Enter old Montague, and lady Montague.

Mon. Thou villain, Capulet Hold me not, let

me go.

La. Mon. Thou shalt not ftir a foot to feek a foe.

Enter Prince, with attendants.

Prin. Rebellious Subjects, enemies to peace,
Prophaners of this neighbour-ftained fteel
Will they not hear? what ho, you men, you beasts,
That quench the fire of your pernicious rage
With purple fountains iffuing from your veins ;
On pain of torture, from those bloody hands
Throw your mis-temper'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 Montague,

Have thrice difturb'd the Quiet of our streets;
And made Verona's antient Citizens

Caft by their grave, befeeming, ornaments;
To wield old partizans, in hands as old,

Cankred with peace, to part your cankred hate;
If ever you disturb our ftreets again,
Your lives fhall pay the forfeit of the peace.
For this time all the reft depart away,
You, Capulet, fhall go along with me;
And, Montague, come you this afternoon,
To know our further pleasure in this.cafe,
To old Free-town, our common judgment-place:
Once more, on pain of death, all men depart.

[Exeunt Prince and Capulet, &c.
La. Mon. Who fet this antient quarrel new abroach;
Speak, nephew, were you by, when it began?
Ben. Here were the fervants of your adverfary,
And yours, clofe fighting, ere I did approach;
I drew to part them: In the inftant came
The fiery Tybalt, with his fword prepar'd,
Which, as he breath'd defiance to my ears,
He swung about his head, and cut the winds:
Who, nothing hurt withal, hifs'd him in Scorn.

While we were interchanging thrusts and blows, Came more and more, and fought on part and part, 'Till the Prince came, who parted either Part.

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

Ben. Madam, an hour before the worfhipp'd Sun (2) Peer'd through the golden window of the Eaft, A troubled mind drew me to walk abroad: Where underneath the grove of fy camour, That weftward rooteth from the City fide, So early walking did I fee your fon. 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 moft are bufied when they're moft alone,) Pursued my humour, not purfuing him; (3) And gladly fhun'd, who gladly fled from me.

Mon. Many a morning hath he there been feen
With tears augmenting the fresh morning dew;
Adding to Clouds more Clouds with his deep Sighs:
But all fo foon as the all-cheering Sun

Should, in the fartheft eaft, begin to draw
The fhady curtains from Aurora's bed;
Away from Light steals home my heavy fon,
And private in his chamber pens himself;
Shuts up his windows, locks fair day-light out,

(2)

an hour before the worship'd Sun Peer'd thro' the golden Window of the Eaft,

A troubled Mind drew me from Company :] This is a Reading only of Mr. Pope's, as far as I can trace, who had a mind to make Benvolio a greater Rake than we have Reason to think him from any fubfequent Instance. What, in Company an Hour before Daylight? What odd kind of Companions muft this Benvolio have conforted with? This Reading very reasonably feduced Mr. Warburton into an ingenious Conjecture; A troubled mind drew me from Canopy :

i. c. from Bed. But I have reftor'd the Text of all the old Copies. Benvolio, being troubled and not able to fleep, rofe an Hour before Day and went into the open Air to amuse himself.

(3) Purfued my humour, not pursuing his.] But Benvolio did pursue his; for Romeo had a Mind to be alone, fo had Benvolio: and therefore as Dr. Thirlby accurately obferves, we ought to correct, He did not purfue Romeo.

And makes himself an artificial night.
Black and portentous must this humour prove,
Unless good counsel may the caufe remove.

Ben. My noble uncle, do you know the cause?
Mon. I neither know it, nor can learn it of him.
Ben. Have you importun'd him by any means?
Mon. Both by my felf and many other friends;
But he, his own affections' counsellor,

Is to himself, I will not fay, how true;
But to himself fo fecret and so close,
So far from founding and discovery;

As is the bud bit with an envious worm, (4)
Ere he can spread his sweet leaves to the air,
Or dedicate his beauty to the Sun.

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 fo happy by thy Stay To hear true fhrift. Come, Madam, let's away. [Exe. Ben. Good morrow, cousin.

Rom. Is the day so young?

Ben. But new ftruck nine.

Rom. Ah me, fad hours feem long!

Was that my father, that went hence so fast?

(4) As is the Bud, bit with an envious Worm, Ere he can fpread his fweet Leaves to the Air,

Sure, all the

Or dedicate his Beauty to the Same.] To the fame? Lovers of Shakespeare and Poetry will agree, that this is a very idle, draging 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 overcharg'd 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 themselves, I do not think it improbable that the Poet wrote;

Or dedicate his Beauty to the Sun.

Or, according to the more obfolete Spelling, Sunne; which brings it nearer to the Traces of the corrupted Text. I propos'd this conjectural Emendation in the Appendix to my SHAKESPEARE reford, and Mr. Pope has embraced it in his last Edition.

Ben.

Ben. It was: what sadness lengthens Romeo's hours?

Rom. Not having That, which, having, makes them fhort.

Ben. In love?

Rom. Out.

Ben. Of love?

Rom. Out of her favour, where I am in love. Ben. Alas, that love, so 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?

here?

O me!

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

What fray was

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 prest
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 my felf, I am not here;

[Going.

This is not Romeo, he's fome other where.
Ben. Tell me in fadnefs, 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 sadness make his will?
O word, ill urg'd to one that is fo ill!

In fadness, 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; —

love.

and fhe's fair, I

Ben. A right fair mark, fair coz, is foonest hit.
Rom. But in that hit you mifs; -

fhe'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 stay 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 Store. (5)
Ben. Then he hath fworn, that fhe will ftill live chafte
Rom. She hath, and in that Sparing makes huge wafte,
For beauty, ftarv'd with her feverity,

Cuts beauty off from all pofterity.

She is too fair, too wife; wifely too fair,
To merit blifs by making me despair;
She hath forefworn 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

(5) That, when he dies, with Beauty dies her Store.] This conveys no fatisfactory Idea to me. I have ventur'd at a flight Tranfpofition, which gives a Meaning, warranted, I think, by what Romeo fays in his very next Speech. She is rich in Beauty, and if the dies a Maid, she cuts off that Beauty from its Succeffion.

For Beauty, ftarv'd with her Severity,
Cuts Beauty off from all Pofterity.

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