My noble uncle, do you know the cause?
I neither know it nor can learn of him.
Have you importun'd him by any means?
Both by myself and many other friends;
But he, his own affections' counsellor,
Is to himself, — I will not say how true, —
But to himself so secret and so close,
So far from sounding and discovery,
As is the bud bit with an envious worm
Ere he can spread his sweet leaves to the air,
Or dedicate his beauty to the sun.
Could we but learn from whence his sorrows grow,
We would as willingly give cure as know.
See, where he comes: so please you step aside;
I'll know his grievance or be much denied.
I would thou wert so happy by thy stay
To hear true shrift. — Come, madam, let's away,
[Exeunt Montague and Lady.]
Good morrow, cousin.
Is the day so young?
But new struck nine.
Ay me! sad hours seem long.
Was that my father that went hence so fast?
It was. — What sadness lengthens Romeo's hours?
Not having that which, having, makes them short.
Out of her favour where I am in love.
Alas, that love, so gentle in his view,
Should be so tyrannous and rough in proof!
Alas that love, whose view is muffled still,
Should, without eyes, see pathways to his will! —
Where shall we dine? — O me! — What fray was here?
Yet tell me not, for I have heard it all.
Here's much to do with hate, but more with love: —
Why, then, O brawling love! O loving hate!
O anything, of nothing first create!
O heavy lightness! serious vanity!
Mis-shapen chaos of well-seeming forms!
Feather of lead, bright smoke, cold fire, sick health!
Still-waking sleep, that is not what it is! —
This love feel I, that feel no love in this.
Dost thou not laugh?
No, coz, I rather weep.
Good heart, at what?
Continued on next page...