By fome vile forfeit of untimely death.

But he, that hath the fteerage of my course, (4) Direct my fuit! On, lufty Gentlemen. Ben. Strike, drum.

[They march about the Stage, and Exeunt.

SCENE VI.

Changes to a Hall in Capulet's Houfe.
Enter Servants, with Napkins.

1 Serv. Where's Potpan, that he helps not to take away? He fhift a trencher! he fcrape a trencher !

2 Serv. When good manners fhall lie all in one or two men's hands, and they unwash'd too, 'tis a foul thing.

*

1 Serv. Away with the joint-ftools, remove the court cup-board, look to the plate; good thou, fave me a piece of march-pane; and, as thou loveft me, let the porter let in Sufan Grindlone, and Nell.————Anthony, and Potpan

2 Serv. Ay, boy, ready.

1 Serv. You are look'd for, call'd for, afk'd for, and fought for, in the great chamber.

2 Serv. We cannot be here and there too. Cheerly, boys; be brisk a while, and the longer liver take all.

[Exeunt. Enter all the Guefts and Ladies, with the maskers.

i Cap. Welcome, Gentlemen. Ladies, that have your feet

(4) Direct my fuit !] Guide the fequel of the adventure. *Save me a piece of march-pane:] A confection made of Piftachio nuts, almonds, fugar, &c. and in high esteem in Shakespeare's time; as appears from the account of Queen Elizabeth's Entertainment in Cambridge. "Tis faid that the University prefented Sir William Cecyl, their Chancellor, with two pair of gloves, a march-pane, and two fugar loves. Peck's Defiderata Curiofa, vol. 2. P. 29. Dr. GRAY.

B 2

Un

Unplagu'd with corns, we'll have a bout with you.
Ah me, my miftreffes, which of you all

Will now deny to dance? the that makes dainty,
I'll fwear, hath corns; am I come near you now?
Welcome, all, Gentlemen; I've feen the day
'That I have worn a vifor, and could tell

A whispering tale in a fair lady's ear,

Such as would please. 'Tis gone; 'tis gone; 'tis gone! (5) You're welcome, Gentlemen. Come, muficians, play.

A ball, a ball. Make room. And foot it, girls.

[Mufick plays, and they dance. More light, ye knaves, and turn the tables up; And quench the fire, the room is grown too hot. Ah, Sirrah, this unlook'd-for fport comes well. Nay, fit; nay, fit, (6) good coufin Capulet, For you and I are paft our dancing days: How long is't now fince laft yourself and I Were in a mask ?

2 Cap. By'r lady, thirty years.

1 Cap. What, man! 'tis not fo much, 'tis not fo much;

'Tis fince the nuptial of Lucentio,

Come Pentecoft as quickly as it will,

Some five and twenty years, and then we mafk'd. 2 Cap. 'Tis more, 'tis more'; his fon is elder, Sir: His fon is thirty.

1 Cap. Will you tell me that?

His fon was but a ward two years ago.

Rom. What lady's that, which doth enrich the hand

Of yonder knight?

Serv. I know not, Sir..

(5) You're quelcome, Gentlemen.] Thefe two lines, omitted by the modern editors, I have replaced from the folio.

(6) Good coufin Capulet,] This coufin Capulet is unkle in the paper of invitation, but as Capulet is defcribed as old, cufin is probably the right word in both places. I know not how Capulet and his lady might agree, their ages were very difproportionate; he has been past masking for thirty years, and her age, as the tells Juliet, is but eight and twenty.

Rom.

Rom. O fhe doth teach the torches to burn bright;
Her beauty hangs upon the cheek of night,
Like a rich jewel in an Ethiop's ear:

Beauty too rich for ufe, for earth too dear!
So fhews a fnowy dove trooping with crows,
As yonder lady o'er her fellows fhows.

The meafure done, I'll watch her place of Stand,
And, touching hers, make happy my rude hand.
Did my heart love till now? forfwear it, fight;
I never faw true beauty 'till this night.

Tyb. This by his voice should be a Montague.
Fetch me my rapier, boy. What! dares the flave
Come hither cover'd with an antick face,
To fleer and fcorn at our folemnity?

Now by the ftock and honour of my kin,

To ftrike him dead I hold it not a fin.

Cap. Why, how now, kinfman, wherefore foun you fo

Tyb. Uncle, this is a Montague, our foe:
A villain, that is hither come in fpight,
To fcorn at our folemnity this night.
Cap. Young Romeo, is't?

Tyb. 'Tis he, that villain Romeo.

