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Then fhe with flender hand his tender palm hath preft;
What joy, trow you, was graffed fo in Romeus' cloven breft?
The fodayne fweet delight hath stopped quite his tong,
Ne can he clame of her his right, ne crave redreffe of wrong.
But fhe efpyd ftraight waye, by chaunging of his hewe
From pale to red, from red to pale, and fo from pale anewe,
That vehment love was caufe why fo his tong did stay,

And fo much more the longd to heare what Love could teach him faye.

When he had longed long, and he long held his peace,

And her defyre of hearing him by fylence did increafe,
At last, with trembling voyce and fhamefaft chere, the mayde
Unto her Romeus tournde her felfe, and thus to him the fayde;
"O bleffed be the time of thy arrivall here!

But ere fhe could fpeake forth the reft, to her Love drewe so nere,
And fo within her mouth her tongue he glewed fast,

That no one woord could fcape her more then what already past.
In great contented eafe the yong man ftraight is rapt:

What chaunce (quoth he) unware to me, O lady mine, is hapt :
That geves you worthy caufe my cumming here to bleffe
Fayre Juliet was come agayne unto her felfe by this;

Fyrft ruthfully the lookd, then fayd with fmyling chere:
"Mervayle no whit, my hearte's delight, my only knight and

Mercutio's yfy hand had all to frofen myne,

And of thy goodness thou againe haft warmed it with thyne."
Whereto with stayed brow gan Romeus replye:

"If fo the Gods have graunted me fuche favor from the skye,
That by my being here fome fervice I have donne
That pleaseth you, I am as glad as I a realme had wonne.
O wel-bestowed tyme that hath the happy hyre,

Which I woulde with if I might have my wished hart's defire!
For I of God woulde crave, as pryfe of paynes forpast,
To ferve, obey, and honor you, fo long as lyfe fhall laft:
As proofe fall teache you playne, if that you like to trye
His faltles truth, that nill for ought unto his lady lye.
But if my touched hand have warmed yours fome dele,
Affure your felfe the heate is colde which in your hand you fele,
Compard to fuche quicke fparks and glowing furious gleade,
As from your bewtie's pleafant eyne Love caufed to proceade;
Which have so set on fyre eche feling part of myne,

That lo! my mynde doeth melt awaye, my utward parts do pyne.
And, but you helpe all whole, to afhes fhall I toorne ;

Wherefore, alas! have ruth on him, whom you do force to


Even with his ended tale, the torches daunce had ende, And Juliet of force muft part from her new-chofen friend."

His hand fhe clafped hard, and all her partes dyd flake,
When layfureles with whispring voyce thus did she aunfwer


"You are no more your owne, deare frend, then I am yours; My honour favd, preft tobey your will, while life endures." Lo! here the lucky lot that fild true lovers finde,

Eche takes away the other's hart, and leaves the owne behinde.
A happy life is love, if God graunt from above

That hart with hart by even waight do make exchaunge of love.
But Romeus gone from her, his hart for care is colde;
He hath forgot to ask her name, that hath his hart in holde.
With forged careles chere, of one he feekes to knowe,

Both how the hight, and whence the camme, that him enchaunted fo.

So hath he learnd her name, and knowth fhe is no geaft,
Her father was a Capilet, and master of the feast.

Thus hath his foe in choyce to geve him life or death,
That scarcely can his wofull breft keepe in the lively breath.
Wherefore with piteous plaint feerce Fortune doth he blame,
That in his ruth and wretched plight doth feeke her laughing


And he reproveth love cheefe caufe of his unreft,

Who ease and freedome hath exilde out of his youthfull breft:
Twife hath he made him serve, hopeles of his rewarde:

Of both the ylles to choose the leffe, I weene, the choyse were harde.

Fyrst to a ruthles one he made him fue for grace,

And now with fpurre he forceth him to ronne an endles race.
Amid these stormy feas one ancor doth him holde,

He ferveth not a cruel one, as he had done of olde;
And therefore is content and chooseth still to serve,

Though hap fhould fweare that guerdonles the wretched wight should sterve.

