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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. Reft you merry
(Exit. Ben. At this fame antient feast of Capulet's Sups the fair Rosaline, whom thou so lov'ft; With all the admired beauties of Verona, Go thither, and, with untainted eye, Compare her face with some that I fall show, And I will make thee think thy swan a crow.
Rom. When the devout religion of mine eye.
Maintains such falshoods, then turn tears to fires ! And these, who, often drown'd, could never die,
Transparent hereticks, be burnt for liars !
Ben. Tut! tut! you saw her fair, none else being by;
Rom. I'll go along, no such fight to be shewn ; But to rejoice in splendor of mine own. [Exeunt,
(3) --let there be weigh'd
Your Lady's Love against some other Maid] But the Comparison was not betwixt the Love that Romeo's Mistrefs paid him, and the Person of any other young Woman: but betwixt Romeo's Mistress herself, and some other that should be matched against her. The Poet therefore must certainly have wrote ;
Your Lady-love against some ciber Maid, So the Comparison fands right, and feasibly.
SCENE, changes to Capulet's House.
Enter Lady Capulet, and Nurse. La. Cap. Nurse, where's my daughter? call her forth
Nurse. Now (by my maiden-head at twelve years old) I bade her come; what, lamb,-what, lady-bird, God forbid !-where's this girl? what, Juliet ?
will? La. Cap. This is the matter -Nurse, give leave a while, we must talk in secret ; Nurse, come back again, I have remember'd me, thou shalt hear our counsel: thou know it my daughter's of a pretty age.
Nurse. ’Faith, I can tell her age unto an hour.
Nurse I'll lay fourteen of my teeth, (and yet to my teen be it spoken, I have but four;) she's not fourteen; how long is it now to Lammas-tide :
La. Cap. A fortnight and odd days.
Nurse. Even or odd, of all days in the year, come Lammas-eve at night, shall me be fourteen. Susan and The (God reft all christian souls !) were of an age. Well, Susan is with God, she was too good for me,
But as I faid, on Lammas-eve at night shall she be fourteen, that shall the, marry, I remember it well. 'Tis fince the earthquake now eleven years, and she was wean’d; I nee ver hall forget it, of all the days in the year, upon that day; for I had then laid worm-wood to my dug, fitting in the fun 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 worm-wood on the nipple of my dug, and felt it bitter, pretty fool, to see it teachy, and fall out with the dug. Shake, quoth the dove-house. 'twas no need, I trow, to sid
me trudge; and fince that time it is eleven years, for then she could stand alone; nay, by th' rood, she could have rup, and waddled all about; for even the day before she broke her brown, and then my husband, (God be with his soul, a'was a merry man ;) took up the child;
; yea, quoth he, doft thou fall upon thy face thou wilt fall backward when thou hast more wit, wilt thou not Julé ? and by my holy dam, the pretty wretch left crying, and said, ay;. To see now, how a jest shall come about. I warrant, an' I should live a thousand years, I should not forget it: Wilt thou not, Julé, quoth he? and, pretty fool, it stinted, and said, ay.
La. Cap. Enough of this, I pray thee, hold thy peace.
Nurse. Yes Madam; yet I cannot chuse but laugh, to think it should leave crying, and say, 'ay; and yet, I wariant, it had upon its brow a hump as big as a young cockrel's stone: a perilous knock, and it cried bitterly. Yea, quoth my husband, fallift upon thy face? thou wilt fall backward when thou comeft to age, wilt thou not, Julé? it finted, and said, ay.
Jul. And stint thee too, I pray thee, nurse, say I.
with. La. Cap. And that fame marriage is the very theme I came to talk of. Tell me, daughter Juliet, How ftands your disposition to be married ?
Jul. It is an honour that I dream not of.
Nurfe. An honour? were not I thine only nurse, I'd say, thou hadft fuck'd wisdom from thy teat.
La. Cap. Well, think of marriage now; younger
Here in Verona, ladies of esteem,
Nurse. A man, young lady, lady, such a man As all the world-Why, he's a man of wax.
La. Cap. Verona's summer hath not fuch a flower. Nurse. Nay, he's a flower ; in faith, a very flower,
La. Cap. What say you, can you like the gentleman ? This night you shall behold him at our fear; Read o'er the volume of young Paris' face, And find delight writ there with beauty's pen ; Examine ev'ry fev'ral lineament, And fee, how one another lends content: And what obfcur'd in this fair volume lies, Find written in the margent of his eyes. This precious book of love, this unbound lover, To beautify him only lacks a cover. The fish lives in the sea, and 'tis much pride, For fair without the fair within to hide. That book in many eyes doth share the glory, That in gold clasps locks in the golden story. So, fall you share all that he doth poffefs, By having him, making yourself no less.
Nurje. No less'? Nay, bigger; women grow by men. ka. Cap. Speak briefly, can you like of Paris' love?
Ful. I'll look to like, if looking liking move.
Enter a Servant.
Serv. Madam, the guests are come, fupper serv'd up, you call’d, my young lady ask'd for, the nurse curft in the pantry, and every thing in extremity. I must hence to wait; I befeech you, follow ftrait.
La. Cap. We follow thee. Juliet, the County stays. Nurse. Go, girl, seek happy nights to happy days.
SCENE, a Street before Capulet's House.
Enter Romeo, Mercutio, Benvolio, with five or fixe
other maskers, torch-bearers, and drums.
Hat, fhall this speech bespoke for ourexcufe?
Or shall we on without apology?
Rom. Give me a torch, I am not for this ambling.
dance. Rom. Not I, believe me ; you have dancing shoes With nimble soles ; I have a soul of lead, So stakes me to the ground, I cannot move.
Mer. You are a lover ; borrow Cupid's wings, And foar with them above a common bound.
Rom. I am too fore enpearced with his haft, To soar with his light feathers : and so bound, I cannot bound a pitch above dull woe : Under love's heavy burden do I fink.
Mer. And to fink in it, hould you burden love : Too great oppression for a tender thing!
Rom. Is love a tender thing? It is too rough, Too rude, too boilt'rous ; and it pricks like thorn.
Mer. If love be rough with you, be rough with love; Prick love for pricking, and you beat love down. Give me a cafe to put my visage in ;
[Pulling off his mask. A visor for a visor! what care I, What curious