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you blew ?
So wholy into thine transformed is my hart,
Ah Juliet, (quoth he) the mistres of my hart, For whom, even now, thy servant doth abyde in dedly smart, Even for the happy dayes which thou desyrest to see, And for the fervent frendships sake that thou dost owe to mee, At once these fansies vayne out of thy mynd roote out, Escept, perhaps, unto thy blame, thou fondly go about To basien forth my death, and to thine owne to ronne, Which Natures law and wisdoms lore teach every wight to shonne. For, but thou change thy mynde, (I do foretell the end) Thou shalt undoo thyselfe for aye, and me thy trusty frend. For why ?-thy absence knowne, thy father will be wroth, And in his rage so narowly he will pursue us both, That we shall trye in vayne to scape away by flight, And vainely seeke a loorking place to hyde us from his sight. Then we, found out and caught, quite voyde of strong defence, Shall cruelly be punished for thy departure hence; I as a ravisher, thou as a careles childe, I as a man that doth defile, thou as a mayde defilde; Thinking to lead in ease a long contented life, Shall short our dayes by shamefull death:--but my loving wife,
Thou banish from thy mynde two foes that counsell bath, (That wont to hinder sound advise) rasbe bastines and wrath ;
If thou be bent to obey the love of reasons skill,
smart. For of this one thyng thou mayst well assured bee, That nothing els but onely death shall sunder me from thee.”. The reasons that he made did seeme of so great waight, And had with her such force, that she to him gan aunswere
straight : “ Deere Syr, nought els wish I but to obey your will; But sure where so you go, your hart with me shall tarry still, As signe and certaine pledge, lyll here I shall you see, Of all the powre that over you yourselfe did graunt to me; And in his stead take myne, the gage of my good will.One promesse crave I at your hand, that graunt me to fulfill; Fayle not to let me have, at fryer Lawrence hand, The tydinges of your health, and howe your doutfull case shall.
stand. And all the wery whyle that you shall spend abrode, Cause me from time to time to know the place of your abode." His eyes did gush out teares, a sigh brake from his brest, When he did graunt and with an othe did vowe to kepe the hest.
Thus these two lovers passe awaye the wery night, In payne and plaint, not as they wont, in pleasure and delight. But now, somewhat too soone, in farthest east arose Fayre Lucifer, the golden starre tbas lady Venus chose ;
Whose course appoynted is with spedy race to ronne,
The wery watch discharged did hye them home to slepe, The warders, and the skowtes were charged theyr place and
course to kepe, And Verone gates awide the porters had set open. When Romeus had of hys affayres with fryer Lawrence spoken, Warely he walked forth, unknowne of frend or foe, Clad like a merchant venterer, from top even to the toe. He spurd apace, and came, withouten stoppe or stay, To Mantua gates, where lighted downe, he sent his man away With woordes of comfort to his old afflicted syre; And straight, in mynde to sojourne there, a lodging doth he hyre, And with the nobler sort he doth himselfe acquaynt, And he of his open wrong receaved the duke doth heare his playnt. He practiseth by frendes for pardon of exile ; The whilst, he seeketh every way his sorowes to begyle. But who forgets the cole that burneth in bis brest ? Alas! bis cares denye his hart the sweete desyred rest; No time findes he of myrth, he fyndes no place of joy, But every thing occasion gives of sorowe and annoye. For when in toorning skies the heavens lamps are light, And from the other hemisphere fayre Phæbus chaseth night, When every man and beast hath rest from paynefull toyle, Then in the brest of Romeus his passions gin to boyle. Then doth he wet with teares the cowche whereon he lyes, And then bis sighs the chaumber fill, and out aloude he cries Against the restles starres in rolling skies that raunge, Against the fatall sisters three, and Fortune full of chaunge,
Eche night a thousand times he calleth for the day,
joye? But if with heavy cheere they shew their inward greefe, He wayleth most bis wretchednes that is of wretches cheefe. When he doth heare abrode the prayse of ladies blowne, Within his thought he scorneth them, and doth prefer bis owne. When pleasant songes he heares, wheile others do rejoyce, The melodye of musicke doth styrre up his mourning voyce. But if in secret place he walke some where alone, The place itselfe and secretnes redoubleth all his mone. Then speakes he to the beastes, to feathered fowles and trees, Unto the earth, the cloudes, and what so beside he sees. To them he sheweth his smart, as though they reason had, Eche thing may cause his heavines, but nought may make him
glad. And wery of the world agayne he calleth night, The sunne he curseth, and the howre when first his eyes saw light. And as the night and day theyr course do enterchaunge, So doth our Romeus nightly cares for cares of day exchaunge.