The lot of Tantalus is, Romeus, like to thine;

For want of foode, amid his foode, the myfer still doth pyne.
As carefull was the mayde what way were beft devise,
To learne his name that entertaind her in fo gentle wife;
Of whom her heart receivd fo depe, fo wyde, a wound.
An ancient dame the calde to her, and in her eare gan rounde :
(This old dame in her youth had nurft her with her mylke,
With flender needle taught her fow, and how to spyn with fylke.)
What twayne are thofe, quoth fhe, which preafe unto the doore,
Whose pages in their hand do beare two torches light before?
And then, as each of them had of his houshold name,
So fhe him nam'd.-Yet once again the young and wyly dame----
"And tell me who is he with vyfor in his hand,

That yonder dooth in masking weede befyde the window ftand."


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His name is Romeus, faid fhee, a Montegewe,

Whofe father's pryde first styrde the stryfe which both your hous holds rewe.

The word of Montegew her joyes did overthrow,

And ftraight instead of happy hope defpayre began to growe.
What hap have I, quoth the, to love my father's foe?
What am I weary of my wele? what, doe I wish my woe ?
But though her grevoufe paynes diftraind her tender hart,
Yet with an outward fhow of joye the cloked inward smart ;
And of the courtlike dames her leave fo courtely tooke.
That none did geffe the fodein change by changing of her looke.
Then at her mother's heft to chamber fhe her hyed,

So wel the faynde, mother ne nors the hidden harme descride.
But when she shoulde have flept as wont the was in bed,
Not half a wynke of quyet flepe could harber in her hed;
For loc an hugy heape of divers thoughtes arife,

That reft have banisht from her hart, and flumber from her eyes.
And now from fyde to fyde the toffeth and fhe turnes.
And now for feare the fhevereth, and now for love she burnes.
And now the lykes her choyce, and now her choyce the blames,
And now eche houre within her head a thousand fanfyes frames.
Sometime in mynde to stop amyd her courfe begonne,

Sometime the vowes, what fo betyde, thattempted race to ronne.
Thus danger's dred and love within the maiden fought;
The fight was feerfe, continuying long by their contrary thought.
In tourning mafe of love fhe wandereth too and fro,

Then standeth doubtful what to doo; laft, overpreft with woe,
How fo her fanfies ceafe, her teares did never blin,

With heavy chcere and wringed hands thus doth her plaint begin.
"Ah filly foole, quoth fhe, y-cought in foottill fnare!

Ah wretched wench, be warpt in woe! ah caytife clad with

Whence come thefe wandring thoughts to thy unconftant brest,
By ftraying thus from raifon's lore, that reve thy wonted rest ?
What if his futtel brayne to fayne have taught his tong,
And fo the fnake that lurkes in graffe thy tender hart hath stong ?
What if with friendly fpeache the traitor lye in wayte,
As oft the poyfond hooke is hid, wrapt in the pleafant bayte?
Oft under cloke of truth hath Falfhood ferv'd her luft;

And toorn'd their honor into shame, that did fo flightly trust.
What was not Dido fo, a crowned queene, defamd? .

And eke, for fuch an heynous cryme, have men not Thefeus

blamd ?.

A thousand stories more, to teache me to beware,

In Boccace and in Ovid's bookes too plainely written are.
Perhaps, the great revenge he cannot woorke by ftrength,

By futtel fleight (my honour staynd), he hopes to woorke at length.


So fhall I fecke to find my father's foe, his game,

So (I defylde) Report fall take her trompe of black defame,
Whence the with puffed checke fhall blowe a blast fo thrill
Of my difprayfe, that with the noyfe Verona fhall fhe fill.
Then I, a laughing stocke through all the towne becomme,
Shall hide my felfe, but not my flame, within an hollow toombe."
Straight underneath her foote fhe treadeth in the dust

Her troublefom thought, as wholy vaine, y-bred of fond distrust.
"No, no, by God above, I wot it well, quoth fee,
Although I rafhely fpake before, in ao wife can it bee,
That where fuch perfet fhape with pleasant bewty restes,
There crooked craft and trayfon blacke fhould be appoynted geftes.
Sage writers fay, the thoughts are dwelling in the eyne;
Then fure I am, as Cupid raignes, that Romeus is mine.
The tong the meffenger eke call they of the mynd;
So that I fee he loveth me :-fhall I then be unkynd?
His face's rofy hew I faw full oft to feeke;

And straight again it flashed foorth, and fpred in eyther cheeke.
His fixed heavenly eyne that through me quyte did perce

His thoughts unto my hart, my thoughts thei femed to rehearce,
What ment his foltring tunge in telling of his tale?

