Ben. I do but keep the peace; put up thy fword, Or manage it to part these men with me. Tyb. What drawn, and talk of peace? I hate the word As I hate hell, all Montagues and thee. Enter three or four citizens with clubs. [Fight. Cit. Clubs, bills, and partifans! ftrike! beat them down! Down with the Capulets, down with the Montagues! Enter old Capulet in his gown, and lady Capulet. Cap. What noise is this? 4 give me my long sword, ho! La. Cap. A crutch, a crutch. Why call you fword? for a Cap. My fword, I fay: old Montague is come, And flourishes his blade in fpight of me. Enter old Montague, and Lady Montague. Mon. Thou villain, CapuletHold me not, let me go. 'La. Mon. Thou shalt not ftir a foot to feek a foe. Enter Prince with attendants. Prin. Rebellious Subjects, enemies to peace, Profaners of this neighbour ftained steelWill they not hear? what ho! you men, you beafts, That quench the fire of your pernicious rage 4 give me my long word.] The in war, which was fometimes long word was the fword ufed wielded with both hands. With purple fountains iffuing from your veins; Have thrice difturb'd the Quiet of our ftreets; Caft by their grave, befeeming, ornaments; Your lives fhall pay the forfeit of the peace. [Exeunt Prince and Capulet, &c. La. Mon. Who fet this ancient quarrel new abroach; Speak, nephew, were you by, when it began? Ben. Here were the fervants of your adverfary, And yours, close fighting, ere I did approach; I drew to part them: In the inftant came The fiery Tybalt, with his fword prepar'd, Which, as he breath'd defiance to my ears, He fwung about his head, and cut the winds, Who, nothing hurt withal, hifs'd him in fcorn. While we were interchanging thrufts and blows, Came more and more, and fought on part and part, 'Till the Prince came, who parted either Part. La. Mon. O where is Romeo! Saw you him to day? Right glad am I, he was not at this fray. Ben. Ben. Madam, an hour before the worshipp'd Sun Tow'rds him I made; but he was 'ware of me, Ben. My noble uncle, do you know the cause? Mon. I neither know it, nor can learn it of him. Ben. Have you importun'd him by any means? Mon. Both by myfelf and many other friends; But he, his own affections' counsellor, 5 Tht moft are bufted, &c.] Edition 1597. Inttead of which it is in the other editions thus. ――ly my oven. Which then most fu¿ht, where 6 And gladly fhun'd, &c.] The ten lines following, not in edition 1597, but in the next of 1599. РОРЕ. 7 Ben. Have you importun'd, &c.] Thele two fpeeches alfo omitted in edition 1597, but inferted in 1599. РОРЕ. Is to himself, I will not fay, how true, Ere he can spread his fweet leaves to the Air, Could we but learn from whence his forrows grow, Enter Romeo. Ben. See, where he comes. So please you, ftep afide, I'll know his grievance, or be much deny'd. Mon. I would, thou wert fo happy by thy ftay To hear true fhrift. Come, Madam, let's away. Ben. Good-morrow, coufin. Rom. Ah me, fad hours feem long! fo [Exeunt. -Was that my father that went hence so fast? Ben. In love? 3 Or dedicate his Eeauty to the Same.] When we come to confider, that there is fome power elfe befides balmy air, that brings forth, and makes the ten der buds spread themselves, I do not think it improbable that the Poet wrote; Or dedicate his beauty to the Sun. Or, according to the more ob folete fpelling, Surre; which brings it nearer to the traces of the corrupted text. THEOB. I cannot but fufpect that fome lines are loit, which connected this fimile more closely with the foregoing fpeech; these lines, if fuch there were, lamented the danger that Romeo will die of his melancholy, before his virtues or abilities are known to the world. Ben. Of love? Rom. Out of her favour, where I am in love. Ben. Alas, that love, fo gentle in his view, Should be fo tyrannous and rough in proof! Rom. Alas, that love, whofe view is muffled ftill, Should without eyes fee path-ways 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. I Striking his breast. Why then, O brawling love! O loving hate! Oh, any thing of nothing first create! O heavy lightnefs! ferious vanity! Mif-fhapen chaos of well-feeming forms! Feather of lead, bright fmoke, cold fire, fick health! Still-waking fleep, that is not what it is! This love feel I, that feel no love in this. Doft thou not laugh? Ben. No, coz, I rather weep. Rom. Good heart, at what? Ben. At thy good heart's oppreffion. 2 Rom. Why, fuch is love's tranfgreffion.. Griefs of mine own lie heavy in my breast; |