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And in theyr head besyde an other woonder rose,
spede. So that he might the ladies view at ease, And they also behelding him their chaunge of fansies please : Which Nature had hym taught to doe with such a grace, That there was none but joyed at his being there in place. With upright beame he wayd the beauty of eche dame, And judgd who best, and who next her, was wrought in natures
frame. At length he saw a mayd, right fayre, of perfect shape, (Which Theseus or Paris would have chosen to their rape) Whom erst he never sawe; of all she pleasde him most ; Within himselfe he sayd to her, thou justly mayst thee boste Of perfet shapes renowne and beauties sounding prayse, Whose like ne hath, ne shall be seene, ne liveth in our dayes. And whilst he fixed on her his partiall perced eye, His former love, for which of late he ready was to dye, Is nowe as quite forgotte as it had never been : The proverbe saith, unminded oft are they that are unseene. And as out of a planke a nayle a nayle doth drive, So novel love out of the minde the auncient love doth rive. This sodain kindled fyre in time is wox so great, That only death and both theyr blouds might quench the fiery
heate. When Romeus saw himselfe in this new tempest tost, Where both was hope of pleasant port, and daunger to be lost, He doubtefull skasely knew what countenance to keepe; In Lethies floud his wonted flames were quenchd and drenched
deepe. Yea he forgets himselfe, ne is the wretch so bolde To aske her name that without force hath him in bondage folde ; Ne how tunloose his bondes doth the poore foole devise, But onely seeketh by her sight to feede his houngry eyes : Through them he swalloweth downe loves sweete empoysonde
baite : How surely are the wareles wrapt by those that lye in wayte !
So is the poyson spred throughout his bones and vaines,
sticke. It booted not to strive. For why ?—she wanted strength ; The weaker aye unto the strong, of force, must yeld, at
length. The pomps now of the feast her heart gyns to despyse ; And onely joyeth whan her eyen meete with her lovers eyes. When theyr new smitten hearts had fed on loving gleames, Whilst, passing too and fro theyr eyes, y-mingled were theyr
beames, Eche of these lovers gan by others lookes to knowe, That frendship in theyr brest had roote, and both would have it
grow. When thus in both theyr harts had Cupide made his breache, And eche of them had sought the meane to end the warre by
speach, Dame Fortune did assent, theyr purpose to advaunce. With torch in hand a comely knight did fetch her foorth to
That frosen mountayne yse was never halfe so cold,
saye, When she had longed long, and he long held his peace, And her desyre of hearing him by sylence did increase, At last, with trembling voyce and shamefast chere, the mayde Unto her Romeus tournde her selfe, and thus to him she sayde:
“O blessed be the time of thy arrivall here!"But ere she could speake forth the rest, to her Love drewe so nere, And so within her mouth her tongue he glewed fast, That no one woord could scape her more then what already past. In great contented ease the yong man straight is rapt : What chaunce (quoth he) unware to me, O lady mine, is hapt: That
geves you worthy cause my cumming here to blesse ? Fayre Juliet was come agayne unto her selfe by this : Fyrst ruthfully she look'd, then say'd with smyling chere : “Mervayle no whit, my heartes delight, my only knight and feere, Mercutio's ysy hande had all to-frosen myne, And of thy goodness thou agayne had warmed it with thyne.” Whereto with stayed brow gan Romeus replye : “ If so the Gods have graunted me suche favor from the skye, That by my being here some service I have donne That pleaseth you, I am as glad as I a realme had wonne.
wel-bestowed tyme that hath the happy hyre, Which I woulde wish if I might have my wished hart's desire ! For I of God woulde crave, as pryse of paynes forpast, To serve, obey, and honor you, so long as lyfe shall last : As proofe shall teache you playne, if that you like to trye His faltles truth, that nill for ought unto his ladye lye. But if my touched hand have warmed yours some dele, Assure your selfe the heate is colde which in your hand you fele, Compard to suche quicke sparks and glowing furious gleade, As from your bewties pleasant eyne Love caused to proceade; Which have to set on fyre eche feling parte of myne, That lo! my mynde doeth melt awaye, my utward parts do pyne.
