SCENE IV.

Wood near VERONA.

Enter BENVOLIO and MERCUTIO.

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

Lock'd in some gloomy covert, under key

Of cautionary silence; with his arms

Threaded, like these cross boughs, in sorrow's knot.
Enter ROMEO.

Ben. Good-morrow, cousin.

Rom. Is the day so young?

Ben, But new struck nine.

Rom. Ah, me! sad hours seem long,

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

Alas, that love so gentle to the view,

Should be so tyrannous and rough in proof!

Rom. Where shall we dine!-O me-Cousin Benvolio,
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 lightness! serious vanity!
Mis-shapen chaos of well seeming forms!

This love feel I; but such my froward fate,

That there I love where most I ought to hate.

Dost 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 oppression,

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

Mer. I aim'd so near, when I suppos'd you lov'd.
Rom. A right good marksman! and she's fair I love:
But knows not of my love, 'twas through my eyes
The shaft empierc'd my heart, change gave the wound,
Which time can never heal: no star befriends me,
To each sad night succeeds a dismal morrow.

And

And still 'tis hopeless love, and endless sorrow.

Mer. Be rul'd by me, forget to think of her.
Rom. O teach me how I should forget to think
Mer. By giving liberty into thine eyes:
Take thou some new infection to thy heart,
And the tank poison of the old will die.
Examine other beauties.

Rom. He that is strucken blind cannot forget
The precious treasure of his eye-sight lost.
Shew me a mistress that is passing fair;
What doth her beauty serve but as a note,
Remembring me, who past that passing fair;
Farewel, thou can'st not teach me to forget.
Mer. I warrant thee. If thou'lt but stay to hear,
To-night there is an ancient splended feast
Kept by old Capulet, our enemy,

Where all the beauties of Verona meet.
Rom. At Capulet's my friend;

Go there, and with an unattainted eye,
Compare her face with some that I shall show,
And I will make thee think thy swain a crow.

Rom. When the devout religion of mine eye
Maintains such falsehoods, then turn tears to fires;
And burn the heretics. All-seeing Phoebus
Ne'er saw her match, fince first his course began.
Mer. Tut, tut, you saw her fair, none else being by,
Herself pois'd with herself; but let be weigh'd
Your lady-love against some other fair,
And she will shew scant well.

Rom. I will along, Mercutio.

Mer. 'Tis well. Look to behold at this high feast, Earth-treading stars, that might din heaven's lights, Hear all, all see, 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 see queen Mab hath been with you.
She is the fancy's mid-wife, and she comes

In shape no bigger than an agat-stone
On the fore-finger of an Alderman,

Drawn

Drawn with the team of little atomies,
Athwart mens as they lie asleep:

Her waggon-spokes made of long spinners legs;
The cover, of the wings of grashoppers;
The traces, of the smallest spider's web;
The collars, of the moon-shine's wat'ry beams;
Her whip, of cricket's bone; the lash, of film :-
Her waggoner a small grey-coated gnat,
Not half so big as a round little worm,
Prick'd from the lazy finger of a maid.
Her chariot is an empty hazel nut,
Made by the joiner squirrel, or old grub,
Time out of mind the fairies coach-makers:
And in this state she gallops night by night,

Through lovers brains, and then they dream of love;
On courtiers knees, that dream on curt'sies straight:
O'er lawyer's fingers, who straight dream on fees;
O'er ladies lips, who straight on kisses dream.
Sometimes she gallops o'er a lawyer's nose,
And then dreams he of smelling out a suit:
And sometimes comes she with a tith's-pig's tail,
Tickling the parson as he lies asleep;
Then dreams he of another benefice,
Sometimes she driveth o'er a soldier'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, swears a prayer or two,
And sleeps again. This is that Mab-

Rom. Peace, peace, Thou talk'st of nothing.

Mer. True, I talk of dreams;

Which are the children of an idle brain,
Begot of nothing, but vain phantasy,
Which is as thin of substance as the air,
And more unconstant than the wind.

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

Rom, I fear too early: for my mind misgives Some consequence, 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 observation,
Make known my sufferings, but conceal my name :
Tho' hate and discord 'twixt our sires increase,
Let in our hearts dwell love and endless peace.

[Exeunt Mercutio and Benvolio.

SCENE. V.

CAPULET's House.

Enter Lady CAPULET and NURSE.

L. Cap. NURSE, where's my daughter? call her forth

Nurse. Now (by my maidenhead at twelve years 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?

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 secret: Nurse, come back again,

I have remember'd me, thou shal't he ar mycounsel: thou know'st my daughter's of a pretty age.

Nurse. Faith I can tell her age unto an hour.

La Cap. She's not eighteen.

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

La. Cap. A fortnight and odd days.

Nurse. Even or odd, of all the days in the year come, Lammas-eve at night shall she be eighteen. Susan and she (God rest all Christian souls) were of an age. Well, Susan is with God; she was too good for me. But as I said on, Lammas-eve at night shall she be eighteen, that shall she, marry, marry, I remember it well. "Tis since the earthquake now fifteen years, and she was wean'd, I never shall forget it, of all the days in the year upon that day; for I had then laid wormwood to my breast, sitting in the sun, under the dove-house wall; my lord and you

were

-

were then at Mantua nay, I do bear a brain. But as I said, when it did taste the wormwood on the nipple of the breast, and felt it bitter, pretty fool, to see it teachy and fall out with the breast. Shake, quoth the dovehouse- -'twas no need I trow to bid me trudge; and since that time it is fifteen years, for then she could's d alone, nay, by th' rood she could have run, and waddled all about; for even the day before she broke her brow; and then my husband (God be with his soul, a' was a merry man,) took up the child; yea, quoth he, dost thou fall upon thy face? thou wilt fall backward when thou hast more wit: wilt thou not, Jule? and by my holy dam, the pretty wretch left crying, and said, ay; to see now how a jest shall come about I warrant, and I should live a thousand years I should not forget it; wilt thou not, Jule, quoth he? and pretty fool, it stinted, and said,

ay.

Jul. And stint thee too, I pray thee, peace.

Nurse. Peace, I have done; God mark thee to his grace. Thou wast the prettiest babe that ere I nurst. An' I might live to see thee married once,

I have my wish.

La. Cap. And that same marriage is the very theme,
1 came to talk of. Tell, me, daughter Juliet,
How stands your disposition to be married?

Jul. It is an honour that I dreamt not of.
Nurse. An honour? Were not I thine only nurse,
I'd say thou hadst suck'd wisdom from thy teat.

La. Cap. Well, think of marriage now; younger than you Here in Verona, ladies of esteem,

Are made already mothers, by my 'count,

I was your mother much upon these years
That you are now a maid. Thus then in brief,
The valiant Paris seeks you for his love.

Nurse. A man, young lady: lady such a man
As all the world. Why, he's a man of wax.
La. Cap. Verona's summer hath not such a flower.
Nurse. Nay, he's a flower in faith, a very flower.
La. Cap. Speak briefly, can you like of Paris' love.
Jul. I'll look to lik, if looking liking move;
But no more deep will I indart my eye,

Than

your consent gives strength to make it fly. VOL. 1.

E

Enter