S CE NE III.

Before Capulet's House.

Enter Capulet, Paris, and a Servant. ND Mountague is bound as well as I, In penalty alike; and 'tis not hard For men fo old as we to keep the peace.

Cap. AN

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

Par. Younger than fhe are happy mothers made. Cap. And too foon marr'd are those so early made : The earth hath swallow'd all my hopes but her. But woo her, gentle Paris, get her heart; If fhe agree, within her scope of choice Lies my confent; fo woo her, gentle Paris. This night I hold an old accustom'd feast, Whereto I have invited many a friend, Such as I love, and you among the reft; One more moft welcome! Come go with me. Go firrah trudge about

[To a fervant. Through fair Verona; find thofe perfons out, Whose names are written there; and to them fay, My house and welcome on their pleasures stay. [Exeunt.

S C

C E

NE

IV.

Mer.

SE

A Wood near Verona.

Enter Benvolio and Mercutio.

EE where he steals-Told I you not, Benvoke,
That we should find this melancholy Cupid

Lock'd in fome gloomy covert, under key

Of cautionary filence; with his arms

Threaded, like these cross boughs, in forrow's knot:

Enier

Enter Romeo.

Ben. Good-morrow, Coufin.

Rom. Is the day so young?

Ben. But new ftruck nine,

Rom. Ah me! fad hours feem long.

Mer. Prithee, what fadness lengthens Romeo's hours? Rom. Not having that, which having makes them short. Ben. In love, me seems!

Alas, that love fo gentle to the view,

Should be fo tyrannous and rough in proof!

-Coufin Benvolio,

Rom. Where fhall we dine ?-O me--
What was the fray this morning with the Capulets?
Yet, tell me not, for I have heard it all.

Here's much to do with hate, but more with love:
Love, heavy lightnefs! ferious vanity!
Mif-shapen chaos of well-feeming forms!
This love feel I; but fuch my froward fate,
That there I love where most I ought to hate.

Doft thou not laugh, my friend?-Oh Juliet, Juliet !
Ben. No, coz, I rather weep.

Rom. Good heart, at what?

Ben. At thy good heart's oppreffion.

Mer. Tell me in fadness, who she is you love?
Rom. In fadness then, I love a woman.

Mer. I aim'd fo near, when I fuppos'd you

lov'd.

Rom. A right good markfman! and she's fair I love:
But knows not of my love, 'twas thro' my eyes
The shaft empierc'd my heart, chance gave the wound,
Which time can never heal: no star befriends me,
To each fad night fucceeds a difmal morrow,
And ftill 'tis hopeless love, and endless forrow.
Mer. Be rul'd by me, forget to think of her.
Rom. O teach me how I fhould forget to think.
Mer. By giving liberty unto thine eyes:
Take thou fome new infection to thy heart,
And the rank poison of the old will die.
Examine other beauties.

Rom. He that is ftrucken blind cannot forget
The precious treasure of his eye fight loft.
Shew me a mistress that is paffing fair;
What doth her beauty ferve but as a note,

Remembring

Remembring me, who paft that paffing fair;
Farewel, thou canst not teach me to forget.

Mer. I warrant thee. If thou'lt but stay to hear,
To night there is an ancient splendid feast
Kept by old Capulet, our enemy,

Where all the beauties of Verona meet.
Rom. At Capulet's !

Mer. At Capulet's, my friend,

Go there, and with an 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 falfhoods, then turn tears to fires; And burn the hereticks. All-feeing Phoebus Ne'er faw her match, fince firft his courfe began. Mer. Tut, tut, you faw her fair, none elfe being by, Herself pois'd with herself; but let be weigh'd Your lady-love against some other fair, And she will shew fcant well.

Rom. I will along, Mercutio.

Mer. 'Tis well. Look to behold at this high feaft, Earth-treading ftars, that make dim heaven's lights. Hear all, all fee, try all; and like her most, That most shall merit thee.

Rom. My mind is chang'd

I will not go to night.

Mer. Why, may one ask?

Rom. I dream'd a dream last night.
Mer. Ha ha! a dream!

