Shakespeare's Tragedy of Romeo and Juliet. William Shakespeare

to my ears,

      He swung about his head and cut the winds,

      Who, nothing hurt withal, hiss'd him in scorn.

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      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.

      Lady Montague. O, where is Romeo? saw you him to-day?

      Right glad I am he was not at this fray.

      Benvolio. 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,

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      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,

      Pursued my humour, not pursuing his,

      And gladly shunn'd who gladly fled from me.

      Montague. Many a morning hath he there been seen,

      With tears augmenting the fresh morning's dew,

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      Adding to clouds more clouds with his deep sighs;

      But all so soon as the all-cheering sun

      Should in the farthest 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 daylight out,

      And makes himself an artificial night.

      Black and portentous must this humour prove,

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      Unless good counsel may the cause remove.

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

      Montague. I neither know it nor can learn of him.

      Benvolio. Have you importun'd him by any means?

      Montague. 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

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      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

      Benvolio. See, where he comes! So please you, step aside;

      I'll know his grievance or be much denied.

      Montague. I would thou wert so happy by thy stay

      To hear true shrift.—Come, madam, let's away.

      [Exeunt Montague and Lady.

      Benvolio. Good morrow, cousin.

      Romeo. Is the day so young?

      Benvolio. But new struck nine.

      Romeo. Ay me! sad hours seem long.

      Was that my father that went hence so fast?

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      Benvolio. It was. What sadness lengthens Romeo's hours?

      Romeo. Not having that which, having, makes them short.

      Benvolio. In love?

      Romeo. Out—

      Benvolio. Of love?

      Romeo. Out of her favour where I am in love.

      Benvolio. Alas, that love, so gentle in his view,

      Should be so tyrannous and rough in proof!

      Romeo. 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?

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      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!

      Misshapen 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?

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      Benvolio. No, coz, I rather weep.

      Romeo. Good heart, at what?

      Benvolio. At thy good heart's oppression.

      Romeo. 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.

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      What is it else? a madness most discreet,

      A choking gall, and a preserving sweet.

      Farewell, my coz.

      Benvolio. Soft! I will go along;

      An if you leave me so, you do me wrong.

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

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

      Benvolio. Tell me in sadness who is that you love.

      Romeo. What, shall I groan and tell thee?

      Benvolio. Groan! why, no,

      But sadly tell me who.

      Romeo. Bid a sick man in sadness make his will;

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      Ah, word ill urg'd to one that is so ill!

      In sadness, cousin,