[Enter Romeo.]
ROMEO.
Good morrow, father!
FRIAR.
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 lodges sleep will never lie;
But where unbruised youth with unstuff'd brain
Doth couch his limbs, there golden sleep doth reign:
Therefore thy earliness doth me assure
Thou art uprous'd with some distemperature;
Or if not so, then here I hit it right, —
Our Romeo hath not been in bed to-night.
ROMEO.
That last is true; the sweeter rest was mine.
FRIAR.
God pardon sin! wast thou with Rosaline?
ROMEO.
With Rosaline, my ghostly father? no;
I have forgot that name, and that name's woe.
FRIAR.
That's my good son: but where hast thou been then?
ROMEO.
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 physic lies;
I bear no hatred, blessed man; for, lo,
My intercession likewise steads my foe.
