Ben. Haue you importun'd him by any meanes? Moun. Both by my selfe and many other Friends, But he his owne affections counseller, Is to himselfe (I will not say how true) But to himselfe so secret and so close, So farre from sounding and discouery, As is the bud bit with an enuious worme, Ere he can spread his sweete leaues to the ayre, Or dedicate his beauty to the same. Could we but learne from whence his sorrowes grow, We would as willingly giue cure, as know. Enter Romeo.

Ben. See where he comes, so please you step aside, Ile know his greeuance, or be much denide

Moun. I would thou wert so happy by thy stay, To heare true shrift. Come Madam let's away.

Exeunt.

Ben. Good morrow Cousin

Rom. Is the day so young? Ben. But new strooke nine

Rom. Aye me, sad houres seeme long: Was that my Father that went hence so fast? Ben. It was: what sadnes lengthens Romeo's houres? Ro. Not hauing that, which hauing, makes them short Ben. In loue

Romeo. Out

Ben. Of loue

Rom. Out of her fauour where I am in loue

Ben. Alas that loue so gentle in his view, Should be so tyrannous and rough in proofe

Rom. Alas that loue, whose view is muffled still, Should without eyes, see path-wayes to his will: Where shall we dine? O me: what fray was heere? Yet tell me not, for I haue heard it all: Heere's much to do with hate, but more with loue: Why then, O brawling loue, O louing hate, O any thing, of nothing first created: O heauie lightnesse, serious vanity, Mishapen Chaos of welseeming formes, Feather of lead, bright smoake, cold fire, sicke health, Still waking sleepe, that is not what it is: This loue feele I, that feele no loue in this. Doest thou not laugh? Ben. No Coze, I rather weepe

Rom. Good heart, at what? Ben. At thy good hearts oppression

Rom. Why such is loues transgression. Griefes of mine owne lie heauie in my breast, Which thou wilt propagate to haue it preast With more of thine, this loue that thou hast showne, Doth adde more griefe, to too much of mine owne. Loue, is a smoake made with the fume of sighes, Being purg'd, a fire sparkling in Louers eyes, Being vext, a Sea nourisht with louing teares, What is it else? a madnesse, most discreet, A choking gall, and a preseruing sweet: Farewell my Coze

Ben. Soft I will goe along. And if you leaue me so, you do me wrong

Rom. Tut I haue lost my selfe, I am not here, This is not Romeo, hee's some other where

Ben. Tell me in sadnesse, who is that you loue? Rom. What shall I grone and tell thee? Ben. Grone, why no: but sadly tell me who

Rom. A sicke man in sadnesse makes his will: A word ill vrg'd to one that is so ill: In sadnesse Cozin, I do loue a woman

Ben. I aym'd so neare, when I suppos'd you lou'd

Rom. A right good marke man, and shee's faire I loue Ben. A right faire marke, faire Coze, is soonest hit

Rom. Well in that hit you misse, sheel not be hit With Cupids arrow, she hath Dians wit: And in strong proofe of chastity well arm'd: From loues weake childish Bow, she liues vncharm'd. Shee will not stay the siege of louing tearmes, Nor bid th' encounter of assailing eyes. Nor open her lap to Sainct-seducing Gold: O she is rich in beautie, onely poore, That when she dies, with beautie dies her store

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