And, but you helpe all whole, to ashes shall I toorne ;
make : “ You are no more your owne, deare frend, then I am yours ; My honour sav’d, prest tobey your will, while life endures." Lo! here the lucky lot that sild true lovers finde, Eche takes away the others hart, and leaves the owne behinde. A happy life is love, if God graunt from above That hart with hart by even waight do make exchaunge of love. But Romeus gone from her, his hart for care is colde; He hath forgot to ask her name, that hath his hart in holde. With forged careles cheere, of one he seekes to knowe, Both how she hight, and whence she camme, that him en
chaunted so. So hath he learnd her name, and knowth she is no geast, Her father was a Capilet, and master of the feast. Thus hath his foe in choyse to geve him life or death, That scarcely can his wofull brest keepe in the lively breath. Wherefore with pitious plaint feerce Fortune doth he blame, That in his ruth and wretched plight doth seeke her laughing
game. And he reproveth love cheefe cause of his unrest, Who ease and freedome hath exilde out of his youthfull brest; Twise hath he made him serve, hopeles of his rewarde; Of both the ylles to choose the lesse, I weene, the choyse were
harde. Fyrst to a ruthles one he made him sue for grace, And now with spurre he forceth him to ronne an endles race. Amid these stormy seas one ancor doth him holde, He serveth not a cruell one, as he had done of olde; And therefore is content and chooseth still to serve, Though hap should sweure that guerdonles the wretched wight
should sterve. The lot of Tantalus is, Romeus, like to thine ; For want of foode, amid his foode, the myser still doth pyne.
As carefull was the mayde what way were best devise, To learne his name that intertaind her in so gentle wise ; Of whom her hart receivd so depe,so wyde, a wound. An ancient dame she calde to her, and in her eare gan rounde ; (This old dame in her youth had nurst her with her mylke, With slender nedel taught her sow, and how to spyn with sylke.) What twayne are those, quoth she, which prease unto the doore, Whose pages in their hand do beare two torches light before ?
And then, as eche of them had of his houshold name,
housholds rewe. The word of Montagew her joyes did overthrow, And straight instead of happy hope despayre began to growe. What hap have I, quoth she, to love my fathers foe? What, am I wery
my wele? what, doe I wysh my woe ? But though her grevouse paynes distraind her tender hart, Yet with an outward show of joye she cloked inward smart; And of the courtlike dames her leave so courtly tooke, That none did gesse the sodein change by changing of her looke. Then at her mothers hest to chamber she her hyed, So wel she faynde, mother ne nors the hidden harme descride. But when she shoulde have slept as wont she was in bed, Not half a wynke of quyet slepe could harber in her hed; For loe, an hugy heape of divers thoughtes arise, That rest have banisht from her hart, and slumber from her eyes. And now from syde to syde she tosseth and she turnes, And now for feare she shevereth, and now for love she burnes, And now she lykes her choyse, and now her choyse she blames, And now eche houre within her head a thousand fansyes frames. Sometime in mynde to stop amyd her course begonne, Sometime she vowes, what so betyde, that tempted race to ronne. Thus dangers dred and love within the mayden fought: The fight was feerse, continuyng long by their contrary thought. In tourning mase of love she wandreth too and fro, Then standeth doutful what to doo; last, overprest with woe, How so her fansies cease, her teares did never blin, With heavy cheere and wringed hands thus doth her plaint begin. “ Ah silly foole, quoth she, y-cought in soottill snare ! Ah wretched wench, bewrapt in woe! ah caytife clad with care ! Whence come these wandring thoughts to thy unconstant brest, By straying thus from raisons lore, that reve thy wonted rest ? What if his suttel brayne to fayne have taught his tong, And so the snake that lurkes in grasse thy tender hart hath stong ? What if with frendly speache the traytor lye in wayte, As oft the poysond ooke is hid, wrapt in the pleasant bayte? Oft under cloke of truth hath Falshood servd her lust; And toornd their honor into shame, that did to slightly trust. What, was not Dido so, a crowned queene, defamd ? And eke, for such an heynous cryme, have men not Theseus
bland ? A thousand stories more, to teache me to beware, n Boccace and in Ovids bookes too plainely written are.