To whom in no respect he ought a place to geve?

Let it suffice to thee, fayre dame, that Romeus doth live,
And that there is good hope that he, within a while,
With greater glory shall be calde home from his hard exile.
How well y-born he is, thyselfe I know canst tell,

By kindred strong, and well alyed, of all beloved well.
With patience arme thyselfe, for though that Fortunes cryme,
Without your falt, to both your greefes, depart you for a time,
I dare say, for amendes of all your present payne,

She will restore your owne to you, within a month or twayne,
With such contented ease as never erst you had;

Wherefore rejoyce a while in hope, and be no more so sad.
And that I may discharge your hart of heavy care,

A certaine way I have found out, my paynes ne will I spare,
To learne his present state, and what in time to comme

He mindes to doe; which knowne by me, you shall know all and

somme.

But that I dread the whilst your sorowes will you quell,

Straight would I hye where he doth lurke, to fryer Lawrence cell.
But if you gyn eft sones, as erst you did, to moorne,
Whereto goe I? you will be ded, before I thence retoorne.
So I shall spend in waste my time and busy payne,

So unto you, your life once lost, good auns were comes in vayne;
So shall I ridde my selfe with this sharpe pointed knyfe,

So shall you cause your parents deere wax wery of theyr life;
So shall your Romeus, despising lively breath,

With hasty foote, before his time, ronne to untimely death.
Where, if you can a while by reason rage suppresse,
I hope at my retorne to bring the salve of your distresse.
Now choose to have me here a partner of your payne,
Or promise me to feede on hope till I retorne agayne."

Her mistres sendes her forth, and makes a grave behest With reasons rayne to rule the thoughts that rage within her birest.

When hugy heapes of harmes are heaped before her eyes,
Then vanish they by hope of scape; and thus the lady lyes
Twixt well-assured trust, and doutfull lewd dyspayre:

Now blacke and ougly be her thoughts; now seeme they white

and fayre.

As oft in summer tide blacke cloudes do dimme the sonne,
And straight againe in clearest skye his restles steedes do ronne;
So Juliets wandring mind y-clouded is with woe,

And by and by her hasty thought the woes doth overgoe.

But now is tyme to tell, whilst she was tossed thus,

What windes did drive or haven did hold her lover Romeus.
When he had slayne his foe that gan this dedly strife,
And saw the furious fray had ende by ending Tybalts life,
He fled the sharpe revenge of those that yet did live,

And douting much what penal doome the troubled prince might

gyve,

He sought somewhere unseene to lurke a littel space,

And trusty Lawrence secret cell he thought the surest place.

In doutfull happe aye best a trusty frend is tryde;

The frendly frier in this distresse doth graunt his frend to hyde.
A secret place he hath, well seeled round about,

The mouth of which so close is shut, that none may finde it out;
But roome there is to walke, and place to sit and rest,
Beside a bed to sleape upon, full soft, and trimly drest.
The flowre is planked so, with mattes it is so warme,

That neither winde nor smoky damps have powre him ought to harme.

Where he was wont in youth his fayre frends to bestowe,
There now he hydeth Romeus, whilst forth he goth to knowe
Both what is said and donne, and what appoynted payne
Is published by trumpets sound; then home he hyes agayne.
By this unto his cell the nurce with spedy pace

Was comme the nerest way; she sought no ydel resting place.
The fryer sent home the newes of Romeus certain helth,
And promise made (what so befell) he should that night by stelth
Comme to his wonted place, that they in nedefull wise

Of theyr affayres in time to comme might thoroughly devise.
Those joyfull newes the nurce brought home with merry joy;
And now our Juliet joyes to thinke she shall her love enjoy.
The fryer shuts fast his doore, and then to him beneth,
That waytes to heare the doutefull newes of life or else of death.
Thy hap (quoth he) is good, daunger of death is none,
But thou shalt live, and do full well, in spite of spitefull fone.
This only payne for thee was erst proclaymde aloude,

A banishd man, thou mayst thee not within Verona shrowde.
These heavy tidinges heard, his golden lockes he tare,
And like a franticke man hath torne the garments that he ware.
And as the smitten deere in brakes his waltring found,

So waltreth he, and with his brest doth beate the troden grounde.
He riseth eft, and strikes his hed against the wals,

