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 ill! Where fhall we dine? -O me!. What fray was Yet tell me not, for I have heard it all. [here ? Here's much to do with hate, but more with love: O heavy lightnefs! ferious vanity! Mif-thapen chaos of well-feeming forms! Feather of lead, bright fmoak, 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. Griefs of mine own lie heavy in ; my breaft Which thou wilt propagate, to have them prefs'd With more of thine; this love that thou hast shewn, Doth add more grief to too much of mine own. Love is a fmoak rais'd with the fume of fighs, Being purge'd, a fire sparkling in lovers' eyes; Being vex'd, a fea nourish'd with lovers' tears; What is it elfe a madness most discreet, A choking gall, and a preferving sweet. Farewel, my coufin. Ben. Soft, I'll go along. [Going And if you leave me fo, you do me wrong. Ben. Tell me in sadness, who she is you love. O word ill urge'd to one that is fo ill! Ben. I aim'd fo near, when I fuppos'd you lov'd. I love. and fhe's fair Ben. A right fair mark, fair coz, is foonest hit. Rew Rom: But in that hit you mifs;- fhe'll not be hit With Cupid's arrow; the hath Dian's wit: That when the dies, with her dies Beauty's ftore. Rom. She hath, and in that fparing makes huge. For beauty, ftarv'd with her feverity, Cuts beauty off from all pofterity. She is too fair, too wife; wifely too fair, She hath forfworn to love, and in that vow [wafte. Ben. Be rul'd by me, forget to think of her. Rom. O, teach me how I should forget to think. Ben. By giving liberty unto thine eyes; Examine other beauties. Rom. 'Tis the way. To call her's (exquifite) in queftion more; Ben. I'll pay that doctrine, or elfe die in debt. [Exeunt. SCENE III. Enter Capulet, Paris, and Servant. Cap. And Montague is bound as well as I, In penalty alike; and 'tis not hard 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. Cap But faying o'er what I have faid before : She hath not feen the change of fourteen years; Par. Younger than fhe are happy mothers made. But woo her, gentle Paris, get her heart, And like her moft whofe merit most shall be : [Exeunt Capulet and Paris. Ser. Find them out whofe names are written here? It is written, that the fhoemaker fhould meddle with his yard, and the tailor with his last, and 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 perfon hath here writ. I must to the learned.-In good time, Enter Enter Benvolio and Romeo. Ben. Tut, man! one fire burns out another's burning, One defperate grief cure with another's languish Rom. For your broken fhin. Ben. Why, Romeo, art thou mad? Rom. Not mad, but bound more than a madman is : Rom. Ay, if I know the letters and the language. He reads the letter. Signior Martino, and his wife and daughters; Count Anfelm, and his beauteous fifters; the Lady, widow of Vitruvio; Signior Placentio, and his lovely nieces; Mer cutio and his brother Valentine; mine uncle Capulet, his wife and daughters; my fair niece Rofaline; Livia; Signior Valentio, and his coufin Tybalt; Lucie, and the lively Helena. A fair affembly; whither fhould they come? Rom. Whither? Ser. To fupper, to our house. Rom. Whose house? Ser. My mafter's.. Rom. Indeed I fhould have afk'd you that before. Ser. Now I'll tell you without asking. My master 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. Ben At this fame ancient feast of Capulet's SCENE IV. Changes to Capulet's houfe. La. Cap. Nurfe, where's my daughter? call her forth to me. Nurfe. Now (by my maidenhead, at twelve years old) I bade her come; what, lamb,what, lady-bird, God forbid !-where's this girl? what, Juliet ? Enter Juliet. Jul. How now, who calls? Nurfe. Your mother. Jul. Madam, I am here, what is your will? La. Cap. This is the matter.-Nurfe, give leave a while, we must talk in fecret: nurse, come back again, I have remember'd me, thou fhalt hear our counfel: thou know'st my daughter's of a pretty age. Nurfe. 'Faith, I can tell her age unto an hour. Nurfe. I'll lay fourteen of my teeth, (and yet to my teen be it spoken, I have but four), fhe's not fourteen, VOL. VIII. B How |