But new struck nine.
ROMEO:
Ay me! sad hours seem long. Was that my father that went hence so fast?
BENVOLIO:
It was. What sadness lengthens Romeo’s hours?
ROMEO:
Not having that, which, having, makes them short.
BENVOLIO:
In love?
ROMEO:
Out- BENVOLIO:
Of love?
ROMEO:
Out of her favour, where I am in love.
BENVOLIO:
Alas, that love, so gentle in his view, Should be so tyrannous and rough in proof!
ROMEO:
Alas, that love, whose view is muffled still, Should, without eyes, see pathways to his will! Where shall we dine? O me! What fray was here? 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 first create! O heavy lightness! serious vanity! Mis-shapen chaos of well-seeming forms! Feather of lead, bright smoke, cold fire, sick health! Still-waking sleep, that is not what it is! This love feel I, that feel no love in this. Dost thou not laugh?
BENVOLIO:
No, coz, I rather weep.
ROMEO:
Good heart, at what?
BENVOLIO:
At thy good heart’s oppression.
ROMEO:
Why, such is love’s transgression. Griefs of mine own lie heavy in my breast, Which thou wilt propagate, to have it prest With more of thine: this love that thou hast shown Doth add more grief to too much of mine own. Love is a smoke raised with the fume of sighs; Being purged, a fire sparkling in lovers’ eyes; Being vex’d a sea nourish’d with lovers’ tears: What is it else? a madness most discreet, A choking gall and a preserving sweet. Farewell, my coz.
BENVOLIO:
Soft! I will go along; An if you leave me so, you do me wrong.
ROMEO:
Tut, I have lost myself; I am not here; This is not Romeo, he’s some other where.
BENVOLIO:
Tell me in sadness, who is that you love.
ROMEO:
What, shall I groan and tell thee?
BENVOLIO:
Groan! why, no. But sadly tell me who.
ROMEO:
Bid a sick man in sadness make his will: Ah, word ill urged to one that is so ill! In sadness, cousin, I do love a woman.
BENVOLIO:
I aim’d so near, when I supposed you loved.
ROMEO:
A right good mark-man! And she’s fair I love.
BENVOLIO:
A right fair mark, fair coz, is soonest hit.
ROMEO:
Well, in that hit you miss: she’ll not be hit With Cupid’s arrow; she hath Dian’s wit; And, in strong proof of chastity well arm’d, From love’s weak childish bow she lives unharm’d. She will not stay the siege of loving terms, Nor bide the encounter of assailing eyes, Nor ope her lap to saint-seducing gold: O, she is rich in beauty, only poor, That when she dies with beauty dies her store.
BENVOLIO:
Then she hath sworn that she will still live chaste?
ROMEO:
She hath, and in that sparing makes huge waste, For beauty starved with her severity Cuts beauty off from all posterity. She is too fair, too wise, wisely too fair, To merit bliss by making me despair: She hath forsworn to love, and in that vow Do I live dead that live to tell it now.
BENVOLIO:
Be ruled by me, forget to think of her.
ROMEO:
O, teach me how I should forget to think.
BENVOLIO:
By giving liberty unto thine eyes; Examine other beauties.
ROMEO:
’Tis the way To call hers exquisite, in question more: These happy masks that kiss fair ladies’ brows Being black put us in mind they hide the fair; He that is strucken blind cannot forget The precious treasure of his eyesight lost: Show me a mistress that is passing fair, What doth her beauty serve, but as a note Where I may read who pass’d that passing fair? Farewell: thou canst not teach me to forget.
BENVOLIO:
I’ll pay that doctrine, or else die in debt.
Exeunt
Scene 2
A street.
Enter CAPULET, PARIS, and Servant
CAPULET:
But Montague is bound as well as I, In penalty alike; and ’tis not hard, I think, For men so old as we to keep the peace.
PARIS:
Of honourable reckoning are you both; And pity ’tis you lived at odds so long. But now, my lord, what say you to my suit?
CAPULET:
But saying o’er what I have said before: My child is yet a stranger in the world; She hath not seen the change of fourteen years, Let two more summers wither in their pride, Ere we may think her ripe to be a bride.
PARIS:
Younger than she are happy mothers made.
CAPULET:
And too soon marr’d are those so early made. The earth hath swallow’d all my hopes but she, She is the hopeful lady of my earth: But woo her, gentle Paris, get her heart, My will to her consent is but a part; An she agree, within her scope of choice Lies my consent and fair according voice. This night I hold an old accustom’d feast, Whereto I have invited many a guest, Such as I love; and you, among
