That frosen mountayne yse was never halfe so cold,
As were his handes, though nere so neere the fire he did them
As soon as had the knight the virgins right hand raught,
Within his trembling hand her left hath loving Romeus caught.
For he wist well himselfe for her abode most payne,
And well he wist she lovd him best, unless she list to fayne.
Then she with slender hand his tender palm hath prest;
What joy, trow you, was graffed so in Romeus cloven brest?
The sodayne sweete delight hath stopped quite his tong,
Ne can he clame of her his right, ne crave redresse of wrong.
But she espyd straight waye, by chaunging of his hewe
From pale to red, from red to pale, and so from pale anewe,
That vehment love was cause why so his tong did stay,
And so much more she longd to heare what Love could teach him
When she had longed long, and he long held his peace,
And her desyre of hearing him by sylence did increase,
At last, with trembling voyce and shamefast chere, the mayde Unto her Romeus tournde her selfe, and thus to him she sayde: "O blessed be the time of thy arrivall here!"
But ere she could speake forth the rest, to her love drewe so nere,
And so within her mouth her tongue he glewed fast,
That no one woord could scape her more then what already past.
In great contented ease the yong man straight is rapt:
What chaunce (quoth he) unware to me, O lady mine, is hapt:
That geves you worthy cause my cumming here to blesse ?
Fayre Juliet was come agayne unto her selfe by this;
Fyrst ruthfully she look'd then say'd with smyling chere:
“Mervayle no whit, my heartes delight, my only knight and feere,
Mercutio's ysy hande had all to-frosen myne,
And of thy goodness thou agayne hast warmed it with thyne.”
Whereto with stayed brow gan Romeus replye:
"If so the Gods have graunted me suche favor from the skye, That by my being here some service I have donne
That pleaseth you, I am as glad as I a realme had wonne.
O wel-bestowed tyme that hath the happy hyre,
Which I woulde wish if I might have my wished harts' desire!
For I of God woulde crave, as pryse of paynes forpast,
To serve, obey, and honour you, so long as lyfe shall last:
As proofe shall teache you playne, if that you like to trye
His faltles truth, that nill for ought unto his ladye lye.
But if my touched hand have warmed yours some dele,
Assure yourselfe the heate is colde which in your hand you fele,
Compard to suche quicke sparks and glowing furious gleade,
As from your bewties pleasant eyne Love caused to proceade;
Which have to set on fyre eche feling part of myne,
That lo! my mynde doeth melt awaye, my utward parts do pyne.
And, but you hate all whole, to ashes shall I toorne;
Wherefore, alas! have ruth on him, whom you do force to boorne."
Even with his ended tale, the torches-daunce had ende,
And Juliet of force must part from her new-chosen frend.
His hand she clasped hard, and all her partes dyd shake,
When laysureles with whispring voyce thus did she aunswer make:
"You are no more your owne, deare frend, then I am yours;
My honour sav'd, prest tobey your will, while life endures."
Lo! here the lucky lot that sild true lovers finde,
Eche takes away the others hart, and leaves the owne behinde.
A happy life is love, if God graunt from above
That hart with hart by even waight do make exchaunge of love.
But Romeus gone from her, his hart for care is colde;
He hath forgot to ask her name, that hath his hart in holde.
With forged careles cheere, of one he seekes to knowe,
Both how she hight, and whence she camme, that him enchaunt
So hath he learnd her name, and knowth she is no geast,
Her father was a Capilet, and master of the feast.
Thus hath his foe in choyse to geve him life or death,
That scarcely can his wofull brest keepe in the lively breath.
Wherefore with pitious plaint feerce Fortune doth he blame,
That in his ruth and wretched plight doth seeke her laughing
And he reproveth love cheefe cause of his unrest,
Who ease and freedome hath exilde out of his youthfull brest: Twise hath he made him serve, hopeles of his rewarde;
Of both the ylles to choose the lesse, I weene, the choyse were
Fyrst to a ruthles one he made him sue for grace,
And now with spurre he forceth him to ronne an endles race.
Amid these stormy seas one ancor doth him holde,
He serveth not a cruell one, as he had done of olde;
And therefore is content and chooseth still to serve,
Though hap should sweare that guerdonles the wretched wight should sterve.
The lot of Tantalus is, Romeus, like to thine;
For want of foode, amid his foode, the myser still doth pyne.
