To old Free-town, our common judgment-place:
Once more, on pain of death, all men depart.

[Exeunt Prince and Capulet, &c.

S CE NE II.

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 fwung about his head, and cut the winds: Who, nothing hurt withal, hifs'd him in fcorn. While we were interchanging thrufts 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 worshipp'd Sun 'Pear'd through the golden window of the Eaft, A troubled mind drew me to walk abroad: Where underneath the grove of fycamour, That weftward rooteth from the City fide, So early walking did I fee your son. 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, (3 That moft are bufied when they're most alone,) Pursued my humour, not pursuing him;

3 That most are bufied &c.] Edition 1597. Inftead of which it is in the other editions thus,

by my own,

Which then most fought, where most might not be found,
Being one too many by my weary felf,

Purfued my humour, &c.

Mr. Pope.

And

* And gladly shun'd, who gladly fled from me.
Mon. Many a morning hath he there been seen
With tears augmenting the fresh morning-dew;
Adding to clouds more clouds with his deep fighs:
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 son,
And private in his chamber pens himself;
Shuts up his windows, locks fair day-light out,
And makes himself an artificial night.
Black and portentous muft this humour prove,
Unless good counsel may the cause 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 myself 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,
Ere he can spread his sweet wings to the air,
Or dedicate his beauty to the (a) 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: so 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.

Mr. Pope.

[Exeunt.

4 And gladly foun'd &c.] The ten lines following, not in edition 1597, but in the next of 1599. 5 Ben. Have you importun'd, &c.] These two speeches alfo omitted in edition 1597, but inferted in 1599.

Mr. Pope.

[(a) Sun. Mr. Theobald-Vulg. fame.]

Ben.

Ben. Good morrow, coufin.

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 fo faft?

Ben. It was: what fadness 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, 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 (a) path-ways to his ill! Where fhall we dine?-O me! What fray was

here?

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-shapen 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 breast;
Which thou wilt propagate, to have them prest

[(a) path-ways to his ill. Oxford Editor-Vulg path ways

to his will.]

་

With more of thine; this love, that thou haft fhewn,
Doth add more grief to too much of mine own.
Love is a fmoak 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 fweet:
Farewel, my coufin.

[Going.

Ben. Soft, I'll go along.
And if you leave me fo, you do me wrong.
Rom. Tut, I have loft myself, I am not here;
This is not Romeo, he's fome other where.

Ben. Tell me in sadness, who she 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 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; and fhe's fair,

I love.

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 strong 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 he dies, with her dies Beauty's Store. Bru. Then he hath fworn, that fhe will ftill live chafte?

6

Rom. She hath, and in that Sparing makes huge waste.

6 Rom. She bath, and in that Sparing, &c.] None of the following fpeeches of this scene in the firft Edition of 1597. Mr. Pope.

For

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 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

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 treasure 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.
[Exeunt.

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 peace.
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 Suit?
Cap. But faying o'er what I have faid 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.