Pursu'd my humour, not pursuing his, Ben. My noble uncle, do you know the cause? Mon. I neither know it, nor can learn of him. Ben. Have you impórtun'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 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, Ere he can spread his sweet leaves to the air, Or dedicate his beauty to the sun. Could we but learn from whence his sorrows grow, We would as willingly give cure, as know. Enter Romeo, at a distance. Ben. See, where he comes: So please you, step aside; I'll know his grievance, or be much deny'd.' Mon. I would, thou wert so happy by thy stay, To hear true shrift. - Come, madam, let's away. [Exeunt MONTAGUE and Lady. Ben. Good morrow, cousin. Rom. Is the day so young? Rom, Ah me! sad hours seem long. Rom. Not having that, which, having, makes them short. Rom. Out of her favour, where I am in love Ben. Alas, that Love, so gentle in his view, Should be so tyrannous and rough in proof! Rom. Alas, that love, whose view is muffled still, Should, without eyes, see pathways to his will! Where shall 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: O heavy lightness! serious vanity! Mis-shapen chaos of well-seeming forms! Feather of lead, bright smoke, cold fire, sick health! Still-waking sleep, that is not what it is! This love feel I, that feel no love in this. Dost thou not laugh? Ben. No, coz, 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 it prest . With more of thine: this love, that thou hast shown, Ben. Soft, I will go along; [going. Rom. Tut, I have lost myself; I am not here; This it not Romeo, he's some other where. Ben. Tell me in sadness, who she is you love. But sadly tell me, who. Rom. Bid a sick mau in sadness make his will:Ah, word ill urg'd to one that is so ill! In sadness. Cousin, I do love a woman. Ben. I aim'd so near, when I suppos'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. With Cupid's arrow, she bath Dian's wit; She will not stay the siege of loving terms, Nor bide, the encounter of assailing eyes, Nor ope her lap to saint-seducing gold: That, when she dies, with beauty dies her store. live chaste? Rom. She bath, and in that sparing makes huge waste; For beauty, starv'd with her severity, Cuts beauty off from all posterity. She is too fair, too wise: wisely too fair,. She bath forsworn to love; and in that vow, Rom. Tis the way To call hers, exquisite, in question more: SCENE II. A Street:: Enter CAPULET, Paris, and Servant. Cap. And Montague is bound as well as 1, Par. Of honourable reckoning are you both; Cap. But saying o'er what I have said before: My child is yet a stranger in the world, She hath not seen the change of fourteen years; Let two more summers wither in their pride, Ere we may think her ripe to be a bride. ! Par, Younger than she are happy mothers made. Cap. And too soon marr'd are those so early made. The earth hath swallow'd all my hopes but she, more. At my poor house, look to behold this night My house and welcome on their pleasure stay. |