Jul. Romeo, Romeo, O for a falkners voice, To lure is taffell gentle backe againe : Bondage is hoarfe and may not crie aloud, Els would I teare the caue where eccho lies And make her airie voice as hoarfe as mine, With repetition of my Romeos name. Romeo? Ro. It is my foule that calles vpon my name, How filuer fweet found louers tongues in night. Iul. Romeo? Ro. Madame. Iul. At what a clocke to morrow shall I fend? Iul. I will not faile, tis twentie yeares till then. Rom. And Il'e stay still to haue thee still forget, Iu. Tis almoft morning I would haue thee gone, Rom. Would I were thy bird. Iul. Sweet fo would I, Yet I fhould kill thee with much cherrifhing thee. Rom. Sleepe dwell vpon thine eyes, peace on thy breast, His help to craue, and my good hap to tell. Enter Enter frier Francis. Frier. The gray ey'd morne smiles on the frowning night, With balefull weeds, and precious iuyced flowers, In hearbes, plants, ftones, and their true qualities: Nor nought fo good, but ftraind from that faire vfc, Vertue it felfe turnes vice being mifapplied, And vice fometimes by action dignified. Within the infant rinde of this fmall flower, Poyfon hath refidence, and medecine power: For this being fmelt too, with that part cheares ech hart, Two fuch oppofed foes incampe them still, In man as well as herbes, grace and rude will, And where the worfer is predominant, Full foone the canker death eats vp that plant. Rom. Good morrow to my ghoftly confeffor. Fri. Benedicite, what earlie tongue fo foone faluteth me? Yong fonne it argues a diftempered head, So foone to bid good morrow to my bed. Care keepes his watch in euerie old mans eye, Doth couch his limmes, there golden fleepe remaines : There Therefore thy earlines doth me affure, Our Romeo hath not bin a bed to night. Ro. The laft was true, the fweeter reft was mine. Ro. With Rofaline my ghoftly father no, I haue forgot that name, and that names woe. Fri. Thats my good fonne: but where haft thou bin then? Ro. I tell thee ere thou afke it me againe, I haue bin feasting with mine enemie : Frier. Be plaine my fonne and homely in thy drift, Rom. Then plainely know my harts deare loue is fet On the faire daughter of rich Capulet : As mine on hers, fo hers likewife on mine, That thou confent to marrie vs to day. Fri. Holy S. Francis, what a change is here? The The funne not yet thy fighes from heauen cleares, Fr. For doating, not for louing, pupill mine, Fr. Not in a graue, To lay one in another out to have. Rom. I pree thee chide not, the whom I loue now Fr. Oh fhe knew well Thy loue did read by rote, and could not spell. For this alliaunce may fo happie proue, To turne your houfholds rancour to pure loue. Enter Mercutio, Benuolio. Exeunt. Mer. Why whats become of Romeo? came he not home to night? Ben. Not to his fathers, I fpake with his man. Mer. Ah that fame pale hard hearted wench, that Rofaline, Torments him fo, that he will fure run mad. Mer. Tybalt, the kinfman of olde Capelet Hath fent a letter to his fathers house: Some challenge on my life. Ben. Romeo will anfwere it. Mer. Mer. I, anie man that can write may answere a letter. Ben. Nay he will anfwere the letters mafter if hee bee chalenged. Mer. Who, Romeo? why he is alreadie dead: ftabd with a white wenches blacke eye, fhot thorough the eare with a loue fong, the verie pinne of his heart cleft with the blinde bowboyes but-fhaft. And is he a man to encounter Tybalt? Ben. Why what is Tybalt? Mer. More than the prince of cattes I can tell you. Oh he is the couragious captaine of complements. Catfo, he fightes as you fing pricke-song, keepes time dystance and proportion, refts me his minum rest one two and the thirde in your bosome, the very butcher of a filken button, a duellist a duellist, a gentleman of the very first houfe of the first and fecond cause, ah the immortall paffado, the punto reuerfo, the hay. Ben. The what? Me. The poxe of fuch limping antique affecting fantasticoes these new tuners of accents. By Iefu a very good blade, a very tall man, a very good whoore. Why graundfir is not this a miserable cafe that we should be ftil afflicted with these ftrange flies: thefe fashionmongers, thefe pardonmees, that ftand fo much on the new forme, that they cannot fitte at eafe on the old bench. Oh their bones, theyr bones. Ben. Heere comes Romeo. Mer. Without his roe, like a dryed hering. O flesh flesh how art thou fishified. Sirra now is he for the numbers that Petrarch flowdin: Laura to his lady was but a kitchin drudg, yet she had a better loue to berime her: Dido a dowdy Cleopatra a gypsie, Hero and Helen hildings and harletries: Thifbie a gray eye or fo, but not to the purpose. Signior Romeo bon jour, there is a French curtefie to your French flop: yee gaue vs the counterfeit fairely yefternight. Rom. What counterfeit I pray you? Me. The flip the flip, can you not conceiue? Rom. |