O then I fee queen Mab hath been with
you.
She is the fancy's mid-wife, and the comes
In fhape no bigger than an agat-ftone
On the fore-finger of an Alderman,
Drawn with a team of little atomies,
Athwart mens noses as they lie asleep :
Her waggon-fpokes made of long spinners legs;
The cover, of the wings of grafhoppers;
The traces, of the smallest spider's web;
The collars, of the moonshine's watry beams
Her whip, of cricket's bone; the lash, of film;
Her waggoner a small gray-coated gnat,
Not half fo big as a round little worm,

Prick'd

Prick'd from the lazy finger of a maid.
Her chariot is an empty hazel nut,
Made by the joiner fquirrel, or old grub,
Time out of mind the fairies coach-makers:
And in this ftate fhe gallops night by night,
Through lovers brains, and then they dream of love;
On courtiers knees, that dream on curtfies ftraight:
O'er lawyers fingers, who ftraight dream on fees;
O'er ladies lips, who ftraight on kiffes dream,
Sometimes the gallops o'er a lawyer's nofe,
And then dreams he of fmelling out a fuit :
And fometimes comes fhe with a tith-pig's tail,
Tickling the Parfon as he lies asleep;
Then dreams he of another benefice.
Sometimes the driveth o'er a foldier's neck,
And then dreams he of cutting foreign throats,
Of breaches, ambuscadoes, Spanish blades,
Of healths five fathom deep; and then anon
Drums in his ears, at which he starts and wakes,
And being thus frighted, fwears a prayer or two,
And fleeps again. This is that Mab

Rom. Peace, peace,

Thou talk'ft of nothing.

Mer. True, I talk of dreams;

Which are the children of an idle brain,
Begot of nothing, but vain phantafy,
Which is as thin of fubftance as the air,

And more unconftant than the wind.

Ben. This wind you talk of, blows us from ourselves, And we fhall come too late.

Rom. I fear too early: for my mind misgives
Some confequence, yet hanging in the stars,
From this night's revels-lead, gallant friends;
Let come what may, once more I will behold
My Juliet's eyes, drink deeper of affliction;
I'll watch the time, and mask'd from obfervation
Make known my fufferings, but conceal my name:
Tho' hate and difcord 'twixt our fires increase,
Let in our hearts dwell love and endless peace.

[Exeunt Mer. and Ben.

SCENE

SCENE
Capulet's House.

Enter Lady Capulet, and Nurfe.

La. Cap. N

V.

URSE, where's my daughter? call her forth to me.

Nurfe. Now (by my maiden-head, at twelve year old) I bad her come; what lamb, what lady-bird, God forwhere's this girl? what, Juliet ? Enter Juliet.

bid.

Jul. How now, who calls?

Nurse. Your mother.

Jul. Madam, I am here, what is your will?

La. Cap. This is the matter.

Nurse give leave

a while, we must talk in fecret; Nurse, come back again,

I have remembred me, thou shalt hear my 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 eighteen.

Nurfe. I'll lay eighteen of my teeth, and yet to my teeth be it spoken, I have but eight, fhe's not eighteen; how long is it now to Lammas-tide?

La. Cap. A fortnight and odd Days.

Nurfe. Even or odd, of all Days in the year come Lammas eve at night fhall fhe be eighteen. Susan and the (God reft all chriftian fouls) were of an age. Well, Sufan is with God; fhe was too good for me. But as I faid, on Lammas-eve at night shall fhe be eighteen, that fhall fhe, marry, I remember it well 'Tis fince the earthquake now fifteen Years, and she was wean'd; I never fhall forget-it, of all the Days in the year, upon that day; for I had then laid wormwood to my breaft, fitting in the fun under the dove-house-wall; my lord and you were then at Mantuanay, I do bear a brain. as I faid, when it did tafte the wormwood on the nipple of the breast, and felt it bitter, pretty fool, to fee it teachy and fall out with the breaft. Shake, quoth the dovehouse- 'twas no need I trow, to bid me trudge; and fince that time it is fifteen years, for then she could stand alone, nay, by th' rood she could have run, and wadled

But

all