He falleth downe agayne, and lowde for hasty death he cals. "Come spedy death, quoth he, the readiest leache in love, Synce nought can els beneth the sunne the ground of greefe re

move,

Of lothsome life breake downe the hated staggering stayes,
Destroy, destroy at once the life that fayntly yet decayes.
But you, fayre dame, in whom dame Nature did devise

With cunning hand to woorke that might seeme wondrous in our eyes,

For you, I pray the gods, your pleasures to increase,
And all mishap, with this my death, for evermore to cease.
And mighty Jove with speede of justice bring them lowe,
Whose lofty pryde, without our gylt, our blisse doth overblowe,
And Cupid graunt to those theyr spedy wrongs redresse,
That shall bewayle my cruell death and pity her distresse."
Therewith a cloude of sighes he breathd into the skies,
And two great streames of bitter teares ran from his swowlen

eyes.

These thinges the auncient fryer with sorrow saw and heard,
Of such beginning eke the end the wiseman greatly feard.

But lo! he was so weake by reason of his age,

That he ne could by force represse the rigour of his rage.
His wise and friendly woordes he speaketh to the ayre,
For Romeus so vexed is with care, and with dispayre,
That no advice can perce his close forstopped eares,

So now the fryer doth take his part in shedding ruthfull teares.
With colour pale and wan, with arms full hard y-fold,

With wofull cheere his wayling frende he standeth to beholde. And then our Romeus with tender handes y-wrong,

With voyce with plaint made horce, with sobs, and with a faltring

tong,

Renewd with novel mone the dolors of his hart;

His outward dreery cheere bewrayde his store of inward smart, Fyrst Nature did he blame, the author of his lyfe,

In which his joyes had been so scant, and sorowes ay so rife; The time and place of byrth he feersly did reprove,

He cryed out with open mouth against the starres above:

The fatall sisters three, he said, had donne him wrong,

The threed that should not have been sponne, they had drawne forth too long.

He wished that he had before his time been borne,

Or that as soone as he wan light, his lyfe he had forlorne.
His nurce he cursed, and the hand that gave him pappe,

The midwife eke with tender grype that held him in her lappe;
And then did he complaine on Venus cruell sonne,

Who led him first unto the rockes which he should warely shonne:
By meane whereof he lost both lyfe and libertie,

And dyed a hundred times a day, and yet could never dye.
Loves troubles lasten long, the joyes he gives are short;
He forceth not a lovers payne, theyr ernest is his sport.
A thousand thinges and more I here let passe to write
Which unto love this wofull man dyd speake in great despite.
On Fortune eke he raylde, he calde her deafe, and blynde,
Unconstant, fond, deceitfull, rashe, unruthfull, and unkynd.
And to himselfe he layd a great part of the falt,

For that he slewe and was not slaine, in fighting with Tibalt.
He blamed all the world, and all he did defye,

But Juliet for whom he lived, for whom eke would he dye.
When after raging fits appeased was his rage,

And when his passions, powred forth, gan partly to asswage,
So wisely did the fryre unto his tale replye,

That he straight cared for his life, that erst had care to dye.
"Art thou (quoth he) a man? thy shape saith, so thou art;
Thy crying, and thy weeping eyes denote a womans hart.
For manly reason is quite from of thy mynd out-chased,
And in her stead affections lewd and fancies highly placed:
So that I stoode in doute, this howre at the least,

If thou a man or woman wert, or els a brutish beast.

A wise man in the midst of troubles and distres

Still standes not wayling present harme, but seekes his harmes redres.

As when the winter flawes with dredful noyse arise,
And heave the fomy swelling waves up to the stary skyes,
So that the broosed barke in cruell seas betost,

Dispayreth of the happy haven, in daunger to be lost,

The pylate bold at helme, cryes, mates strike now your sayle,
And tornes her stemme into the waves that strongly her assayle;
Then driven hard upon the bare and wrackefull shore,
In greater daunger to be wrackt than he had been before,
He seeth his ship full right against the rocke to ronne,

But yet he dooth what lyeth in him the perlous rocke to shonne;
Sometimes the beaten boate, by cunning government,
The ancors lost, the cables broke, and all the tackle spent,
The roder smitten of, and over-boord the mast,

Doth win the long-desyred porte, the stormy daunger past:
But if the master dread, and overprest with woe

Begin to wring his handes, and lets the gyding rodder goe,
The ship rents on the rocke, or sinketh in the deepe,

And eke the coward drenched is :-So, if thou still beweepe
And seke not how to helpe the chaunges that do chaunce,
Thy cause of sorow shall increase, thou cause of thy mischaunce
Other account thee wise, prove not thyself a foole;

Now put in practise lessons learned of old in wisdome's schoole.
The wise man saith, beware thou double not thy payne,
For one perhaps thou mayst abyde, but hardly suffer twaine.
As well we ought to seeke thinges hurtfull to decrease,
As to indevor helping thinges by study to increase.

