Page:Romeo and Juliet (The Illustrated Shakespeare, 1847).djvu/14



1 Cit. Clubs, bills, and partisans! strike! beat them down! Down with the Capulets! down with the Montagues!

Cap. What noise is this?—Give me my long sword, ho!

''La. Cap.'' A crutch, a crutch!—Why call you for a sword?

Cap. My sword, I say!—Old Montague is come, And flourishes his blade in spite of me.

Mon. Thou villain Capulet!—Hold me not; let me go.

''La. Mon.'' Thou shalt not stir one foot to seek a foe.

Prin. Rebellious subjects, enemies to peace, Profaners of this neighbour-stained steel— Will they not hear?—what ho! you men, you beasts, That quench the fire of your pernicious rage With purple fountains issuing from your veins, On pain of torture, from those bloody hands Throw your mis–temper'd weapons to the ground, And hear the sentence of your moved prince.— Three civil brawls, bred of an airy word, By thee, old Capulet, and Montague, Have thrice disturb'd the quiet of our streets; And made Verona's ancient citizens Cast by their grave beseeming ornaments, To wield old partisans, in hands as old, Canker'd with peace, to part your canker'd hate. If ever you disturb our streets again, Your lives shall pay the forfeit of the peace: For this time, all the rest depart away. You Capulet, shall go along with me; And, Montague, come you this afternoon, To know our further pleasure in this case, To old Free-town, our common judgment-place. Once more, on pain of death, all men depart.

Mon. Who set this ancient quarrel new abroach? Speak, nephew, were you by when it began?

Ben. Here were the servants of your adversary, And yours, close fighting ere I did approach. I drew to part them: in the instant came The fiery Tybalt, with his sword prepar'd; Which, as he breath'd defiance to my ears, He swung about his head, and cut the winds, 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 fray.

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, Which then most sought, where most might not be found, Being one too many by my weary self, Pursu'd my humour, not pursuing his, And gladly shunn'd who gladly fled 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 the light steals home my heavy son, And private in his chamber pens himself; Shuts up his windows, locks fair daylight 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.

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.

Ben. Good morrow, cousin.

Rom.

Ben. But new struck nine.

Rom. 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 created! 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.

Rom. Good heart, at what?