LITMIR.BIZ

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love! O loving hate!

       O anything, of nothing first create!

       O heavy lightness! serious vanity!

       Misshapen 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?

       Benvolio.

       No, coz, I rather weep.

       Romeo.

       Good heart, at what?

       Benvolio.

       At thy good heart’s oppression.

       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.

       [Going.]

       Benvolio.

       Soft! I will go along:

       An if you leave me so, you do me wrong.

       Romeo.

       Tut! I have lost myself; I am not here:

       This is not Romeo, he’s some other where.

       Benvolio.

       Tell me in sadness who is that you love?

       Romeo.

       What, shall I groan and tell thee?

       Benvolio.

       Groan! why, no;

       But sadly tell me who.

       Romeo.

       Bid a sick man in sadness make his will,—

       Ah, word ill urg’d to one that is so ill!—

       In sadness, cousin, I do love a woman.

       Benvolio.

       I aim’d so near when I suppos’d you lov’d.

       Romeo.

       A right good markman!—And she’s fair I love.

       Benvolio.

       A right fair mark, fair coz, is soonest hit.

       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.

       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,

      

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