The trimbling of his joynts, and eke his cooler waxen pale ?
And whilst I talk with him, himself he hath exyide
Out of himself, as feemed me; ne was I fure begylde.
Those arguments of love Craft wrate not on his face,
But Nature's hand, when all deceyte was banifhd out of place,
What other certayne fignes feeke I of his good wil?

Thefe doo fuffice; and ftedfait I will love and ferve him ftyll,
Till Attropos fali cut my fatall thread of lyfe,

So that he mynde to make of me his lawful wedded wyfe.
For fo perchaunce this new alliance may procure
Unto our houfes fuch a peace as ever fhall indure."

Oh how can we perfwade ourself to what we like!

And how we can difwade our mynd, if ought our mind miflyke!
Weake arguments are ftronge, our fanfies ftreight to frame
To pleafing things, and eke to fhonne, if we millyke the fame.
The mayde had fcarcely yet ended the wery warre,

Kept in her heart by ftriving thoughts, when every thining starre
Had payd his borrowed light, and Phoebus fpred in fkies
His golden rayes, which feemd to fay, now time it is to rife,
And Romeus had by this forfaken his wery bed,

Where restless he a thousand thoughts had forged in his hed,
And while with lingring step by Juliet's house he paft,
And upwards to her windowes high his greedy eyes did caft
His love that lookd for him there gan he ftraight efpye

With pleafant cheere eche greeted is, the followeth with her eye
His parting fteppes, and he oft looketh backe againe,
But not fo aft as he defyres; warely he doth refrayne,



What life were like to love, if dread of jeopardy

Y-fowred not the fweete; if love were free from jelofy!
But the more fure within, unfeene of any wight,

When fo he comes, lookes after him till he be out of fight.
In often paffing fo, his bufy eyes he threw,

That every pane and tooting hole the wily lover knew.

In happy houre he doth a garden plot eípye,

From which, except he warely walke, men may his love defcrye: For lo! it fronted full upon her leaning place,

Where the is wont to fhew her heart by cheerefull frendly face.
And left the arbors might theyr fecret love bewraye,

He doth keepe backe his forward foote from paffing there by daye;
But when on earth the Night her mantel blacke hath fpred,
Well-armde he walketh foorth alone, ne dreadful foes doth dred.
Whom maketh love not bold, naye whom makes he not blinde?
He driveth daungers dread oft times out of the lover's minde.
By night he paffeth here a weeke or two in vayne;

And for the miffing of his marke his greefe hath hym nye flaine.
And Juliet that now doth lacke her heart's releefe,

Her Romeus' pleasant eyen I mean-is almoft dead for greefe,
Eche day fhe chaungeth howrs, for lovers keepe an howre,
When they are fure to fee theyr love, in paffing by their bowre.
Impacient of her woe, fhe hapt to leane one night

Within her windowe, and anon the moore did thine fo bright
That the efpyde her loove; her hart revived fprang;

And now for joy the claps her handes, which erft for wo fhe


Eke Romeus, when he fawe his long defyred fight,

His moorning cloke of mone caft of, hath clad him with delight. Yet dare I fay, of both that the rejoyced more :

His care was great, hers twice as great was, all the time before;
For whilft fhe knew not why he did himselfe abfent,

In douting both his health and life, his death fhe did lament.
For love is fearful oft where is no caufe of feare,

And what love feares, that love laments, as though it chaunced


Of greater caufe alway is greater woorke y-bred;

While he nought douteth of her helth, flie dreads left he be ded. When onely abfence is the caufe of Romeus' fmart,


By happy hope of fight againe he feedes his fainting hart.
What wonder then if he were wrapt in leffe annoye
What marvel if by fodain fight the fed of greater joye?
His fmaller greefe or joy no fmaller love doo prove;
Ne, for the paffed him in both, did fhe him paffe in love:
But eche of them alike dyd burne in equall flame,
The wel-beloved knight and eke the wel-beloved dame.
Now whilft with bitter teares her eyes as fountaines ronne,

With whispering voyce, y-broke with fobs, thus is her tale begonne:

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