As carefull was the mayde what way were best devise,
To learne his name that intertaind her in so gentle wise;
Of whom her hart receivd so depe, so wyde, a wound.
An ancient dame she calde to her, and in ner eare gan rounde :
(This old dame in her youth had nurst her with her mylke,
With slender nedel taught her sow, and how to spyn with sylke.)
What twayne are those, quoth she, which prease unto the doore,
Whose pages in their hand do beare two torches light before?
And then, as eche of them had of his houshold name,
So she him namd.—Yet once again the young and wyly dame :-
"And tell me who is he with vysor in his hand,
That yonder dooth in masking weede besyde the window stand."
His name is Romeus, said shee, a Montagewe,
Whose fathers pryde first styrd the stryfe which both your hous
The word of Montagew her joyes did overthrow,
And straight instead of happy hope despayre began to growe.
What hap have I, quoth she, to love my fathers foe?
What, am I wery of my wele? what, doe I wysh my woe?
But though her grevouse paynes distraind her tender hart,
Yet with an outward show of joye she cloked inward smart;
And of the courtlike dames her leave so courtly tooke,
That none did gesse the sodein change by changing of her looks.
Then at her mothers hest to chamber she her hyed,
So wel she faynde, mother ne nors the hidden harme descride.
But when she shoulde have slept as wont she was in bed,
Not half a wynke of quyet sleepe could harber in her hed;
For loe, an húgy heape of divers thoughtes arise,
That rest have banisht from her hart, and slumber from her eyes.
And now from syde to syde she tosseth and she turnes,
Am now for feare she shevereth, and now for love she burnes,
And now she lykes her choyse, and now her choyse she blames,
And now eche houre within her head a thousand fansyes frames.
Sometime in mynde to stop amyd her course begonne,
Sometime she vowes, what so betyde, that tempted race to ronne.
Thus dangers dred and love within the mayden fought;
The fight was feerse, continuyng long by their contrary thought. In tourning mase of love she wandreth too and fro,
Then standeth doutful what to doo; last, overprest with woe, How so her fansies cease, her teares did never blin,
With heavy cheere and wringed hands thus doth her plaint begin. "Ah silly foole, quoth she, y-cought in soottill snare!
Ah wretched wench, bewrapt in woe! ah caytife clad with care!
Whence come these wandring thoughts to thy unconstant brest,
By straying thus from raisons lore, that reve thy wonted rest?
What if his suttel brayne to fayne have taught his tong,
And so the snake that lurkes in grasse thy tender hart hath stong?
What if with frendly speache the traytor lye in wayte,
As oft the poysond hooke is hid, wrapt in the pleasant bayte?
Oft under cloke of truth hath Falshood servd her lust;
And toornd their honor into shame, that did to slightly trust.
What, was not Dido so, a crowned queene, defamd?
And eke, for such an heynous cryme, have men not Theseus blamd?
A thousand stories more, to teache me to beware,
In Boccace and in Ovids bookes too plainely written are.
Perhaps, the great revenge he cannot woorke by strength,
By suttel sleight (my honour staynd) he hopes to woorke at
So shall I seeke to find my fathers foe, his game;
So (I defylde) Report shall take her trompe of blacke defame,
Whence she with puffed cheeke shall blowe a blast so shrill
Of my disprayse, that with the noyse Verona shall she fill.
Then I, a laughing stocke through all the towne becomme,
Shall hide my selfe, but not my shame, within an hollow toombe."
Straight underneath her foote she treadeth in the dust
Her troblesome thought, as wholly vaine, y-bred of fond distrust. "No, no, by God above, I wot it well, quoth shee,
Although I rashely spake before, in no wise can it bee,
That where such perfet shape with pleasant bewty restes,
There crooked craft and trayson blacke should be appoynted
Sage writers say, the thoughts are dwelling in the eyne;
Then sure I am, as Cupid raignes, that Romeus is myne.
The tong the messenger eke call they of the mynd;
So that see he loveth me:-shall I then be unkynd?
His faces rosy hew I saw full oft to seeke;
And straight again it flashed foorth, and spred in eyther cheeke. His fixed heavenly eyne that through me quyte did perce
His thoughts unto my hart, my thoughts thei semed to rehearce.
What ment his foltring tunge in telling of his tale?
The trimbling of his joynts, and eke his cooler waxen pale?
And whilst I talke with him, himself he hath exylde
Out of himself, as seemed me; ne was I sure begylde.
Those arguments of love Craft wrate not on his face,
But Natures hand, when all deceyte was banishd out of place.
