And yet no further than a wanton's bird;
Who lets him hop a little from her hand,
Like a poor prifoner in his twisted gyves,
And with a filk thread plucks it back again,
So loving jealous of his liberty.

Rom. I would I were thy bird.
Jul. Sweet, fo would I;

Yet I fhould kill thee with much cherishing.
Good-night, good-night! parting is fuch sweet sorrow,
That I fhall fay-good-night, 'till it be morrow.

[Exit. Rom. Sleep dwell upon thine eyes, peace in thy

breaft!'Would I were fleep and peace, so sweet to rest! Hence will I to my ghoftly father's cell; His help to crave, and my dear hap to tell.

SCENE III. A monaflery.

Enter Friar LAWRENCE, with a basket.

[Exit.

Fri. The gray-ey'd morn fmiles on the frowning night, Checkering the eastern clouds with ftreaks of light; And flecked darkness like a drunkard reels

From forth day's path-way, made by Titan's wheels:
Now ere the fun advance his burning eye,

The day to cheer, and night's dank dew to dry,
I muft up-fill this ofier cage of ours

With baleful weeds, and precious juiced flowers.
The earth, that's nature's mother, is her tomb;
What is her burying grave, that is her womb:
And from her womb children of divers kind
We fucking on her natural bofom find;
Many for many virtues excellent,
None but for fome, and yet all different.

O, mickle

O, mickle is the powerful grace, that lies
In plants, herbs, ftones, and their true qualities:
For nought fo vile that on the earth doth live,
But to the earth fome fpecial good doth give;
Nor ought fo good, but, ftrain'd from that fair use,
Revolts from true birth, ftumbling on abuse:
Virtue itself turns vice, being mifapplied;
And vice fometime's by action dignify'd.
Within the infant rind of this fmall flower
Poifon hath refidence, and med'cine power:
For this, being fmelt, with that part cheers each part;
Being tafted, flays all fenfes with the heart.
Two fuch oppofed foes encamp them still
In man as well as herbs, grace and rude will
And, where the worfer is predominant,
Full foon the canker death eats up that plant.

Enter ROMEO.

Rom. Good-morrow, father!

Fri. Benedicite!

What early tongue fo fweet faluteth me?-
Young fon, it argues a diftemper'd head,
So foon to bid good-morrow to thy bed:
Care keeps his watch in every old man's eye,
And where care lodges, fleep will never lie;
But where unbruifed youth with unftuft brain
Doth couch his limbs, there golden fleep doth reign:
Therefore thy earlinefs doth me affure,
Thou art up-rous'd by fome diftemp'rature;
Or, if not fo, then here I hit it right-
Our Romeo hath not been in bed to-night.

Rom. That laft is true, the fweeter reft was mine.
Fri. God pardon fin! waft thou with Rofaline?

Rom.

Rom. With Rofaline, my ghoftly father? no;
I have forgot that name, and that name's woe.
Fri. That's my good fon: But where haft thou been
then?

Rom. I'll tell thee, ere thou afk it me again.
I have been feasting with mine enemy:
Where on a fudden, one hath wounded me,
That's by me wounded; both our remedies
Within thy help and holy phyfic lies:
I bear no hatred, bleffed man! for, lo,
My interceffion likewise steads my foe.

Fri. Be plain, good fon, and homely in thy drift; Riddling confeffion finds but riddling thrift.

Rom. Then plainly know, my heart's dear love is fet On the fair daughter of rich Capulet:

As mine on hers, fo hers is fet on mine;

And all combin'd, fave what thou must combine
By holy marriage; when, and where, and how,
We met, we woo'd, and made exchange of vow,
I'll tell thee as we pafs; but this I
That thou confent to marry us this day.

pray,

Fri. Holy faint Francis! what a change is here! Is Rofaline, whom thou didst love fo dear, So foon forfaken? young men's love then lies Not truly in their hearts, but in their eyes. Holy faint Francis! what a deal of brine Hath wash'd thy fallow cheeks for Rosaline! How much falt water thrown away in waste, To feafon love, that of it doth not taste! The fun not yet thy fighs from heaven clears, Thy old groans ring yet in my ancient ears; Lo, here upon thy cheek the ftain doth fit Of an old tear, that is not wash'd off yet:

If e'er thou waft thyself, and these woes thine,
Thou and these woes were all for Rofaline;
And art thou chang'd? pronounce this fentence then-
Women may fall, when there's no strength in men.
Rom. Thou chidd'ft me oft for loving Rosaline.
Fri. For doating, not for loving, pupil mine.
Rom. And bad'it me bury love.

Fri. Not in a grave,

To lay one in, another out to have.

Rom. I pray thee, chide not: fhe whom I love now, Doth grace for grace, and love for love allow; The other did not fo.

Fri. O, fhe knew well,

Thy love did read by rote, and could not spell.
But come, young waverer, come go with me,
In one refpect I'll thy affiftant be;

For this alliance may fo happy prove,

To turn your houfehold's rancour to pure love.
Rom. O, let us hence; I ftand on fudden haste.
Fri. Wifely, and flow; they stumble, that run fast.

SCENE IV. The street.

Enter BENVOLIO, and MERCUTIO.

[Exeunt.

Mer. Where the devil fhould this Romeo be?Came he not home to-night?

Ben. Not to his father's; I fpoke with his man. Mer. Why, that fame pale hard-hearted wench, that Rofaline,

Torments him fo, that he will fure run mad.

Ben. Tybalt, the kinfman of old Capulet, Hath fent a letter to his father's house.

Mer. A challenge, on my life.

Ben. Romeo will answer it.

Mer

Mer. Any man that can write, may anfwer a letter. Ben. Nay, he will answer the letter's master, how he dares, being dar'd.

Mer. Alas, poor Romeo, he is already dead! stabb'd with a white wench's black eye, fhot through the ear with a love-fong; the very pin of his heart cleft with the blind bow-boy's but-shaft; and is he a man to encounter Tybalt?

Ben. Why, what is Tybalt?

Mer. More than prince of cats, I can tell you. O, he is the courageous captain of compliments: he fights as you fing prick-fongs, keeps time, diftance, and proportion; he refts his minim, one, two, and the third in your bofom: the very butcher of a filk button, a duellift, a duellift; a gentleman of the very first house; of the first and fecond caufe: Ab, the immortal paffado! the punto reverfo! the hay!.

Ben. The what?

Mer. The pox of fuch antic, lifping, affecting fantafticoes; thefe new tuners of accents!a very tall man

-By-a very

a very good blade!good whore!- -Why, is not this a lamentable thing, grandfire, that we should be thus afflicted with these ftrange flies, thefe fashion-mongers, thefe Pardonnezmoy's, who stand so much on the new form, that they cannot fit at eafe on the old bench? O, their bon's, their bon's!

Enter ROMEO.

Ben. Here comes Romeo, here comes Romeo! Mer. Without his roe, like a dried herring:-0, flesh, flesh, how art thou fifhified!-Now is he for the numbers that Petrarch flowed in: Laura, to his lady, was but a kitchen-wench;-marry, he had a better