Abr. Quarrel, Sir? no, Sir. Sam. If you do, Sir, I am for you; I ferve as good a man, as you. Abr. No better. Sam. Well, Sir. Enter Benvolio. Greg. Say, better: here comes one of my mafter's kinsmen. Sam. Yes, better, Sir. Abr. You lie. Sam. Draw, if you be men. Gregory, remember thy fwashing blow. [They fight. Ben. Part, fools, put up your fwords, you know not what you do. Enter Tybalt. Tyb. What, art thou drawn among these heartless hinds? Turn thee, Benvolio, look upon thy death. Ben. I do but keep the peace; put up thy fword, Or manage it to part thefe men with me. Tyb. What drawn, and talk of peace? I hate the word As I hate hell, all Montagues and thee: Have at thee, coward. Enter three or four citizens with clubs. [Fight Offic. Clubs, bills, and partifans! ftrike! beat them down! Down with the Capulets, down with the Montagues! Enter old Capulet in his gown, and lady Capulet. Cap. What noife is this? give me my long fword, ho! La. Cap. A crutch, a crutch: non why call you a fword? Cap. My fword, I fay: old Montague is come, And flourishes his blade in fpight of me. for Enter old Montague, and Lady Montague. Mon. Thou villain, Capulet· me go. Hold me not, let La. Mon. Thou shalt not ftir a foot to feek a foe. Enter Prince with attendants. Prin. Rebellious Subjects, enemies to peace, Have thrice difturb'd the Quiet of our streets; Caft by their grave, befeeming, ornaments; Cankred with peace, to part your cankred hate; Your lives fhall pay the forfeit of the peace. [Exeunt Prince and Capulet, &c. 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 Black and portentous must this humour prove, 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 himfelf fo fecret and fo clofe, So far from founding and discovery; As is the bud bit with an envious worm, (1) (1) As is the Bud, bit with an envious Worm, Ere he can spread his fweet Leaves to the Air, Ere Or Ere he can spread his fweet wings to the Air, Could we but learn from whence his forrows grow, Ben. See, where he comes: fo please you, ftep afide, I'll know his grievance, or be much deny'd. Mon. I would, thou wert fo happy by thy stay To hear true shrift. Come, Madam, let's away. [Exe. Ben. Good morrow, cousin. Rom. Is the day fo 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? 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 path-ways to his will! Where fhall we dine? here ? O me! What fray was Or dedicate his Beauty to the Same.] To the fame?- Sure, all the Lovers of Shakespeare and Poetry will agree, that this is a very idle, dragging 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 fpread 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, Yet Yet tell me not, for I have heard it all. Here's much to do with hate, but more with love: O heavy lightness! ferious vanity! Mif-fhapen chaos of well-feeming forms! Feather of lead, bright smoke, cold fire, fick health! This love feel I, that feel no love in this. 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 preft With more of thine; this love, that thou haft fhewn, Doth add more grief to too much of mine own. Love is a fmoke 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 cousin. Ben. Soft, I'll go along. And if you leave me fo, you [Going do me wrong. Rom. Tut, I have loft my felf, I am not here; This is not Romeo, he's fome other where. Ben. Tell me in fadness, who fhe is you love? 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. love. and fhe's fair, I Ben. A right fair mark, fair coz, is fooneft hit. fhe'll not be hit With Cupid's arrow; The hath Dian's wit: And |