pity 'tis, you liv'd at odds fo long:
But now, my Lord, what fay you to my fuit?


Cap. But faying o'er what I have said before:
My child is yet a ftranger in the world,
She hath not feen the change of fourteen years;
Let two more fummers wither in their pride,
Ere we may think her ripe to be a bride.

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
Among fresh female-buds fhall you this night
Inherit at my houfe; hear all, all fee,

And like her most, whose merit most shall be :
Which on more view of many, mine, being one,
May stand in number, tho' in reck'ning none.
Come, go with me. Go, firrah, trudge about,
Through fair Verona; find thofe perfons out,
Whose names are written there; and to them fay,
My house and welcome on their pleasure stay.

[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,
One pain is leffen'd by another's anguish :
Turn giddy, and be help'd by backward turning;
One defperate grief cure with another's languish:
Take thou fome new infection to the eye,
And the rank poison of the old will die.

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

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.
Serv. Ye fay honeftly, reft you merry.
Rom. Stay, fellow, I can read.

[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?

Serv. Up.

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.

Mr. Warburton.

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