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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,
The same, or like, saw Romeus in farthest easterne skies.
As yet he sawe no day, ne could he call it night,
With equall force decreasing darke fought with increasing light.
Then Romeus in armes his lady gan to folde,
With frendly kisse, and ruthfully she gan her knight beholde.
With solemne othe they both theyr sorowfull leave do take;
They sweare no stormy troubles shall theyr steady friendship
Then carefull Romeus agayne to cell retoornes,
And in her chaumber secretly our joyles Juliet moornes.
Now hugy cloudes of care, of sorrow, and of dread,
The clearnes of theyr gladsome harts hath wholy overspread.
When golden-crested Phœbus bosteth him in skye,
And under earth, to scape revenge, his dedly foe doth flye,
Then hath these lovers day an ende, theyr night begonne,
For eche of them to other is as to the world the sonne.
The dawning they shall see, ne sommer any more,
But black-faced night with winter rough ah! beaten over sore.
The wery watch discharged did hye them home to slepe,
The warders, and the skowtes were charged theyr place and
course to kepe,
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.
But who forgets the cole that burneth in his brest?
Alas! his cares denye his hart the sweete desyred rest;
No time findes he of myrth, he fyndes no place of joy,
But every thing occasion gives of sorrowe and annoye.
For when in toorning skies the heavens lamps are light,
And from the other hemisphere fayr Phoebus chaseth night,
When every man and beast hath rest from paynefull toyle,
Then in the brest of Romeus his passions gin to boyle.
Then doth he wet with teares the cowche whereon he lyes,
And then his sighs the chaumber fill, and out aloude he cries
Against the restles starres in rolling skies that raunge,
Against the fatall sisters three, and Fortune full of chaunge.
Eche night a thousand times he calleth for the day,
He thinketh Titans restles steedes of restines do stay;
Or that at length they have some bayting place found out,
Or, gyded yll, have lost theyr way and wandered farre about.
While thus in ydell thoughts the wery time he spendeth,
The night hath end, but not with night the plaint of night he
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.
When he doth heare abrode the prayse of ladies blowne,
Within his thought he scorneth them, and doth prefer his owne.
When pleasant songes he heares, wheile others do rejoyce,
The melodye of musicke doth styrre up his mourning voyce.
But if in secret place he walke some where alone,
The place itselfe and secretnes redoubleth all his mone.
Then speakes he to the beastes, to feathered fowles and trees,
Unto the earth, the cloudes, and what so beside he sees.
To them he shewth his smart, as though they reason had,
Eche thing may cause his heavines, but nought may make him
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
And though with greater payne she cloked sorowes smart,
Yet did her paled face disclose the passions of her hart.
Her sighing every howre, her weeping every where,
Her recheles heede of meate, of slepe, and wearing of her geare,
The carefull mother marks; then of her helth afrayde,
Because the greefes increased still, thus to her child she sayde:
"Deere daughter if you shoulde long languishe in this sort,
I stand in doute that over-soone your sorrowes will make short
Your loving father's life and myne, that love you more
Than our owne propre breth and lyfe. Brydel henceforth there-
Your greefe and payne, yourselfe on joy your thought to set,
For time it is that now you should our Tybalts death forget.
Of whom since God hath claymd the life that was but lent,
He is in blisse, ne is there cause why you should thus lament;
You cannot call him backe with teares and shrikinges shrill :
It is a falt thus still to grudge at Gods appoynted will."
The seely soule hath now no longer powre to fayne,
No longer could she hide her harme, but aunswered thus
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-
All meanes she sought of her and houshold folk to know
The certain roote whereon her greefe and booteless mone doth
But lo, she hath in vayne her time and labour lore,
Wherefore without all measure is her hart tormented sore.
And sith herselfe could not fynde out the cause of care,
She thought it good to tell the syre how ill this childe did fare.
And when she saw her time, thus to her feere she sayde:
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,
Her face shall seeme so chaunged, her doynges eke so straunge,
That you will greatly wonder at so great and sodain chaunge.
