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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 master's kinsmen.
Sam. Yes, better, Sir.
Abr. You lie.
Sam. Draw, if you be men. Gregory, remember thy swashing blow
[They fight. Ben. Part, fools, put up your
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 sword, Or manage it to part these 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.
[Fight, Enter three or four citizens with clubs. Offc. Clubs, bills, and partisans ! ftrike! beat them
down! Down with the Capulets, down with the Montagues !
Enter old Capulet in his gown, and lady Capulet. Cap. What noise is this? give me my long sword, ho! La. Cap. A crutch, a crutch:
for a sword Cap. My sword, I fay: old Montague is come, And Aourishes his blade in spight of ma.
Enter old Montague, and Lady Montague. Mon. Thou villain, Capulet Hold me not, let
La. Mon. Thou shalt not ftir a foot to seek a foc.
Enter Prince with attendants.
Prin. Rebellious Subjects, enemies to peace,
Prophaners of this neighbour-stained steel
Will they not hear ? what ho! you men, you beasts,
That quench the fire of your pernicious rage
With purple fountains issuing 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
Cast by their grave, beseeming, ornaments ;
To wield old partizans, in hands as old,
Cankred with peace, to part your cankred hate ;
If ever you disturb our streets again,
Your lives shall pay the forfeit of the peace.
For this time all the rest depart away,
You Capulet, shall go along with me ;
And, Montague, come you this afternoon,
To know our further pleasure in this case,
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 set this antient quarrel new abroach ; Speak, nephew, were you by, when it began ?
Ben. Here were the servants of your adversary,
And yours, close fighting, ere I did approach ;
I drew to part them : In the instant came
The fiery Tybalt, with his sword prepar’d,
Which, as he breath'd defiance to my ears,
He swung about his head, and cut the winds :
Who, nothing hurt withal, hiss'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
Peer'd through the golden window of the East,
A troubled mind drew me to walk abroad :
Where underneath the grove of sycamour,
That westward rooteth from the City side,
So early walking did I see 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 most are busied when they're moft alone,)
Pursued my humour, not pursuing him ;
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 te clouds more clouds with his deep fighs :
so soon as the all-cheering Sun
Should, in the fartheft East, begin to draw
The shady 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 must 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 my self and many other friends ;
But he, his own affections' counsellor,
Is to himself, I will not say, how true;
But to himself so secret and so close,
So far from sounding and discovery ;
As is the bud bit with an envious worm, (1)
Ere (1) As is the Bud, bit with an envious Worm,
Ere be can spread his sweet Leaves to the Air,
Ere he can spread his sweet wings 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.
Ben. See, where he comes : so please you, step aside,
I'll know his grievance, or be much denyd.
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 struck nine.
Rom. Ah me, sad hours seem long!
father that went hence so fast ?
Ben. It was: what fadness lengthens Romeo's hours ?
Rom. Not having That, which, having, makes them
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 so tyrannous and rough in proof!
Rom. Alas, that love, whose view is muffled ftill,
Should without eyes see path-ways to his will !
Where shall we dine? 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 style 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 so infipidly. When we come to consider, that there is some power else besides balmy Air, that brings forth, and makes the tender Buds spread themselves, I do not think it improbable that the Poct wrote:
Or dedicate bis Beauty to the Sun. Or, according to the more obsolete Spelling, Sunne ; which brings it nearer to the Traces of the corrupted Text,
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 first create !
O heavy lightness ! serious vanity!
Mif-thapen 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, což, I rather weep.
Rom. Good heart, at what?
Ben. At thy good heart's oppression.
Rom. Why, such is love's transgression.
Griefs of mine own lie heavy in my breast ;
Which thou wilt propagate, to have them prest
With more of thine ; this love, that thou haft shewn,
Doch 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 sparkling in lovers' eyes ;
Being vext, a sea nourish'd with lovers' tears ;
What is it else ? a madness most discreet,
A choaking gall, and a preserving sweet :
Farewel, my coufin.
[Going Ben. Soft, I'll go along. And if you leave me so, you do me wrong,
Rom. Tut, I have lost my self, I am not here ;
This is not Romeo, he's some other where.
Ben. Tell me in sadness, who she is you love ?
Rom. What, shall I groan and tell thee?
Ben. Groan? why, no; but sadly tell me, who.
Rom. Bid a fick man in sadness make his will i
O word, ill urg'd to one that is so ill !
In sadness, cousin, I do love a woman.
Ben. I aim'd fo near, when I füppos'd you lov'd.
Rom. A right good marks-man; and she's fair, I
love. Ben. A right fair mark, fair coz, is soonest hit.
Rom. But, in that hit, you miss; - she'll not be hit With Cupid's arrow ; The hath Dian's wit :