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Enter BENVOLIO, at a distance.

Gre. Say-better; here comes one of my master's kinfmen.

Sam. Yes, better, fir.

Abr. You lie.

Sam. Draw, if you be men.-Gregory, remember thy fwathing blow.

[They fight. Ben. Part, fools; put up your fwords; you know not what you do. [Beats down their words.

Enter TYBALt.

Tyb. What, art thou drawn among thefe heartless hinds?

Turn thee, Benvolio, look upon thy death, Ben. I do but keep the peace; put up thy fword, 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.

[They fight. Enter feveral Partizans of both Houses, who join the fray; then enter Citizens, with Clubs.

1 Cit. Clubs, bills, and partizans! ftrike! beat them down!

Down with the Capulets! down with the Montagues!

Enter CAPULET, in his gown; and Lady CAPULET. Cap. What noife is this?-Give me my long fword, ho!

La. Cap. A crutch, a crutch!-Why call you for a fword?

Cap. My fword, I fay!-Old Montague is come, And flourishes his blade in fpite of me.


Mon. Thou villain, Capulet,-Hold me not, let me go.

La. Mon. Thou shalt not stir one foot to feek a foe.

Enter Prince, with Attendants.

Prin. Rebellious fubjects, enemies to peace,
Profaners of this neighbour-ftained steel,-
Will they not hear?-what ho! you men, you

That quench the fire of your pernicious rage
With purple fountains iffuing from your veins,
On pain of torture, from those bloody hands
Throw your mif-temper'd weapons to the ground,
And hear the fentence of your moved prince,-
Three civil brawls, bred of an airy word,
By thee, old Capulet, and Montague,
Have thrice difturb'd the quiet of our streets;
And made Verona's ancient citizens

Caft by their grave befeeming ornaments,
To wield old partizans, in hands as old,
Canker'd with peace, to part your canker'd hate:
If ever you disturb our streets again,

Your lives fhall pay the forfeit of the peace.
For this time, all the reft depart away:
You, Capulet, fhall go along with me;
And, Montague, come you this afternoon,
To know our further pleasure in this cafe,
To old Free-town, our common judgement-place.
Once more, on pain of death, all men depart.
[Exeunt Prince, and Attendants; CAPULET, Lady

CAPULET, TYBALT, Citizens, and Servants,
Man. Who fet this ancient quarrel new abroach?
Speak, nephew, were you by, when it began?
Ben. Here were the fervants of your adverfary

And yours, clofe fighting ere I did approach:
I drew to part them; in the inftant came
The fiery Tybalt, with his fword prepar'd;
Which, as he breath'd defiance to my ears,
He fwung about his head, and cut the winds,
Who, nothing hurt withal, hifs'd him in fcorn:
While we were interchanging thrusts 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!-faw you him

Right glad I am, he was not at this fray.
Ben. Madam, an hour before the worshipp'd fun
Peer'd forth the golden window of the east,
A troubled mind drave me to walk abroad;
Where, underneath the grove of fycamore,
That weftward rooteth from the city's fide,-
So early walking did I fee your fon :
Towards him I made; but he was 'ware of me,
And ftole into the covert of the wood:
I, measuring his affections by my own,-
That most are bufied when they are most alone.-
Purfu'd my humour, not purfuing his,

And gladly fhunn'd who gladly fled from me.
Mon. Many a morning hath he there been seen,
With tears augmenting the fresh morning's dew,
Adding to clouds more clouds with his deep fighs;
But all fo foon as the all-cheering fun.

Should in the furtheft eaft begin to draw
The fhady curtains from Aurora's bed,
Away from light steals home my heavy fon,
And private in his chamber pens himself;
Shuts up his windows, locks fair daylight out,
And makes himself an artificial night:
Black and portentous muft this humour prove,
Unless good counsel may the cause remove.
Ben. My noble uncle, do you know the caufe?


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 himfelf I will not fay how true-
But to himself fo fecret and fo close,
So far from founding and difcovery,
As is the bud bit with an envious worm,
Ere he can spread his fweet leaves to the air,
Or dedicate his beauty to the fun.

Could we but learn from whence his forrows grow,
We would as willingly give cure, as know.

Enter ROMEO, at a distance.

Ben. See, where he comes: So please you, step

I'll know his grievance, or be much deny'd.
Mon. I would, thou wert so happy by thy ftay,
To hear true fhrift.- Come, madam, let's away.
[Exeunt MONTAGUE and Lady.

Ben. Good morrow, cousin.

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Is the day fo young?

Ah me! fad hours feem long.

Was that my father that went hence so fast?

Ben. It was: What sadness lengthens Romeo's hours?

Rom. Not having that, which, having, makes

them fhort.

Ben. In love?

Rom. Out

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 pathways to his will!

Where shall we dine?-Oh me!-What fray was


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!
O any thing, of nothing firft create!
O heavy lightnefs! ferious vanity!

Mif-fhapen chaos of well-feeming forms!
Feather of lead, bright fmoke, 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?


No, coz, I rather weep.

Rom. Good heart, at what?


At thy good heart's oppreffion..

Rom. Why, fuch is love's tranfgreffion.-Griefs of mine own lie heavy in my breaft; Which thou wilt propagate, to have it prefs'd With more of thine: this love, that thou haft


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 vex'd, a fea nourish'd with lovers' tears:
What is it elfe? a madness most discreet,
A choking gall, and a preferving sweet.
Farewell, my coz.



Soft, I will go along; And if you leave me fo, you do me wrong. Rom. Tut, I have loft myself; I am not here; This is not Romeo, he's fome other where. Ben. Tell me in fadnefs, who fhe is you love. Rom. What, fhall I groan, and tell thee? Ben.

But fadly tell me, who.

Groan? why, no;

Rom. Bid a fick man in sadness make his will:Ah, word ill urg'd to one that is fo ill!


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