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Enter Juliet.

Jul. How now, who calls?
Nurfe. Your mother.

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

La. Cap. This is the matter- -Nurfe, give leave a while, we must talk in fecret-Nurfe, come back again, I have remember'd me, thou fhalt hear our counfel. Thou know'ft, my daughter's of a pretty age.

Nurje. 'Faith I can tell her age unto an hour.
La. Cap. She's not fourteen.

Nurfe. I'll lay fourteen of my teeth, (and yet 7 to my teen be it spoken, I have but four;) fhe's not fourteen; 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 fourteen. Susan and fhe (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 she be fourteen, that fhall fhe, marry, I remember it well. 'Tis fince the earthquake now eleven 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 dug, fitting in the Sun under the Dovehoufe wall, my Lord and you were then at Mantua.

-Nay, I do bear a brain. But, as I faid, when it did taste the worm-wood on the nipple of my dug, and felt it bitter, pretty fool, to see it teachy, and fall out with the dug. Shake, quoth the Dove-house'twas no need, I trow, to bid me trudge; and fince' that time it is eleven years, for then she could stand alone; nay, by th' rood, fhe could have run, and

7-to my teen] To my forrow.


waddled all about; for even the day before fhe broke her brow, and then my husband, (God be with his foul, a' was a merry man ;) took up the child; yea, quoth he, doft thou fall upon thy face? thou wilt fall backward when thou haft more wit, wilt thou not, Julé? and by my holy dam, the pretty wretch left crying, and faid, ay; To fee now, how a jest fhall come about. I warrant, an' I fhould live a thousand years, I fhould not forget it: Wilt thou not, Julé, quoth he? and, pretty fool, it stinted, and said,


La. Cap. Enough of this, I pray thee, hold thy peace.

Nurse. Yes, Madam; yet I cannot chufe but laugh, to think it should leave crying, and say, ay; and yet, I warrant, it had upon its brow a bump as big as a young cockrel's stone; a perilous knock, and it cried bitterly. Yea, quoth my husband, fall'st upon thy face? thou wilt fall backward when thou comest to age, wilt thou not, Julé ? it ftinted, and said, ay.

Jul. And ftint thee too, I pray thee, nurse, fay I. Nurse. Peace, I have done: God mark thee to his grace !

Thou waft the prettieft Babe, that e'er I nurft.
An' I might live to fee thee married once,
I have my wish.

La. Cap. And that fame marriage is the very theam

I came to talk of. Tell me, daughter Juliet,
How ftands your difpofition to be married?
Jul. It is an hour that I dream not of.

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Nurfe. An hour? were not I thine only nurfe, I'd say, thou hadft fuck'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 thefe years
That you are now a maid. Thus, then, in brief;
The valiant Paris feeks you for his love.

Nurfe. A man, young lady, lady, fuch a man As all the world-Why, he's a man of wax. La. Cap. Verona's fummer hath not fuch a flower. Nurfe. Nay, he's a flower; in faith, a very flower. 1 La. Cap. What fay you, can you like the Gentleman ?

This night you shall behold him at our Feaft;
Read o'er the Volume of young Paris' Face,
And find Delight writ there with Beauty's pen;
Examine ev'ry fev'ral Lineament,

And fee, how one another lends Content:
And what obfcur'd in this fair Volume lies,
Find written in the Margent of his Eyes.
This precious book of Love, this unbound Lover,
To beautify him only lacks a Cover.

The fish lives in the Sea, and 'tis much pride,
For Fair without the Fair within to hide.


That Book in many Eyes doth share the Glory,

2 That in gold clafps locks in the golden Story.
So, fhall you share all that he doth poffefs,
By having him, making yourself no less.

1 La. Cap. What fay you, &c.] This ridiculous fpeech is entirely added fince the first edition.


That in gold clafps lo ks in the golden Story.] The golden Story is perhaps the golden tegend,

a book in the darker ages of popery much read, and doubtlefs often exquifitely embellished, but of which Canus, one of the popish doctors, proclaims the author to have been bomo ferrei oris, plumbei cordis.


Nurfe. No lefs? Nay, bigger; Women grow by


La. Cap. Speak briefly, can you like of Paris' love?

ful. I'll look to like, if looking liking move. But no more deep will I indart mine eye, Than your confent gives ftrength to make it fly.

Enter a Servant.

Serv. Madam, the guests are come, fupper ferv'd up, you call'd, my young lady afk'd for, the nurse curft in the pantry, and every thing in extremity. I must hence to wait; I beseech you, follow ftrait.

La. Cap. We follow thee. Juliet, the County stays.

Nurfe. Go, girl, feek happy nights to happy days. [Exeunt.


A Street before Capulet's Houfe.

Enter Romeo, Mercutio, Benvolio, with five or fix other mafkers, torch-bearers, and drums.


HAT, fhall this speech be fpoke for our excufe?


Or fhall we on without apology?

Ben. 3 The date is out of fuch prolixity.

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pears from his writ ng none: and that his plays difcredited fuch entertainments is more than próbable. But in James's time, that


We'll have no Cupid, hood-wink'd with a scarf,
Bearing a Tartar's painted bow of lath,
Scaring the ladies like a crow-keeper:
Nor a without-book prologue faintly spoke
After the prompter, for our enterance.
But let them measure us by what they will,
We'll measure them a measure, and be gone.

Rom. Give me a torch, I am not for this ambling, Being but heavy, I will bear the Light.

Mer. Nay, gentle Romeo, we must have you dance, Rom. Not I, believe me; you have dancing fhoes With nimble foles; I have a foul of lead,

So ftakes me to the ground, I cannot move.
"Mer. You are a Lover, borrow Cupid's Wings,
And foar with them above a common Bound.

Rom. I am too fore enpearced with his Shaft,
To foar with his light Feathers; and fo bound,
I cannot bound a pitch above dull Woe.
Under Love's heavy burden do I fink.

Mer. And to fink in it, fhould you burden Love, Too great Oppreffion for a tender Thing!

Rom. Is Love a tender Thing! It is too rough, Too rude, too boift'rous; and it pricks like Thorn. Mer. If Love be rough with you, be rough with Love;

Prick Love for pricking, and you beat Love down. Give me a Cafe to put my vifage in?

[Putting on his Mafk. A Vifor for a Vifor!-what care I, What curious eye doth quote

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