My Bounty is as boundless as the Sea,

My Love as deep; the more I give to thee,
The more I have, for both are infinite.

I hear fome Noise within; dear Love adieu.

Anon, good Nurse

[Nurse calls within.

Sweet Mountague be true:

[Exit.

Stay but a little, I will come again.

Rom. O blessed, blessed Night, I am afraid,

Being in Night, all this is but a Dream,

Too flattering sweet to be substantial.

Re-enter Juliet above.

Jul. Three Words, dear Romeo,

And good Night indeed.

If that thy bent of Love be Honourable,

Thy purpose Marriage, send me word to Morrow,
By one that I'll procure to come to thee,
Where and what time thou wilt perform the Rite,

And all my Fortunes at thy Foot I'll lay,

And follow thee, my Lord, throughout the World.

[Within: Madam,

[Within: Madam.

I come, anon_but if thou meanest not well,

I do beseech thee

By and by, I come

To cease thy Strife, and leave me to my Grief.

To Morrow will I fend.

Rom. So thrive my Soul,

Jul. A thousand times good Night.

[Exit.

Rom. A thousand times the worse to want thy light,

Love goes toward Love, as School-boys from their Books,

But Love from Love, towards School with heavy Looks.

Enter Juliet again.

Jul. Hist! Romeo, hist! O for a Falkner's Voice,

To lure this Taffel gently back again-
Bondage is hoarse and may not speak aloud,
Else would I tear the Cave where Eccho lyes,
And make her airy Tongue more hoarfe Then with

The repetition of my Romeo

Rom. It is my Soul that calls upon my Name. How filver-fweet found Lovers Tongues by Night,

Like softest Musick to attending Ears.

Ful. Jul. Romeo.

Rom. My Sweet.

Jul. What a Clock to Morrow

Shall I fend to thee?

Rom. By the hour of Nine.

1

Jul. I will not fail, 'tis twenty Years 'till then, I have forgot why I did call thee back.

Rom. Let me stand here 'till thou remember it. Jul. I shall forget, to have thee still stand there, Remembring how I love thy Company.

Rom. And I'll still stay to have thee still forget,
Forgetting any other Name but this.

Jul. 'Tis almost Morning, I would have thee gone.
'And yet no further than a wanton's Bird,
That lets it hop a little from his Hand,
Like a poor Prisoner in his twisted Gyves,
And with a filken thread plucks it again,
So loving jealous of his Liberty.

Rom. I would I were thy Bird.
Jul. Sweet, so would I,

Yet I should kill thee with much cherishing:
Good Night, good Night.

Rom. Parting is such sweet Sorrow,
That I shall say Good Night 'till it be Morrow.
Jul. Sleep dwell upon thine Eyes, peace in thy Breaft,
Would I were Sleep and Peace, so sweet to Reft.
[Exit.
Rom. The gray-ey'd Morn smiles on the frowning Night,
Check'ring the Eastern Clouds with streaks of Light,
And Darkness fleckell'd like a Drunkard reels,
From forth Days path-way, made by Titan's Wheels.
Hence will I to my Ghostly Friar's close Cell,
His help to crave, and my dear hap to tell.

SCENE IV. A Monastery.

Enter Friar Lawrence, with a Basket.

Fri. Now e'er the Sun advance his burning Eye, The Day to chear, and Night's dank Dew to dry, I must up-fill this Ofier Cage of ours,

[Exit.

With baleful Weeds, and precious juiced Flowers.
The Earth that's Nature's Mother, is her Tomb,
What is her burying Grave, that is her Womb;
And from her Womb Children of divers kind
We fucking on her natural Bosom find :
Many for many Virtues Excellent,
None but for fome, and yet all different.
O mickle is the powerful Grace, that lies
In Plants, Herbs, Stones, and their true Qualities:
For nought so vile, that on the Earth doth live,
But to the Earth some special good doth give.
Nor ought so good, but strain'd from that fair use,
Revolts from true Birth, stumbling on abuse;
Virtue it self turns Vice, being misapplied.
And Vice sometime by Action dignified.
Enter Romeo.

Within the infant Rind of this weak Flower,
Poison hath refidence, and Medicine Power :
For this being smelt, with that part chears each part;
Being tasted, flays all Senfes, with the Heart.
Two fuch opposed Kings encamp them still,
In Man, as well as Herbs, Grace and rude Will:
And where the worser is predominant,
Full foon the Canker Death eats up that Plant.
Rom. Good morrow, Father.

Fri. Benedicite.

