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      Romeo. Alas that love, whose view is muffled still,

      Should, without eyes, see pathways 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.

      Why, then, O brawling love! O loving hate!

      O anything, of nothing first create!

      O heavy lightness! serious vanity!

      Mis-shapen chaos of well-seeming forms!

      Feather of lead, bright smoke, cold fire, sick health!

      Still-waking sleep, that is not what it is!

      This love feel I, that feel no love in this.

      Dost thou not laugh?

      Romeo. Why, such is love's transgression.

      Griefs of mine own lie heavy in my breast;

      Which thou wilt propagate, to have it prest

      With more of thine: this love that thou hast shown

      Doth add more grief to too much of mine own.

      Love is a smoke rais'd with the fume of sighs;

      Being purg'd, a fire sparkling in lovers' eyes;

      Being vex'd, a sea nourish'd with lovers' tears.

      What is it else? a madness most discreet,

      A choking gall, and a preserving sweet.

      Farewell, my coz.

      Romeo. Well, in that hit you miss: she'll not be hit

      With Cupid's arrow, she hath Dian's wit;

      And, in strong proof of chastity well 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.

      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.

      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.

      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.

      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

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