LITMIR.BIZ

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arm’d,

       From love’s weak childish bow she lives unharm’d.

       She will not stay the siege of loving terms

       Nor bide th’ encounter of assailing eyes,

       Nor ope her lap to saint-seducing gold:

       O, she’s rich in beauty; only poor

       That, when she dies, with beauty dies her store.

       Benvolio.

       Then she hath sworn that she will still live chaste?

       Romeo.

       She hath, and in that sparing makes huge waste;

       For beauty, starv’d with her severity,

       Cuts beauty off from all posterity.

       She is too fair, too wise; wisely too fair,

       To merit bliss by making me despair:

       She hath forsworn to love; and in that vow

       Do I live dead that live to tell it now.

       Benvolio.

       Be rul’d by me, forget to think of her.

       Romeo.

       O, teach me how I should forget to think.

       Benvolio.

       By giving liberty unto thine eyes;

       Examine other beauties.

       Romeo.

       ‘Tis the way

       To call hers, exquisite, in question more:

       These happy masks that kiss fair ladies’ brows,

       Being black, puts us in mind they hide the fair;

       He that is strucken blind cannot forget

       The precious treasure of his eyesight lost:

       Show me a mistress that is passing fair,

       What doth her beauty serve but as a note

       Where I may read who pass’d that passing fair?

       Farewell: thou canst not teach me to forget.

       Benvolio.

       I’ll pay that doctrine, or else die in debt.

       [Exeunt.]

       SCENE II. A Street.

       [Enter Capulet, Paris, and Servant.]

       Capulet.

       But Montague is bound as well as I,

       In penalty alike; and ‘tis not hard, I think,

       For men so old as we to keep the peace.

       Paris.

       Of honourable reckoning are you both;

       And pity ‘tis you liv’d at odds so long.

       But now, my lord, what say you to my suit?

       Capulet.

       But saying o’er what I have said before:

       My child is yet a stranger in the world,

       She hath not seen the change of fourteen years;

       Let two more summers wither in their pride

       Ere we may think her ripe to be a bride.

       Paris.

       Younger than she are happy mothers made.

       Capulet.

       And too soon marr’d are those so early made.

       The earth hath swallowed all my hopes but she,—

       She is the hopeful lady of my earth:

       But woo her, gentle Paris, get her heart,

       My will to her consent is but a part;

       An she agree, within her scope of choice

       Lies my consent and fair according voice.

       This night I hold an old accustom’d feast,

       Whereto I have invited many a guest,

       Such as I love; and you among the store,

       One more, most welcome, makes my number more.

       At my poor house look to behold this night

       Earth-treading stars that make dark heaven light:

       Such comfort as do lusty young men feel

       When well apparell’d April on the heel

       Of limping winter treads, even such delight

       Among fresh female buds shall you this night

       Inherit at my house; hear all, all see,

       And like her most whose merit most shall be:

       Which, among view of many, mine, being one,

       May stand in number, though in reckoning none.

       Come, go with me.—Go, sirrah, trudge about

       Through fair Verona; find those persons out

       Whose names are written there, [gives a paper] and to them say,

       My house and welcome on their pleasure stay.

       [Exeunt Capulet and Paris].

       Servant.Find them out whose names are written here! It is written that the shoemaker should meddle with his yard and the tailor with his last, the fisher with his pencil, and the painter with his nets; but I am sent to find those persons whose names are here writ, and can never find what names the writing person hath here writ. I must to the learned:—in good time!

       [Enter Benvolio and Romeo.]

       Benvolio.

       Tut, man, one fire burns out another’s burning,

       One pain is lessen’d by another’s anguish;

       Turn giddy, and be holp by backward turning;

       One desperate grief cures with another’s languish:

       Take thou some new infection to thy eye,

       And the rank poison of the old will die.

       Romeo.

       Your plantain-leaf is excellent for that.

       Benvolio.

       For what, I pray thee?

       Romeo.

       For your broken shin.

       Benvolio.

       Why, Romeo, art thou mad?

       Romeo.

       Not mad, but bound more than a madman is;

       Shut up in prison, kept without my food,

       Whipp’d and tormented and—God-den, good fellow.

       Servant.

       God gi’ go-den.—I pray, sir, can you read?

       Romeo.

       Ay, mine own fortune in my misery.

       Servant. Perhaps you have learned it without book: but I pray, can you read anything you see?

       Romeo.

       Ay, If I know the letters and the language.

       Servant.

       Ye say honestly: rest you merry!

       Romeo. Stay, fellow; I can read. [Reads.] ‘Signior Martino and his wife and daughters; County Anselmo and his beauteous sisters; the lady widow of Vitruvio; Signior Placentio and his lovely nieces; Mercutio and his brother Valentine; mine uncle Capulet, his wife, and daughters; my fair niece Rosaline; Livia; Signior Valentio and his cousin Tybalt; Lucio and the lively Helena.’ A fair assembly. [Gives back the paper]: whither should they come?

       Servant.

       Up.

       Romeo.

       Whither?

       Servant.

      

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