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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.
Have at thee, coward.

Enter three or four citizens with clubs.


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


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;
On pain of torture, from thofe bloody hands
Throw your mif-temper'd weapons to the ground,
And hear the fentence of your moved Prince.
Three civil broils, bred of an airy word,
By thee, old Capulet, and Montague,

Have thrice difturb'd the Quiet of our ftreets;
And made Verona's ancient Citizens

Caft by their grave, befeeming, ornaments;
To wield old partizans, in hands as old,
Cankred with peace, to part your cankred hate;
If ever you difturb our ftreets again,

Your lives fhall pay the forfeit of the peace.
For this time all the reft depart away,
You, Capulet, fhall go along with me;
And, Montague, con.e you this afternoon,
To know our further pleasure in this cafe,
To old Free-town, our common judgment place:
Once more, on pain of death, all men depart.

[Exeunt Prince and Capulet, &c.

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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. Madam, an hour before the worshipp'd Sun
Peer'd through the golden window of the East,
A troubled mind drew me to walk abroad,
Where underneath the grove of fycamour,
That weftward rooteth from the City fide,
So early walking did I fee your fon.

Tow'rds him I made; but he was 'ware of me,
And stole into the covert of the wood.
1, measuring his affections by my own,
s That most are bufied when they're moft alone,
Purfued my humour, not purfuing him;
• And gladly shun'd, who gladly fled from me.
Mon. Many a morning hath he there been seen
With tears augmenting the fresh morning-dew,
Adding to clouds more clouds with his deep fighs;
But all fo foon as the all-chearing Sun
Should, in the furtheft Eaft, begin to draw
The fhady curtains from Aurora's bed;
Away from light fteals home my heavy fon,
Ard private in his chamber pens himself,
Shuts up his windows, locks fair day-light out,
And makes himself an artificial night.
Black and portentous muft this humour prove,
Unless good counfel may the cause remove.

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
mft might not be found,
Being one too many by my weary
Pufued my bumour, &c. Pope,

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,
But to himself fo fecret and fo clofe,
So far from founding and discovery,
As is the bud bit with an envious worm,

Ere he can spread his fweet leaves to the Air,
'Or dedicate his beauty to the Sun.

Could we but learn from whence his forrows grow,
We would as willingly give Cure, as know.

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. Is the day so young?
Ben. But new ftruck nine.

Rom. Ah me, fad hours feem long!



-Was that my father that went hence so fast?
Ben. It was. What fadnefs lengthens Romeo's hours?
Rom. Not having that, which, having, makes them

Ben. In love?
Rom. Out-

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.


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.


Rom. Why, fuch is love's tranfgreffion..

Griefs of mine own lie heavy in my breast;
Which thou wilt propagate, to have them preft
With more of thine; this love, that thou haft shown,
Doth add more grief to too much of mine own.

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