Not only she forbeares her meate, her drinke, and sleepe,
But now she tendeth nothing els but to lament and weepe.
No greater joy hath she, nothing contents her hart
So much, as in the chaumber close to shut herselfe apart :
Where she doth so torment her poore afflicted mynde,
That much in daunger stands her lyfe, except some help she
But, out alas! I see not how it
Unlesse that fyrst we might
For though with busy care I have employde my wit,
And used all the wayes I have to learne the truth of it,
Neither extremitie ne gentle meanes could boote ;
She hydeth close within her brest her secret sorowes roote.
may be founde,
fynd whence her sorowes thus
This was my fyrst conceite,—that all her ruth arose
Out of her coosin Tybalts death, late slayne of dedly foes.
But now my hart doth hold a new repugnant thought;
Somme greater thing, not Tybalts death, this chaunge in her hath
Her selfe assured me that many days agoe
She shed the last of Tybalts teares; which words amasd me so
That I then could not gesse what thing els might her greeve:
But now at length I have bethought me; and I do beleve
The only crop and roote of all my daughters payne
Is grudging envies faint disease; perchance she doth disdayne
To see in wedlocke yoke the most part of her feeres,
Whilst only she unmarried doth lose so many yeres.
And more perchaunce she thinkes you mynd to kepe her so;
Wherefore dispayring doth she weare herselfe away with woe.
Therefore, deere Syr, in tyme take on your daughter ruth;
For why? a brickle thing is glasse, and frayle is skillesse youth.
Joyne her at once to somme in linke of marriage,
That may be meete for our degree, and much about her age:
So shall you banish care out of your daughters brest,
So we her parentes, in our age, shall live in quiet rest.”
Whereto gan easely her husband to agree,
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.
But since her state doth stande on termes so perilous,
And that a mayden daughter is a treasure daungerous,
With so great speede I will endeavour to procure
A husband for our daughter yong, her sicknes faynt to cure,
That you shall rest content, so warely will I choose,
And she recover soone enough the time she seemes to loose.
The whilst seek you to learne, if she in any part
Already hath, unware to us, fixed her frendly hart;
Lest we have more respect to honor and to welth,
Then to our daughters quiet lyfe, and to her happy helth:
Whom I doo hold as deere as thapple of myne eye,
And rather wish in poore estate and daughterles to dye,
Then leave my goodes and her y-thrald to such a one,
Whose chorlish dealing, (I once dead) should be her cause of
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,
Who county Paris cliped was; an earle he had to syre.
Of all the suters hym the father lyketh best,
And easely unto the earle he maketh his behest,
Both of his owne good will, and of his frendly ayde,
To win his wyfe unto his will, and to persuade the mayde.
The wyfe dyd joy to heare the joyful husband say
How happy hap, how mete a match, he had found out that day;
Ne did she seeke to hyde her joyes within her hart,
But straight she hyeth to Juliet; to her she telles, apart,
What happy talke, by meane of her, was past no rather
Betwene the wooing Paris and her careful loving father.
The person of the man, the features of his face,
His youthfull yeres, his fayrenes, and his port, and seemely grace,
With curious woordes she payntes before her daughters eyes,
And then with store of vertues prayse she heaves him to the
She vauntes his race, and gyftes that Fortune did him geve,
Whereby she sayth, both she and hers in great delight shall live.
When Juliet conceved her parentes whole entent,
Whereto both love and reasons right forbod her to assent,
Within herselfe she thought rather than be forsworne,
With horses wilde her tender partes asunder should be torne.
Not now, with bashful brow, in wonted wise, she spake,
But with unwonted boldnes straight into these wordes she brake:
Madame, I marvell much, that you so lavasse are
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,
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
To let me live henceforth, as I have lived tofore ;
Ceasse all your troubles for my sake, and care for me no more; But suffer Fortune feerce to worke on me her will,
In her it lyeth to do me boote, in her it lyeth to spill.
For whilst you for the best desyre to place me so,
You hast away my lingring death, and double all my woe."
So deepe this aunswere made the sorrowes downe to sinke Into the mothers brest, that she ne knoweth what to thinke