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Love is a fmoke rais'd with the fume of fighs,
Ben. Soft, I'll go along.
And if you leave me fo, you do me wrong.
Ben. Tell me in fadnefs, who fhe is you love?
In fadnefs, coufin, I do love a woman.
Ben. 1 aim'd so near, when I fuppos'd you lov❜d. Rom. A right good marks-man;-and fhe's fair, I love.
Ben. A right fair mark, fair coz, is foonest hit. Rom. But, in that hit, you mifs; fhe'll not be hit With Cupid's arrow; fhe hath Dian's wit:
And, in ftrong proof of chastity well arm'd,
From love's weak childish bow, fhe lives unharm’d.
O, she is rich in beauty; only poor
That when he dies, 7 with Beauty dies her Store. Ben. Then he hath fworn, that fhe will ftill live chafte?
Rom. She hath, and in that Sparing makes huge
For beauty, ftarv'd with her severity,
Do I live dead, that live to tell it now.
Ben. Be rul'd by me, forget to think of her. Rom. O, teach me how I fhould forget to think. Ben. By giving liberty unto thine eyes; Examine other Beauties.
Rom. 'Tis the way
To call hers exquifite in queftion more ;
with Beauty dies her Store] Mr. Theobald reads,
With her dies beauties flore. and is foll wed by the two fucceeding editors. I have replaced the old reading, because I think it at left as plaufible as the correction. She is rich, fays he, in beauty, and en'y poor in being fubject to the lot of huma
nity, that her ftore, or riches, can be deftroyed by death, who shall, by the fame blow, put an end to beauty.
Rom. She bath, and in that Sparing, &c.] None of the following fpeeches of this scene in the firit edition of 1597. POPE. 9 100 wifely fair,] Hanmer. For, swiftly too fair.
Enter Capulet, Paris, and Servant.
Cap. And Montague is bound as well as I,
Par. Younger than fhe are happy mothers made. Cap. And too foon marr'd are thofe fo early made. The earth hath fwallow'd all my hopes but the, 'She is the hopeful lady of my earth, But woo her, gentle Paris, get her heart, My will to her confent is but a part; If the agree, within her scope of choice Lies my confent, and fair according voice: This night, I hold an old-accuftom'd Feast, Wherero I have invited many a guest, Such as I love; and you, among the store, One more, moft welcome, makes my number more. At my poor house, look to behold this night *Earth-treading ftars that make dark heaven's light.
She is the hop ful lady of my earth:] This line not in the Erft edition. POPE. The lady of bis earth is an expreffion not very intelligible, unlefs he means that she is heir to his cftate, and I fuppofe no man
ever called his lan is his earth. I will venture to propofe a bold change,
She is the hope and stay of my
full years. 2 Earth-treading ftars that make dark HEAVEN's light.] This nonsenso
Such comfort as 3 do lufty young men feel,
And like her moft, whofe merit moft fhall be:
nonfenfe fhould be reformed thus,
Earth-treading fars that make dark EVEN light.
i. e. When the evening is dark and without ftars, there earthly ftars fupply their place, and light it up. So again in this play,
Her beauty bangs upon the cheek of night,
Like a rich jewel in an Ethiop's WARBURTON. But why nonfenfe? Is any thing more commonly, faid, than that beauties eclipfe the fun? Has not Pope the thought and the word?
Sol through white curtains fhot a tim'rous ray,
And ope'd thofe eyes that must
eclipfe the day. Both the old and the new reading are philofophical nonfenfe, but they are both, and both equally poetical fenfe.
3-do lufty young men feel,] To fay, and to fay in pompous words, that a young man shall feel
[Exeunt Capulet and Paris.
as much in an affembly of beauties, as young men feel in the month of April, is furely to waste found upon a very poor fentiment. read,
Such comfort as do lufty yeomen feel.
You fhall feel from the fight and
4 Which on more view of ma-
reck'ning none.] The first of thefe lines I do not understand. The old folio gives no help; the paffage is there, Which one more view. I can offer nothing better than this:
Within your view of many,
Serv. Find them out, whofe names are written here?
It is written, that the Shoemaker fhould meddle with his Yard, and the Tailor with his Laft, the Fifher with his Pencil, and the Painter with his Nets. But I am fent to find thofe Perfons, whofe names are here writ; and can never find what names the writing perfon hath here writ. I muft to the Learned. In good time,
Enter Benvolio and Romeo.
Ben. Tut, man! one fire burns out another's burning,
One pain is leffen'd by another's Anguish,
Turn giddy, and be help'd by backward turning, One defperate grief cure with another's Languifh; Take thou fome new infection to the eye,
And the rank poifon of the old will die.
Rom. Your plantan leaf is excellent for that.
Rom. For your broken fhin.
Ben. Why, Romeo, art thou mad?
Rom. Not mad, but bound more than a mad-man is;
up in prifon, kept without my food,
Whipt and tormented, and-Good-e'en, good fellow. [To the Servant. Serv. God gi' good e'en.-I pray, Sir, can you
Rom. Ay, mine own fortune in my mifery.
Serv. Perhaps you have learn'd it without book. But, I pray,
read any thing you fee?
Rom. Ay, if I know the letters and the language.