Being black, put us in mind they hide the fair;
He, that is ftrucken blind, cannot forget
The precious treasure of his eyesight loft:
Show me a mistress that is passing fair,
What doth her beauty ferve, but as a note
Where I may read, who pass'd that passing fair?
Farewell; thou canst not teach me to forget.

Ben. I'll pay that doctrine, or else die in debt. [Exeunt.

SCENE II.

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 wé 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 say you to my suit ?
Cap. But faying o'er what I have faid before:
My child is yet a stranger in the world,

She hath not feen 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 the are happy mothers made.
Cap. And too foon marr'd are those so early made.
The earth hath fwallow'd all my hopes but the,

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 consent and fair according voice.

This night I hold an old accuftom'd feast,
Whereto I have invited many a guest,

Such as I love; and you, among the ftore,

One more, most welcome, makes my number more.
At my poor houfe, look to behold this night
Earth-treading ftars, that make dark heaven light:
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, whose merit moft fhall 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 those persons out,

Whose 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 fhould 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 those persons, whose names are here writ, and can never find what names the writing perfon hath here writ. I must to the learned :—In good time.

Enter BENVOLIO and ROMEO.

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 desperate grief cures with another's languish :

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

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

Rom.

For your broken shin.

Ben. Why, Romeo, art thou mad ?

Rom. Not mad, but bound more than a madman is : Shut up in prifon, kept without my food,

Whipp'd, and tormented, and-Good-e'en, good fellow. Serv. God gi' good e'en.-I pray, fir, can you read? Rom. Ay, mine own fortune in my mifery.

Sery. 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.

[reads.

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; Signior Valentio, and his coufin Tybalt; Lucio, and the lively Helena. A fair affembly; [gives back the note.] Whither should they come?

Serv. Up.

Rem. Whither?

Berv. To fupper; to our houfe.

Rom. Whose house?

Serv. My master's.

Rom. Indeed, I should have afk'd you that before. Serv. Now I'll tell you without alking: My master is the great rich Capulet; and if you be not of the house of Montagues, I pray, come and crufh a cup of wine. Rest you merry.

[Exit.

Ben.

Ben. At this fame ancient feast of Capulet's
Sups the fair Rofaline, whom thou so lov'st;
With all the admired beauties of Verona:
Go thither; and, with unattainted eye,
Compare her face with fome that I fhall fhow,
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 these,-who, often drown'd, could never die,-
Tranfparent hereticks, be burnt for liars!

One fairer than my love! the all-feeing fun
Ne'er faw her match, since first the world begun.
Ben. Tut! you faw her fair, none else being by,
Herself pois'd with herself in either eye:

But in those crystal scales, let there be weigh'd
Your lady's love against fome other maid

That I will show you, fhining at this feast,
And the fhall fcant fhow well, that now fhows best.
Rom. I'll go along, no fuch fight to be shown,
But to rejoice in splendour of mine own.

SCENE III.

A Room in Capulet's Houfe.

Enter Lady CAPULET and Nurse.

[Exeunt.

L. 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.

ul. How now, who calls?

Nurje.

Your mother.

Jul.

Ful.

What is your will?

Madam, I am here.

La. Cap. This is the matter:-Nurse, give leave awhile, We must talk in fecret.-Nurfe, come back again; I have remember'd me, thou fhalt hear our counsel. Thou know'ft, my daughter's of a pretty age. Nurse. 'Faith, I can tell her age unto an hour. La. Cap. She's not fourteen.

Nurfe.

I'll lay fourteen of my teeth, And yet, to my teen be it spoken, I have but four,She is not fourteen: How long is it now

To Lammas-tide?

L. Cap.

A fortnight, and odd days.

Nurfe. Even or odd, of all days in the year,
Come Lammas-eve at night, fhall the be fourteen.
Sufan and fhe,-God rest all Chriftian fouls!--
Were of an age.—Well, Susan is with God;
She was too good for me: But, as I faid,
On Lammas-eve at night shall she be fourteen;
That shall she, marry; I remember it well.
'Tis fince the earthquake now eleven years;
And she was wean'd,-I never shall forget it,-
Of all the days of the year, upon that day:
For I had then laid wormwood to my dug,
Sitting in the fun under the dove-house wall,
My lord and you were then at Mantua :-
Nay, I do bear a brain :-but, as I faid,
When it did tafte the wormwood on the nipple
Of my dug, and felt it bitter, pretty fool!
To fee it tetchy, and fall out with the dug.

Shake, quoth the dove-house: 'twas no need, I trow,
To bid me trudge.

And fince that time it is eleven years:

For then she could stand alone; nay, by the rood,

She