The prayse of trew fredom in wisdomes bondage lyes,
He winneth blame whose deedes be fonde, although his woords

be wise.

Sicknes the bodies gayle, greefe, gayle is of the mynd;

If thou canst scape from heavy greefe, true freedome shalt thou

finde.

Fortune can fill nothing so full of hearty greefe,

But in the same a constant mynd finds solace and releefe.

Vertue is alwaies thrall to troubles and annoye,

But wisdom in adversitie findes cause of quiet joye.
And they most wretched are that know no wretchednes,
And after great extremity mishaps ay waxen lesse.
Like as there is no weale but wastes away somtime,
So every kynd of wayled woe will weare away in time.
If thou wilt master quite the troubles that thee spill,
Endeavor first by reasons help to master witles will.
A sondry medson hath eche sondry faynt disease,

But patience, a common salve, to every wound geves ease.
The world is alway full of chaunces and of chaunge,

Wherefore the chaunge of chaunce must not seem to a wise man

straunge.

For tickel Fortune doth, in chaunging, but her kind,

But all her chaunges cannot chaunge a steady constant mynd. Though wavering Fortune toorne from thee her smyling face, And sorow seke to set himselfe in banishd pleasures place,

VOL. XII.

Yet may thy marred state be mended in a whyle,

And she eftsones that frowneth now, with pleasant cheere shall

smyle.

For as her happy state no long while standeth sure,

Even so the heavy plight she brings, not alwayes doth endure.
What nede so many words to thee that art so wyse?
Thou better canst advise thyselfe, then 1 can thee advise.
Wisdome, I see, is vayne, if thus in time of neede

A wisemans wit unpractised doth stand him in no steede.
I know thou hast some cause of sorow and of care,
But well I wot thou hast no cause thus frantickly to fare.
Affections foggy mist thy febled sight doth blynd;

But if that reasons beames againe might shine into thy mynd,
If thou wouldst view thy state with an indifferent eye,

I thinke thou wouldst condemne thy plaint, thy sighing, and thy

crye.

With valiant hand thou madest thy foe yeld up his breth,
Thou hast escaped his sword and eke the lawes that threaten
death.

By thy escape thy frendes are fraughted full of joy,
And by his death thy deadly foes are laden with annoy.
Wilt thou with trusty frendes of pleasure take some part?
Or els to please thy hatefuli foes be partner of theyr smart?
Why cryest thou out on love? why dost thou blame thy fate?
Why dost thou so crye after death? thy life why dost thou hate?
Dost thou repent the choyse that thou so late dydst choose?
Love is thy lord; thou oughtst obey and not thy prince accuse.
For thou hast found, thou knowest, great favour in his sight,
He graunted thee, at thy request, thy onely harts delight.
So that the gods invyde the blisse thou livedst in;
To geve to such unthankfull men is folly and a sin.
Methinke I hear thee say, the cruell banishment
Is onely cause of thy unrest; onely thou dost lament
That from thy natife land and frendes thou must depart,
Enforsd to flye from her that hath the keping of thy hart:
And so opprest with waight of smart that thou dost feele,
Thou dost complaine of Cupids brand, and Fortunes turning
wheele.

Unto a valiant hart there is no banyshment,

All countreys are his native soyle beneath the firmament.

As to the fish the sea, as to the fowle the ayre,

So is like pleasant to the wise eche place of his repayre.

Though forward fortune chase thee hence into exile,

With doubled honor shall she call thee home within a while.
Admit thou shouldst abyde abrode a year or twayne,

Should so short absence cause so long and eke so greevous payne?
Though thou ne mayst thy frendes here in Verona see,
They are not banishd Mantua, where safely thou mayst be.
Thether they may resort, though thou resort not hether,
And there in suretie may you talke of your affayres together.
Yea, but this while, alas! thy Juliet must thou misse,
The only piller of thy health, and ancor of thy blisse.