SCENE III.
Enter Capulet, Paris, and Servant.
Cap.
And Montague is bound as well as I,
In penalty alike; and 'tis not hard
For men so old as we to keep the peace.
Par.
Of honourable reck'ning are you Both,
And, pity 'tis, you liv'd at odds so long:
But now, my lord, what say you to my Suit?
Cap.
But saying o'er what I have said before:
My child is yet a stranger in the world,
She hath not seen the Change of fourteen years;
Let two more summers wither in their pride,
Ere we may think her ripe to be a bride.
-- 14 --
Par.
Younger than she are happy mothers made.
Cap.
And too soon marr'd are those so early made:
The earth hath swallow'd all my hopes but she.
7 noteShe is the hopeful lady of my earth:
But woo her, gentle Paris, get her heart,
My will to her consent is but a part;
If she agree, within her scope of choice
Lies my consent, and fair according voice:
This night, I hold an old-accustom'd Feast,
Whereto I have invited many a guest,
Such as I love; and you, among the store,
One more, most welcome, makes my number more.
At my poor house, look to behold this night
8 note
Earth-treading stars that make dark Even light.
Such comfort as do lusty young men feel,
When well-apparel'd April on the heel
Of limping Winter treads, even such delight
Among fresh female-buds shall you this night
Inherit at my house; hear all, all see,
And like her most, whose merit most shall be:
Which on more view of many, mine, being one,
May stand in number, tho' in reck'ning none.
Come, go with me. Go, sirrah, trudge about,
Through fair Verona; find those persons out,
Whose names are written there; and to them say,
My house and welcome on their pleasure stay.
[Exeunt Capulet and Paris.
Ser.
Find them out, whose names are written
here?—It is written, that the Shoe-maker should
-- 15 --
meddle with his Yard, and the Tailor with his Last,
the Fisher with his Pencil, and the Painter with his
Nets. But I am sent to find those Persons, whose
names are here writ; and can never find what names
the writing person hath here writ. I must to the
Learned.—In good time,—
Enter Benvolio and Romeo.
Ben.
Tut, man! one fire burns out another's burning,
One pain is lessen'd by another's Anguish:
Turn giddy, and be help'd by backward turning;
One desperate grief cure with another's Languish:
Take thou some new infection to the eye,
And the rank poyson of the old will die.
Rom.
Your plantan leaf is excellent for That.
Ben.
For what, I pray thee?
Rom.
For your broken shin.
Ben.
Why, Romeo, art thou mad?
Rom.
Not mad, but bound more than a mad-man is:
Shut up in prison, kept without my food,
Whipt and tormented: and—Good-e'en, good fellow.
[To the Servant.
Ser.
God gi' good e'en: I pray, Sir, can you read?
Rom.
Ay, mine own fortune in my misery.
Ser.
Perhaps you have learn'd it without book: but, I pray,
Can you read any thing you see?
Rom.
Ay, if I know the letters and the language.
Ser.
Ye say honestly, rest you merry.—
Rom.
Stay, fellow, I can read.
[He reads the letter.]
Signior Martino, and his wife and daughters: Count
Anselm and his beauteous sisters; the lady widow
of Vitruvio; Signior Placentio, and his lovely neices;
Mercutio and his brother Valentine; mine uncle Capulet,
-- 16 --
his wife and daughters; my fair niece Rosaline; Livia;
Signior Valentio, and his cousin Tybalt; Lucio, and
the lively Helena.
9 note
A fair assembly; whither should they come?
Ser.
Up.—
Rom.
Whither?
Ser.
To supper, to our house.
Rom.
Whose house?
Ser.
My master's.
Rom.
Indeed, I should have askt you that before.
Ser.
Now I'll tell you without asking. My master
is the great rich Capulet, and if you be not of the House
of Montagues, I pray, come and crush a cup of wine.
Rest you merry.
[Exit.
Ben.
At this same antient Feast of Capulet's
Sups the fair Rosaline, whom thou so lov'st;
With all th' admired beauties of Verona.
Go thither, and, with unattained note eye,
Compare her face with some that I shall show,
And I will make thee think thy Swan a Crow.
Rom.
When the devout religion of mine eye
Maintains such falsehoods, then turn tears to fires!
And these, who, often drown'd, could never die,
Transparent hereticks, be burnt for liars!
One fairer than my love! th' all-seeing Sun
Ne'er saw her match, since first the world begun.
Ben.
Tut! tut! you saw her fair, none else being by;
Her self pois'd with herself, in either eye:
But in those crystal scales, let there be weigh'd
Your Lady's love against some other maid,
-- 17 --
That I will shew you, shining at this feast;
And she will shew scant well, that now shews best.
Rom.
I'll go along, no such fight to be shewn;
But to rejoice in splendor of mine own.
[Exeunt.
Alexander Pope [1747], The works of Shakespear in eight volumes. The Genuine Text (collated with all the former Editions, and then corrected and emended) is here settled: Being restored from the Blunders of the first Editors, and the Interpolations of the two Last: with A Comment and Notes, Critical and Explanatory. By Mr. Pope and Mr. Warburton (Printed for J. and P. Knapton, [and] S. Birt [etc.], London) [word count] [S11301].