In absence of her knight the lady no way could Kepe trewce betweene her greefes and her, though nere so fayne
she would ; And though with greater payne she cloked sorowes smart, Yet did her paled face disclose the passions of her hart. Her sighing every howre, her weeping every where, Her recheles heede of meate, of slepe, and wearing of her geare. The carefull mother markes; then of her helth afrayde, Because the greefes increased still, thus to her chili she sayde: “ Deere daughter, if you shoulde long languishe in this sort, I stand in doute that over-soone your sorowes will make short Your loving father's life and myne, that love you more Than our owne propre breth and lyfe. Brydel henceforth therefore Your greefe and payne, yourselfe on joy your thought to set, For time it is that now you should our Tybalts death forget. Of whom since God hath claymd the life that was but lent, He is in blisse, ne is there cause why you should thus lament; You cannot call him backe with teares and shrikinges shrill: It is a falt thus still to grudge at Gods appoynted will." The seely soule hath now no longer powre to fayne, No longer could she hide her harme, but aunswered thus agayne, With heavy broken sighes, with visage pale and ded: “Madame, the last of Tybalts teares a great while since I shed;
Whose spring hath been ere this so laded out by me,
bryne. The wofull mother knew not what her daughter ment, And loth to vexe her chylde by woordes, her pace she warely
hent. But when from howre to howre, from morow to the morow, Still more and more she saw increast her daughters wonted sor
row, All meanes she sought of her and houshold folke to know The certain roote whereon her greefe and booteless mone doth
growe. But lo, she hath in vayne her time and labor lore, Wherefore without all measure is her hart tormented sore. And sith herselfe could not fynde out the cause of care, She thought it good to tell tbe syre how ill this childe did fare. And when she saw her ime, thus to her feere she sayde: “Syr, if you marke our daughter well, the countenance of the
mayde, And how she fareth since that Tybalt unto death Before his time, forst by his foe, did yeld his living breath, Her tace shall seeme so chaunged, her doynges eke so straunge, That you will greatly wonder at so great and sodain chaunge. Not onely she forbeares her meate, her drinke, and sleepe, But now she tendeth nothing els but to lament and weepe. No greater joy hath sbe, nothing contents her hart So much, as in the chaumber close to shut herselfe apart: Where she doth so torment her poore afflicted mynde, That much in daunger standes her lyfe, except some help she
finde. But, out alas ! I see not how it may be founde, Unlesse that fyrst we might fynd whence her sorowes thus
abounde. For though with busy care I have employde my wit, And used all the wayes I have to learne the truth of it, Neither extremitie ne gentle meanes could boote; She hydeth close within her brest her secret sorowes roote. This was my fyrst conceite,-that all her ruth arose Out of her coosin Tybalts death, late slayne of dedly foes. But now my hart doth hold a new repugnant thought; Somme greater thing, not Tybalts death, this chaunge in her hath
wrought. Her selfe assured me that many days agoe She shed the last of Tybalts teares; which words amasd me so That I then could not gesse what thing els might her greeve: But now at length I have bethought me; and I do beleve The only crop and roote of all my daughters payne Is grudging envies faynt disease; perhaps she doth disdayne To see in wedlocke yoke the most part of her feeres, Whilst only she unmarried doth lose so many yeres,