When thou ne lookest wide, ne closely dost thou winke, When Phoebus from our hemisphere in westerne wave doth sinke, What cooller then the heavens do shew unto thine eyes, With equall force decreasing darke fought with increasing light. With frendly kisse, and ruthfully she gan her knight beholde. shake. Then carefull Romeus agayne to cell retoornes, And in her chaumber secretly our joyles Juliet moornes. The clearnes of theyr gladsome harts hath wholy overspread. And under earth, to scape revenge, his dedly foe doth flye, But black-faced night with winter rough ah! beaten over sore. And Verone gates awide the porters had set open. When Romeus had of hys affayres with fryer Lawrence spoken, Warely he walked forth, unknowne of frend or foe, Clad like a merchant venterer, from top even to the toe. He spurd apace, and came, withouten stoppe or stay, To Mantua gates, where lighted downe, he sent his man away With woordes of comfort to his old afflicted syre; And straight, in mynde to sojourne there, a lodging doth he hyre, And with the nobler sort he doth himselfe acquaynt, And of his open wrong receaved the duke doth heare his playnt. He practiseth by frends for pardon of exile; The whilst, he seeketh every way his sorrowes to begyle. Against the restles starres in rolling skies that raunge, Is he accompanied? is he in place alone? In cumpany he wayles his harme, apart he maketh mone: For if his feeres rejoyce, what cause hath he to joy, That wanteth still his cheefe delight, while they theyr loves enjoye? But if with heavy cheere they shew their inward greefe, He wayleth most his wrechedness that is of wretches cheefe. To them he shewth his smart, as though they reason had, And wery of the world agayne he calleth night, The sunne he curseth, and the howre when first his eyes saw light. And as the night and day theyr course do interchaunge, So doth our Romeus nightly cares for cares of day exchaunge. In absence of her knight the lady no way could Kepe trewce betweene her greefes and her, though nere so fayne she would; And though with greater payne she cloked sorowes smart, Her sighing every howre, her weeping every where, Her recheles heede of meate, of slepe, and wearing of her geare, fore Your greefe and payne, yourselfe on joy your thought to set, Of whom since God hath claymd the life that was but lent, No longer could she hide her harme, but aunswered thus agayne, With heavy broken sighes, with visage pale and ded : Madame, the last of Tybalts teares a great while since I shed; Whose spring hath been ere this so laded out by me, That empty quite and moystureless I gesse it now to be. So that my payned hart by conduytes of the eyne No more henceforth (as wont it was) shall gush forth dropping bryne." The wofull mother knew not what her daughter ment, And loth to vexe her chylde by woordes, her pace she warely hent. But when from howre to houre, from morow to the morow, Still more and more she saw increast her daughters wonted sor row, All meanes she sought of her and houshold folk to know The certain roote whereon her greefe and booteless mone doth growe. But lo, she hath in vayne her time and labour lore, Wherefore without all measure is her hart tormented sore. She thought it good to tell the syre how ill this childe did fare. 66 Syr, if you mark our daughter well, the countenance of the mayde, And how she fareth since that Tybalt unto death Before his time, forst by his foe, did yeld his living breath, So much, as in the chaumber close to shut herselfe apart : That much in daunger stands her lyfe, except some help she finde. But, out alas! I see not how it may be founde, Unlesse that fyrst we might fynd whence her sorowes thus abounde. For though with busy care I have employde my wit, And used all the wayes I have to learne the truth of it, She hydeth close within her brest her secret sorowes roote. This was my fyrst conceite,—that all her ruth arose Out of her coosin Tybalts death, late slayne of dedly foes. Somme greater thing, not Tybalts death, this chaunge in her hath wrought. Her selfe assured me that many days agoe greeve: She shed the last of Tybalts teares; which words amasd me so Is grudging envies faint disease; perchance she doth disdayne And more perchaunce she thinkes you mynd to kepe her so; That may And to the mothers skilfull talke thus straightway aunswered he. "Oft have I thought, deere wife, of all these things ere this, But evermore my mynd me gave, it should not be amisse By farther leysure had a husband to provyde; Scarce saw she yet full sixteen yeres,-too yong to be a bryde. A husband for our daughter yong, her sicknes faynt to cure, And she recover soone enough the time she seemes to loose. Then to our daughters quiet lyfe, and to her happy helth: Whose chorlish dealing, (I once dead) should be her cause of mone." This pleasaunt aunswer heard, the lady partes agayne, And Capilet, the maydens syre, within a day or twayne, Conferreth with his frendes for marriage of his daughter, And many gentilmen there were, with busy care that sought her; Both, for the mayden was well-shaped, yong and fayre, As also well brought up, and wise; her fathers onely heyre. Emong the rest was one inflamde with her desyre, To win his wyfe unto his will, and to persuade the mayde. How happy hap, how mete a match, he had found out that day; But straight she hyeth to Juliet; to her she telles, apart, His youthfull yeres, his fayrenes, and his port, and seemely grace, skyes. She vauntes his race, and gyftes that Fortune did him geve, Whereto both love and reasons right forbod her to assent, With horses wilde her tender partes asunder should be torne. But with unwonted boldnes straight into these wordes she brake : 66 Of me your childe, your jewell once, your onely joy and care, As thus to yelde me up at pleasure of another, Before you know if I do lyke or els mislike my lover. Doo what you list; but yet of this assure you still, If you do as you say you will, I yelde not there untill. For had I choyse of twayne, farre rather would I choose My part of all your goodes and eke my breath and lyfe to loose, Then graunt that he possess of me the smallest part: Fyrst, weary of my painefull lyfe, my cares shall kill my hart; Els will I perce my brest with sharpe and bloody knife; And you, my mother, shall becomme the murdresse of my lyfe, In geving me to him whom I ne can, ne may, Ne ought, to love: wherefore, on knees, deere mother, I you pray, To let me live henceforth, as I have lived tofore; Ceasse all your troubles for my sake, and care for me no more; In her it lyeth to do me boote, in her it lyeth to spill. |