VOL. X. His hand fhe clafped hard, and all her partes dyd shake, When layfureles with whispring voyce thus did the aunfwer make:

ROM. AND

JULIET. 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 cheere, of one he feekes to knowe,"

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

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

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

And he reproveth love cheese cause of his unreft,'

Who eafe and freedome hath exilde out of his youthfull brest:
Twife hath he made him ferve, hopeles of his rewarde;

Of both the ylles to choofe the leffe, I'weene, the choyfe 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 cruell one, as he had done of olde;

And therefore is content and choofeth ftill to ferve,

Though hap fhould sweare that guerdonles the wretched wight fhould iterve.

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

For want of foode, amid his foode, the myfer ftill doth pyne.
As carefull was the mayde what way were beft devife,
To learne his name that intertaind her in fo gentle wife;
Of whom her hart 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 nedel taught her fów, and how to fpyn with fylke.)
What twayne are thofe, quoth fhe, which preafe unto the doore,
Whofe pages in their hand do beare two torches light before?
And then, as eche of them had of his houthold 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 stand."

His name is Romeus, faid fhee, a Montegewe,

Whofe father's pryde first styrd the ftryfe which both your houf

holds rewe.

The word of Montegew her joyes did overthrow,

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

So wel the faynde, mother ne nors the hidden harme descride.
But when the fhoulde have flept as wont fhe was in bed,
Not half a wynke of quyet flepe could harber in her hed;
For loe, 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 fhe toffeth and fhe turnes,
And now for feare the fhevereth, and now for love she burnes.
And now the lykes her choyfe, and now her choyfe she 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 mayden fought;

The fight was feerfe, continuyng long by their contrary thought.
In tourning mafe of love the wandreth too and fro,

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

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

Ah wretched wench, bewrapt in woe! ah caytife clad with

care!

Whence come thefe wandring thoughts to thy unconftant breft,
By ftraying thus from raison'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 frendly fpeache the traytor lye in wayte,

As oft the poyfond hooke is hid, wrapt in the pleafant bayte?
Oft under cloke of truth hath Falfhood ferved her luft;
And toorn'd their honor into shame, that did to 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 ftories 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 strength,

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

VOL. X.

ROM. AND

JULIET.

VOL. X. So fhall I feeke to find my father's foe, his game;

ROM. AND
JULIET.

So (I defylde) Report fhall take her trompe of blacke defame,
Whence the with puffed cheeke fhall blowe a blast so shrill
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 fhame, within an hollowe toombe."
Straight underneath her foote the 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 shee,
Although I rafhely fpake before, in no wife can it bee,
That where fuch perfet fhape with pleafant 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 myne.
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 ftraight 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 whilft I talke with him, himself he hath exylde
Out of himself, as feemed me; ne was I fure begylde.
Thofe arguments of love Craft wrate not on his face,

But Nature's hand, when all deceyte was banishd out of place.
What other certayn fignes feke 1 of his good wil?

Thefe doo fuffice; and ftedfaft I will love and ferve him styll,
Till Attropos fhall 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 shall indure.”

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

Kept in her heart by friving thoughts, when every fhining starre
Had payd his borrowed light, and Phoebus fpred in skies
His golden rayes, which feemd to fay, now time it is to rife.
And Romeus had by this forfaken his wery bed,
Where restles he a thoufand thoughts had forged in his hed.
And while with lingring ftep by Juliet's houfe he past,
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 oft as he defyres; warely he doth refrayne.

What

What life were like to love, if dread of jeopardy
Y-fowred not the sweete; if love were free from jelosy!
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 espye,

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

Where she 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' pleafant eyen I mean-is almost dead for greefe.
Eche day the chaungeth howres, 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 moone did shine fo bright
That the efpyde her loove; her hart revived fprang;

And now for joy the claps her handes, which erft for wo she
wrang.

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 twife as great was, all the time before;
For whilst the 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 cause of feare,

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

weare.

Of greater caufe alway is greater woorke y-bred;

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

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 fhe fed of greater joye?
His fmaller greefe or joy no fmaller love doo prove;
Ne, for the paffed him in both, did the him paffe in love:
But eche of them alike dyd burne in equall flame,
The wel-beloving 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:
VOL. I.

U

". Oh

VOL X.

ROM. AND
JULIET.

VOL. X.

ROM. AND
JULIET.

"Oh Romeus, of your life too lavas fure you are,
That in this place, and at this tyme, to hazard it you dare.
What if your dedly foes, my kinfmen, faw you here?

Lyke lyons wylde, your tender partes afonder would they teare.
In ruth and in difdayne, I, wery of my life,

With cruell hand my moorning hart would perce with bloudy
knyfe.

"

For you, myne own, once dead, what joy fhould I have heare?
And eke my honor ftaynd, which I then lyfe do holde more deare.”
Fayre lady myne, dame Juliet, my lyfe (quod hee)
Even from my byrth committed was to fatall fifters three.
They may in fpyte of foes draw foorth my lively threed;
And they alfo (who fo fayth nay) afonder may it fhreed.
But who, to reave my life, his rage and force would bende,
Perhaps should trye unto his payne how I it could defende.
Ne yet I love it fo, but alwayes, for your fake,

A facrifice to death I would my wounded corps betake.
If my mishappe were fuch, that here, before your fight,
I fhould restore agayn to death, of lyfe my borrowed light,
This one thing and no more my parting fprite would rewe,
That part he fhould before that you by certain trial knew
The love I owe to you, the thrall I languish in,

And how I dread to loofe the gayne which I do hope to win;
And how I wish for lyfe, not for my proper ease,

But that in it you might I love, you honor, ferve and please,
Till dedly pangs the fprite out of the corps hall fend:""
And thereupon he fware an othe, and fo his tale had ende.

Now love and pitty boyle in Juliet's ruthfull breft;
In windowe on her leaning arme her weary head doth rest;
Her bofome bath'd in teares (to witnes inward payne),
With dreary chere to Romeus thus aunfwered the agayne:
"Ah my deere Romeus, kepe in thefe words, (quod fhe)
For lo, the thought of fuch mifchaunce already maketh me
For pity and for dred well nigh to yeld up breath;
In even ballance peyfed are my life and eke my death.
For fo my heart is knit, yea made one felfe with yours,
That fure there is no greefe fo fmall, by which your mynd en-
dures,

But as you fuffer payne, fo I doo beare in part

(Although it leffens not your greefe) the halfe of all your smart.
But these thinges overpaft, if of your health and myne
You have refpect, or pity ought my tear-y-weeping eyen,
In few unfained woords your hidden mynd unfolde,
That as I fee your pleafant face, your heart I may beholde.
For if you do intende my honor to defile,

In error fhall you wander ftill, as you have done this while:
But if your thought be chafte, and have on vertue ground,
If wedlocke be the end and marke which your defyre hath found,

Obedience