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In fadnefs, 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 she's fair
I love.

Ben. A right fair mark, fair coz, is fooneft hit.
Rom. Well, in that hit, you mifs: she'll not be

With Cupid's arrow, fhe hath Dian's wit;
And, in ftrong proof of chastity well arm'd,
From love's weak childish bow fhe lives unharm'd.
She will not stay the fiege of loving terms,
Nor bide the encounter of affailing eyes,
Nor ope her lap to faint-feducing gold:
O, fhe is rich in beauty; only poor,

That, when the dies, with beauty dies her ftore. Ben. Then he hath fworn, that she will still live chafte?

Rom. She hath, and in that sparing makes huge wafte;

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 defpair:
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.


'Tis the way
To call hers, exquifite, in queftion more:
Thefe 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 eyefight loft:
Show me a miftrefs that is paffing fair,
What doth her beauty ferve, but as a note

Where I may read, who pafs'd that paffing fair?
Farewell; thou canst not teach me to forget.
Ben. I'll pay that doctrine, or elfe die in debt.


A Street.

Enter CAPULET, Paris, and Servant.

Cap. And Montague is bound as well as I, In penalty alike; and 'tis not hard, I think, For men fo old as we to keep the peace.

Par. Of honourable reckoning are you both; And pity 'tis, you liv'd at odds fo long. But now, my lord, what fay you to my fuit? Cap. But faying o'er what I have faid before: My child is yet a firanger in the world, She hath not seen the change of fourteen years; Let two more fummers wither in their pride, Ere we may think her ripe to be a bride.

Par. Younger than fhe are happy mothers made. Cap. And too foon marr'd are those so early


The earth hath fwallow'd all my hopes but he,
She is the hopeful lady of my earth:
But woo her, gentle Paris, get her heart,
My will to her confent is but a part;
An fhe agree, within her fcope of choice
Lies my confent and fair according voice.
This night I hold an old accustom'd least,
Whereto I have invited many a guest,
Such as I love; and you, among the store,
One more, most welcome, makes my number more.
At my poor houfe, look to behold this night,
Earth-treading ftars, that make dark heaven fight:
Such comfort, as do lufty young men feel
When well-apparell'd April on the heel


Of limping winter treads, even fuch delight
Among fresh female buds fhall you this night
Inherit at my houfe; hear all, all fee,

And like her moft, whofe merit most shall be:
Such, amongst view of many, mine, being one,
May ftand in number, though in reckoning none.
Come, go with me ;-Go, firrah, trudge about
Through fair Verona; find thofe perfons out,
Whofe names are written, there, gives a paper.}.
and to them fay,

My house and welcome on their pleasure stay.

[Exeunt CAPULET and PARIS.

Serv. Find them out, whofe names are written here? It is written-that the fhoemaker should meddle with his yard, and the tailor with his last, the fisher with his pencil, and the painter with his nets; but I am fent to find thofe perfons, whofe names are here writ, and can never find what names the writing perfon hath here writ. I muft to the learned:-In good time.


Ben. Tut, man! one fire burns out another's burning,

One pain is leffen'd by another's anguish;
Turn giddy, and be holp by backward turning;
One defperate grief cures with another's lan-

Take thou fome new infection to thy eye,
And the rank poison of the old will die.

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Rom. Your plaintain leaf is excellent for that.
Ben. For what, I pray thee?


For your broken shin.

Ben. Why, Romeo, art thou mad?

Rem. Not mad, but bound more than a madmar

is :

Shut up in prifon, kept without my food,

Whipp'd, and tormented, and-Good-e'en, good


Serv. God gi' good e'en :-I pray, fir, can you


Ram. Ay, mine own fortune in my mifery. Serv. Perhaps you have learn'd it without book: But I pray, can you read any thing you fee? Rom. Ay, if I know the letters, and the language. Serv. Ye fay honeftly; Reft you merry! Rom. Stay, fellow? I can read.


Signior Martino, and his wife, and daughters; County Anfelme, and his beauteous fifters; The lady widow of Vitruvio; Signior Placentio, and his lovely nieces; Mercutio, and his brother Valentine; Mine uncle Capulet, his wife and daughters; My fair niece Rofaline; Livia; Signor Valentio, and his coufin, Tybalt; Lucio, and the lively Helena. A fair affembly; [Gives back the note.] Whither fhould they come?

Serv. Up.

Rom. Whither?

Serv. To fupper; to our houfe.

Rom. Whofe houfe?

Serv. My mafter's.

Rom. Indeed, I fhould have afk'd you that before.

Serv. Now I'll tell you without asking: My mafter is the great rich Capulet; and if you be not of the houfe of Montagues, I pray, come and crush a cup of wine. Reft you merry. [Exit.

Ben. At this fame ancient feaft of Capelet's
Sups the fair Rofaline, whom thou fo lov'ft;
With all the admired beauties of Verona :
Go thither; and, with unattainted eye,

Compare her face with fome that I shall show,
And I will make thee think thy fwan a crow.
Rom. When the devout religion of mine eye
Maintains fuch falfehood, then turn tears to fires!
And thefe,-who,often drown'd,could never die,-
Transparent hereticks, be burnt for liars!
One fairer than my love! the all-feeing fun 1
Ne'er faw her match, fince firft the world begun.
Ben. Tut! you faw her fair, none elfe being by,
Herfelf pois'd with herself in either


But in those cryftal fcales, let there be weigh'd
Your lady's love against fome other maid
That I will fhow you fhining at this feast,
And she shall fcant fhow well, that now shows beft.
Rom. I'll go along, no fuch fight to be shown,
But to rejoice in fplendour of mine own. [Exeunt,


A Room in Capulet's Houfe.
Enter Lady CAPULET and Nurse.

La. Cap. Nurfe, where's my daughter? call her forth to me,

Nurfe. Now, by my maiden-head,—at twelve year old,

I bade her come.-What, lamb! what, lady-bird!— God forbid!—where's this girl?-what, Juliet! Enter JULIET.

Jul. How now, who calls?


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Your mother.

Madam, I am here,

La. Cap. This is the matter :-Nurse, give leave


We must talk in fecret.-Nurfe, come back agains

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