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:
What is it else? a madness most discreet,
A choking gall, and a preserving sweet. —
Farewell, my coz.
[Going.]
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, —
Ah, word ill urg'd to one that is so ill! —
In sadness, cousin, I do love a woman.
BENVOLIO.
I aim'd so near when I suppos'd you lov'd.
ROMEO.
A right good markman! — And she's fair I love.
BENVOLIO.
A right fair mark, fair coz, is soonest hit.
ROMEO.
Well, in that hit you miss: she'll not be hit
With Cupid's arrow, — she hath Dian's wit;
And, in strong proof of chastity well arm'd,
From love's weak childish bow she lives unharm'd.
She will not stay the siege of loving terms
Nor bide th' encounter of assailing eyes,
Nor ope her lap to saint-seducing gold:
O, she's rich in beauty; only poor
That, when she dies, with beauty dies her store.
BENVOLIO.
Then she hath sworn that she will still live chaste?