What early Tongue so sweet falutes mine Ear ?
Young Son, it argues a distemper'd Head,
So foon to bid good morrow to thy Bed;
Care keeps his watch in every old Man's Eye,
And where Care lodgeth, Sleep will never lye ;
But where unbruised Youth, with unstuft Brain,
Doth couchhis Limbs, there golden Sleep doth raign;
Therefore, thy earliness doth me assure,
Thou art up-rouz'd with some distemperature;
Or if not so, then here I hit it right,
Our Romeo hath not been in Bed to Night.

Rom. That last is true, the sweeter Rest was mine. Fri. God pardon Sin; wast thou with Rosaline ? Rom. With Rosaline, my Ghostly Father ? No. I have forgot that Name, and that Name's Woe. Fri. That's my good Son: but where haft thou been then?

Rom.

Rom. I'll tell thee e'er thou ask it me again;

I have been feasting with mine Enemy,
Where on a sudden one hath wounded me,
That's by me wounded; both our Remedies
Within thy help and holy Phyfick lies;
I bear no hatred, Blessed Man, for lo
My interceffion likewise steads my Foe.
Fri. Be plain, good Son, rest homely in thy drift,
Ridling confeffion finds but ridling shrift.

Rom. Then plainly know my Heart's dear Love is set
On the fair Daughter of rich Capulet ;
As mine on hers, so hers is set on mine;
And all combin'd, save what thou must combine
By holy Marriage; when, and where, and how,
We met, we woord, and made exchange of Vow,
I'll tell thee as we pass, but this I pray,
That thou consent to marry us to Day.

Fri. Holy Saint Francis, what a Change is here?
Is Rosaline, that thou didst love so dear,
So foon forsaken? young Mens Love then lyes
Not truly in their Hearts, but in their Eyes.
Jefu Maria, what a deal of Brine
Hath washt thy fallow Cheeks for Rosaline ?
How much falt Water thrown away in waste,
To season Love, that of it doth not taste ?
The Sun not yet thy Sighs from Heaven clears,
Thy old Groans yet ring in my ancient Ears;
Lo here upon thy Cheek the Stain doth fit,
Of an old Tear that is not washt off yet.
If e'er thou wast thy felf, and these Woes thine,
Thou and these Woes were all for Rosaline.
And art thou chang'd? Pronounce this Sentence then,
Women may fall, when there's no Strength in Men.
Rom. Thou chidd'st me oft for loving Rosaline.
Fri. For doting, not for loving, Pupil mine.
Rom. And bad'st me bury Love.
Fri. Not in a Grave,

To lay one in, another out to have.

Rom. I pray thee chide me not, her I love now Doth Grace for Grace, and Love for Love allow

The The other did not so.

Fri. Oh she knew well,

:

Thy Love did read by Rote, that could not spell;
But come young Waverer, come go with me,
In one respect I'll thy Assistant be:
For this Alliance may so happy prove,
To turn your Houshold-rancour to pure Love.
Rom. O let us hence, I stand on fudden hafte.
Fri. Wisely and flow, they stumble that run fast.

SCENE V. The Street.
Enter Benvolio and Mercutio.

[Exeunt.

Mer. Where the Devil should this Romeo be? came he not home to Night ?

Ben. Not to his Father's, I spoke with his Man.

Mer. Why that fame pale hard-hearted Wench, that Rofaline, torments him so, that he will sure run mad.

Ben. Tybalt, the Kinsman to old Capulet, hath sent a Letter to his Father's House.

Mer. A Challenge on my Life:

Ben. Romeo will answer it.

Mer. Any Man that can write, may answer a Letter. Ben. Nay he will answer the Letter's Master how he dares,

being dared.

Mer. Alas poor Romeo, he is already dead, stabb'd with a white Wench's black Eye, run through the Ear with a Love-song, the very Pin of his Heart cleft with the blind Bow-boy's but-shaft; and is he a Man to Encounter Ty balt ?

Ben. Why, what is Tybalt ?

Mer. More than Prince of Cats. Oh he's the Couragious Captain of Compliments; he fights as you fing prickfongs, keeps time, distance, and proportion; he rests his minum, one, two, and the third in your Bosom; the very Butcher of a filk Button, a Duellist, a Duellift; a Gentleman of the very first House of the first and second Caufe; Ah the immortal Passado, the Punto reverfo, the HayBen. The what ?

Mer. The Pox of such antique lisping affecting Phantafies, these new turners of Accent Jesu, a very good blade,