What other certayn signes seke I of his good wil?
These doo suffice; and stedfast I will love and serve him styll,
Till Attropos shall cut my fatall thread of lyfe,
So that he mynde to make of me his lawful wedded wyfe.
For so perchaunce this new alliance may procure
Unto our houses such a peace as ever shall indure.”
Oh how we can perswade ourself to what we like!
And how we can diswade our mynd, if ought our mind mislyke!
Weake arguments are stronge, our fansies streight to frame
To pleasing things, and eke to shonne, if we mislyke the same.
The mayde had scarcely yet ended the wery warre,
Kept in her heart by striving thoughts, when every shining starre
Had payd his borrowed light, and Phœbus spred in skies
His golden rayes, which seemd to say, now time it is to rise.
And Romeus had by this forsaken his wery bed,
Where restles he a thousand thoughts had forged in his hed.
And while with lingring step by Juliets house he past,
And upwards to her windowes high his greedy eyes did cast,
His love that lookd for him there gan he straight espye.
With pleasant cheere eche greeted is; she followeth with her eye
His parting steppes, and he oft looketh backe againe,
But not so oft as he desyres; warely he doth refrayne.
What life were like to love, if dread of jeopardy
Y-sowered not the sweete; if love were free from jelosy!
But she more sure within, unseene of any wight,
When so he comes, lookes after him till he be out of sight.
In often passing so, his busy eyes he threw,
That every pane and tooting hole the wily lover knew.
In happy houre he doth a garden plot espye,
From which, except he warely walke, men may his love descrye; For lo! it fronted full upon her leaning place,
Where she is wont to shew her heart by cheerefull frendly face. And lest the arbors might theyr secret love bewraye,
He doth keepe backe his forward foote from passing there by daye;
But when on earth the Night her mantel blacke hath spred,
Well-armde he walketh foorth alone, ne dreadful foes doth dred.
Whom maketh Love not bold, naye whom makes he not blinde ?
He driveth daungers dread oft times out of the lovers minde.
By night he passeth here a weeke or two in vayne;
And for the missing of his marke his greefe hath hym nye slaine.
And Juliet that now doth lacke her hearts releefe,-
Her Romeus pleasant eyen I mean-is almost dead for greefe. Eche daye she chaungeth howres, for lovers keepe an howre When they are sure to see theyr love, in passing by their bowre. Impacient of her woe, she hapt to leane one night
Within her windowe, and anon the moone did shine so bright That she espyde her loove; her hart revived sprang;
And now for joy she claps her handes, which erst for wo she
Eke Romeus, when he sawe his long desyred sight,
His moorning cloke of mone cast of, hath clad him with delight. Yet dare I say, of both that she rejoyced more:
His care was great, hers twise as great was, all the time before; For whilst she knew not why he did himselfe absent,
In douting both his health and life, his death she did lament.
For love is fearful oft where is no cause of feare,
And what love feares, that love laments, as though it chaunced
Of greater cause alway is greater woorke y-bred;
While he nought douteth of her helth, she dreads lest he be ded.
When onely absence is the cause of Romeus smart,
By happy hope of sight againe he feedes his fainting hart.
What wonder then if he were wrapt in lesse annoye?
What marvel if by sodain sight she fed of greater joy?
Ilis smaller greefe or joy no smaller love doo prove;
Ne, for she passed him in both, did she him passe in love :
But eche of them alike dyd burne in equall flame,
The wel-beloving knight and eke the wel-beloved dame.
Now whilst with bitter teares her eyes as fountaines ronne,
With whispering voice, y-broke with sobs, thus is her tale be-
"Oh Romeus, of your life too lavas sure you are,
That in this place, and at this tyme, to hazard it you dare.
What if your dedly foes, my kinsmen, saw you here?
Lyke lyons wylde, your tender partes asonder would they teare. In ruth and in disdayne, I, wery of my life,
With cruell hand my moorning hart would perce with bloudy
For you, myne own, once dead, what joy should I have heare?
And eke my honor staynd, which I then lyfe do holde more deare."
"Fayre lady myne, dame Juliet, my lyfe (quod hee)
Even from my byrth committed was to fatall sisters three.
They may in spyte of foes draw foorth my lively threed;
And they also (who so sayth nay) asonder may it shreed.
But who, to reave my life, his rage and force would bende,
Perhaps should trye unto his payne how I it coulde defende.
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