Imagens da página
PDF
ePub

Who, nothing hurt withal, hiss’d him in scorn :
While we were interchanging thrusts and blows,
Came more and more, and fought on part and part,
Till the prince came, who parted either part.
La. Mon. O, where is Romeo !-saw you him to-

day?
Right glad I am, he was not at this frav.

Ben. Madam, an hour before the worshipp'd sun
Peer'd forth the golden window of the east,
A troubled mind drave me to walk abroad;
Where,-underneath the grove of sycamore,
That westward rooteth from the city's side,–
So early walking did I see your son:
Towards him I made; but he was 'ware of me,
And stole into the covert of the wood :
I, measuring his affections by my own,-
That most are busied when they are most alone,
Pursu'd my humour, not pursuing his,
And gladly shunn'd who gladly Aed from me.

Mon. Many a morning hath he there been seen,
With tears augmenting the fresh morning's dew,
Adding to clouds more clouds with his deep sighs:
But all so soon as the all-cheering sun
Should in the furthest east begin to draw
The shady curtains from Aurora's bed,
Away from light steals home my heavy son,
And private in his chamber pens himself;
Shuts up his windows, locks fair day-light out,
And makes himself an artificial night:
Black and portentous must this humour prove,
Unless good counsel may the cause remove.

Ben. My noble uncle, do you know the cause ?

Mon. I neither know it, nor can learn of him.
Ben. Have you importun’d him by any means ?
Mon. Both by myself, and many other friends :
But he, his own affections' counsellor,
Is to himself—I will not say, how true-
But to himself so secret and so close,
So far from sounding and discovery,
As is the bud bit with an envious worm,
Ere he can spread his sweet leaves to the air,
Or dedicate his beauty to the sun.
Could we but learn from whence his sorrows grow,
We would as willingly give cure, as know.

Enter Romeo, at a distance. Ben. See, where he comes : So please you, step aside ; I'll know his grievance, or be much denied.

Mon. I would, thou wert so happy by thy stay, To hear true shrift.—Come, madam, let's away.

[Ereunt MontagUE and Lady. Ben. Good morrow, cousin. Rom. Is the day so young? Ben. But new struck nine.

Rom. Ah me! sad hours seem long. Was that my father, that went hence so fast ? Ben. It was :- What sadness lengthens Romeo's

hours : Rom. Not having that, which, having, makes them

short.
Ben. In love?
Rom. Out-
Ben. Of love?
Rom. Out of her favour, where I am in love.

Ben. Alas, that love, so gentle in his view, Should be so tyrannous and rough in proof!

Rom. 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 any thing, 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?

Ben. No, coz, I rather weep.
Rom. Good heart, at what?
Ben. At thy good heart's oppression.

Rom. 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. Ben. Soft, I will go along; An if you leave me so, you do me wrong.

Rom. Tut, I have lost myself; I am not here;

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

Ben. Tell me in sadness, who she is you love.
Rom. What, shall I groan, and tell thee?

Ben. Groan ? why, no;
But sadly tell me, who.

Rom. 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.

Ben. I aim'd so near, when I suppos'd you lov'd.
Rom. A right good marks-man !-And she's fair I

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

Rom. 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 the encounter of assailing eyes, Nor ope her lap to saint-seducing gold : O, she is rich in beauty ; only poor, That, when she dies, with beauty dies her store. Ben. Then she hath sworn, that she will still live

chaste ?
Rom. She hath, and in that spring 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 bless by making me despair :
She hath forsworn to love; and, in that vow,
Do I live dead, that live to tell it now.

Ben. Be rul’d by me, forget to think of her.
Rom. O, teach me how I should forget to think.

Ben. By giving liberty unto thine eyes ;
Examine other beauties.

Rom. 'Tis the way
To call hers, exquisite, in question more :
These happy masks, that kiss fair ladies' brows,
Being black, put 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.
Ben. I'll pay that doctrine, or else die in debt.

[Exeunt.

SCENE II.--A Street.

Enter CAPULET, Paris, and Servant.
Cap. And 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.

Par. 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?

Cap. 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..

Par. Younger than she are happy mothers made.
Cap. And too soon marr'd are those so early made.

« AnteriorContinuar »