Fri.
The grey-ey'd morn smiles on the frowning night,
Check'ring the eastern clouds with streaks of light:
And darkness flecker'd, like a drunkard, reels
From forth day's path, and Titan's burning wheels.
Now ere the Sun advance his burning eye,
The day to chear, and night's dank dew to dry,
I must fill up this osier cage of ours
With baleful weeds, and precious-juiced flowers.
The earth, that's Nature's mother, is her tomb;
What is her burying Grave, that is her womb;
And from her womb children of divers kind
We sucking on her natural bosom find:
Many for many virtues excellent,
None but for some, and yet all different.
O, mickle is the powerful grace, that lies
In plants, herbs, stones, and their true qualities.
Nor nought so vile, that on the earth doth live,
But to the earth some special good doth give:
Nor ought so good, but strain'd from that fair use,
Revolts from true Birth, stumbling on abuse.
Virtue it self turns vice, being misapplied;
And vice sometime by action's dignified.
Within the infant rind of this small flower
Poison hath residence, and medicine power:
For this being smelt, with that sense chears each part;
Being tasted, slays all senses with the heart.
Two such opposed foes encamp them still
In man, as well as herbs, Grace and rude Will:
And where the worser is predominant,
Full-soon the canker death eats up that plant. Enter Romeo.

Rom.
Good morrow, father.

Fri.
Benedicite!
What early tongue so sweet saluteth me?
Young son, it argues a distemper'd head
So soon to bid good morrow to thy bed:
Care keeps his watch in every old man's eye,
And where care lodgeth, sleep will never lye;
But where unbruised youth with unstuft brain
Doth couch his limbs, there golden sleep doth reign.
Therefore thy earliness doth me assure,
Thou art uprouz'd by some distemp'rature;
Or if not so, then here I hit it right,
Our Romeo hath not been in bed to night.

Rom.
That last is true, the sweeter Rest was mine.

Fri.
God pardon sin! wast thou with Rosaline?

Rom.
With Rosaline, my ghostly father? no.
I have forgot that name, and that name's woe.

Fri.
That's my good son: but where hast thou been then?

Rom.
I'll tell thee, ere thou ask it me again;
I have been feasting with mine enemy;
Where, on a sudden, one hath wounded me,
That's by me wounded; both our remedies
Within thy help and holy physick lies;
I bear no hatred, blessed man, for, lo,
My intercession likewise steads my foe.

Fri.
Be plain, good son, and homely in thy drift;
Riddling confession finds but riddling shrift.

Rom.
Then plainly know, my heart's dear love is set
On the fair daughter of rich Capulet;
As mine on hers, so hers is set on mine;
And all combin'd; save what thou must combine
By holy marriage: When, and where, and how
We met, we woo'd, and made exchange of vow,
I'll tell thee as we pass; but this I pray,
That thou consent to marry us to day.

Fri.
Holy saint Francis, what a change is here?
Is Rosaline, whom thou didst love so dear,
So soon forsaken? young mens love then lyes
Not truly in their hearts, but in their eyes.

Jesu Maria! what a deal of brine
Hath washt thy sallow cheeks for Rosaline?
How much salt water thrown away in waste,
To season love, that of it doth not taste?
The Sun not yet thy sighs from heaven clears,
Thy old groans ring yet in my antient ears:
Lo, here upon thy cheek the stain doth sit
Of an old tear, that is not wash'd off yet.
If e'er thou wast thy self, and these woes thine,
Thou and these woes were all for Rosaline.
And art thou chang'd? pronounce this sentence then,
Women may fall, when there's no strength in men.

Rom.
Thou chidd'st me oft for loving Rosaline.

Fri.
For doating, not for loving, Pupil mine.

Rom.
And bad'st me bury love.

Fri.
Not in a Grave,
To lay one in, another out to have.

Rom.
I pray thee, chide not: she, whom I love now,
Doth grace for grace, and love for love allow:
The other did not so.

Fri.
Oh, she knew well,
Thy love did read by rote, and could not spell.
But come, young waverer, come and go with me,
In one respect I'll thy assistant be:
For this alliance may so happy prove,
To turn your houshold-rancour to pure love.

Rom.
O let us hence, I stand on sudden haste.

Fri.
Wisely and slow; they stumble, that run fast. [Exeunt.

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