Profaners of this neighbour-stained steel,—

Will they not hear?—What, ho! you men, you beasts,

That quench the fire of your pernicious rage

With purple fountains issuing from your veins,—

On pain of torture, from those bloody hands

Throw your mistemper’d weapons to the ground

And hear the sentence of your moved prince.—

Three civil brawls, bred of an airy word,

By thee, old Capulet, and Montague,

Have thrice disturb’d the quiet of our streets;

And made Verona’s ancient citizens

Cast by their grave beseeming ornaments,

To wield old partisans, in hands as old,

Canker’d with peace, to part your canker’d hate:

If ever you disturb our streets again,

Your lives shall pay the forfeit of the peace.

For this time, all the rest depart away:—

You, Capulet, shall go along with me;—

And, Montague, come you this afternoon,

To know our farther pleasure in this case,

To old Free-town, our common judgment-place.—

Once more, on pain of death, all men depart.

          [Exeunt Prince and Attendants; Capulet, Lady Capulet, Tybalt, Citizens, and Servants.]

Montague.

Who set this ancient quarrel new abroach?—

Speak, nephew, were you by when it began?

Benvolio.

Here were the servants of your adversary

And yours, close fighting ere I did approach:

I drew to part them: in the instant came

The fiery Tybalt, with his sword prepar’d;

Which, as he breath’d defiance to my ears,

He swung about his head, and cut the winds,

Who, nothing hurt withal, hiss’d him in scorn:

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.

Lady Montague.

O, where is Romeo?—saw you him to-day?—

Right glad I am he was not at this fray.

Benvolio.

Madam, an hour before the worshipp’d sun

Peer’d forth the golden window of the east,

A troubled mind drave me to walk abroad;

Where,—underneath the grove of sycamore

That westward rooteth from the city’s side,—

So early walking did I see your son:

Towards him I made; but he was ware of me,

And stole into the covert of the wood:

I, measuring his affections by my own,—

That most are busied when they’re most alone,—

Pursu’d my humour, not pursuing his,

And gladly shunn’d who gladly fled from me.

Montague.

Many a morning hath he there been seen,

With tears augmenting the fresh morning’s dew,

Adding to clouds more clouds with his deep sighs:

But all so soon as the all-cheering sun

Should in the farthest east begin to draw

The shady curtains from Aurora’s bed,

Away from light steals home my heavy son,

And private in his chamber pens himself;

Shuts up his windows, locks fair daylight out

And makes himself an artificial night:

Black and portentous must this humour prove,

Unless good counsel may the cause remove.

Benvolio.

My noble uncle, do you know the cause?

Montague.

I neither know it nor can learn of him.

Benvolio.

Have you importun’d him by any means?

Montague.

Both by myself and many other friends;

But he, his own affections’ counsellor,

Is to himself,—

I will not say how true,—

But to himself so secret and so close,

So far from sounding and discovery,

As is the bud bit with an envious worm

Ere he can spread his sweet leaves to the air,

Or dedicate his beauty to the sun.

Could we but learn from whence his sorrows grow,

We would as willingly give cure as know.

Benvolio.

See, where he comes: so please you step aside;

I’ll know his grievance or be much denied.

Montague.

I would thou wert so happy by thy stay

To hear true shrift.—Come, madam, let’s away,

          [Exeunt Montague and Lady.]

          [Enter Romeo.]

Benvolio.

Good morrow, cousin.

Romeo.

Is the day so young?

Benvolio.

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 anything, 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 rais’d with the fume of sighs;

Being purg’d, 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.

          [Going.]

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 urg’d to one that is so ill!—

In sadness, cousin, I do love a woman.

Benvolio.

I aim’d so near when I suppos’d you lov’d.

Romeo.

A right good markman!—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 th’ encounter of assailing eyes,

Nor ope her lap to saint-seducing gold:

O, she’s 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, starv’d 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.