Page:Romeo and Juliet (The Illustrated Shakespeare, 1847).djvu/15



Ben.

Rom. Why, such is love's transgression.- Griefs of mine own lie heavy in my breast; Which thou wilt propagate, to have it presse'd With more of thine: this love, that thou hast shown, Doth add more grief to too much of mine own. Love is a smoke, made with the fume of sighs; Being purg'd, a fire sparkling in lovers' eyes; Being vex'd, a sea nourish'd with lover's tears: What is it else? a madness most discreet, A choking gall, and a preserving sweet. Farewell, my coz.

Ben. Soft, I will go along: And 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 is it that you love.

Rom. What! shall I groan, and tell thee?

Ben But sadly tell me, who.

Rom. Bid a sick man in sadness make his will; A 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 mark-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 th' 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 sparing 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 bliss by making me despair: She hath forsworn to love, and in that vow Do I live dead, that live it 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. To call her's, 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 stricken 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.