Cap. Content thee, gentle coz, let him alone
Fle bears him like a portly Gentleman:
And, to fay truth, Verona brags of him,
To be a virtuous and well-govern'd youth.
I would not for the wealth of all this town,
Here in my houfe, do him difparagement.
Therefore be patient, take no note of him
It is my will, the which if thou refpect,
Shew a fair prefence, and put off thefe frowns,,
An ill-befeeming femblance for a feast.

Tyb. It fits, when fuch a villain is a gueft.

I'll not endure him.

Cap. He fhall be endur'd.

What, goodman boy I fay, he fhall. Go to
Am I the mafter here, or you? go to-

You'll not endure him? God fhall mend my foul,
You'll make a mutiny among my guests
You will fit cock-a-hoop? You'll be the man?
Tybe Why, uncle, 'tis a fhame.

B 3

Cap. Go to, go to,

You are a faucy boy-is't fo, indeed.
This trick
may chance to fcathe you.
I know what..
You must contrary me? Marry, 'tis time.
Well faid, my hearts :-You are a Princox, go:
Be quiet, or-More light, more light, for shame-
I'll make you quiet-What? cheerly, my hearts.
Tyb. Patience perforce, with wilful choler meeting,
Makes my flesh tremble in their different Greeting.
I will withdraw; but this intrufion fhall,
Now feeming fweet convert to bitter gall.

Rom. (7) If I profane with my unworthy hand

[To Juliet. This holy fhrine, the gentle Fine is this; My lips, two blushing pilgrims, ready stand,

To fmooth that rough Touch with a tender kifs. Jul. Good pilgrim, you do wrong your hand too much,

;

Which mannerly devotion fhews in this For Saints have hands that pilgrims' hands do touch, And palm to palm is holy palmers' kifs. Rom. Have not faints lips, and holy palmers too? ful. Ay, pilgrim, lips that they must use in prayer. Rom. O then, dear faint, let lips do what hands do: They pray, grant thou, left faith turn to despair. Jul. Saints do not move, yet grant for prayers' fake. Rom. Then move not, while my prayers' effect I

take:

Thus from my lips, by thine, my fin is purg'd..

[Kiffing her. Jul. Then have my lips the fin that late they took. Rom. Sin from my lips! O trefpafs, fweetly urg'd! Give me my fin again.

(7) If I propbane with my unworthy band

This boly fhrine, the gentle Sin is this;

My lips, tron blufhing pil rims, &c.] All profanations are fuppos'd to be expiated either by fome meritorious action, or by fome penance undergone and punishment fubmitted to. So, Romeo would here fay, If I have been profane in the rude touch of my hand, my lips ftand ready, as two blufhing pilgrims, to take off that offence, to atone for it by a fweet penance. Our poet therefore must have wrote,

the gentle Fine is this.

WARBURTON,

Jul.

Jul. You kifs by th' book.

Nurfe. Madam, your mother craves a word with you. Rom. What is her mother?:

Nurfe. Marry, bachelor,

Her mother is the lady of the house,

[To her Nurfe.

And a good lady, and a wife and virtuous.
I nurs'd her daughter, that you talk't withal:
I tell you, he that can lay hold of her,
Shall have the chink..

Rom. Is he a Capulet?
O dear account! my life is
my foe's debt.
Ben. Away, be gone, the fport is at the best.
Rom. Ay, fo I fear, the more is my unreft.
Cap, Nay, Gentlemen, prepare not to be gone,
We have a trifling foolish banquet towards.

Is.it e'en fo why, then, I thank you all.
I thank you, honeft gentlemen, good night:
More torches here - come on, then let's to bed,
Ah, firrah, by my fay, it waxes late.

I'll to my raft.

[Exeunt. Jul. Come hither, nurfe. What is yon gentleman? Nurfe. The fon and heir of old Tiberia.

Jul. What's he, that now is going out of door?
Nurfe. That, as I think, is young Petruchio.

Jul. What's he, that follows here, that would not

dance?

Nurfe. I know not.

ful. Go, afk his name. ——

If he be married,

My Grave is like to be my wedding-bed.
Nurfe. His name is Romeo, and a Montague,

The only fon of your great enemy.

Jul. My only love fprung from my only hate
Too early feen, unknown; and known too late;
Prodigious birth of love it is to me,

That I muft love a loathed enemy.
Nurfe. What's this? what's this?:
Jul. A rhyme I learn'd e'en now

Of one I danc'd withal.

Nurse. Anon, anon

[One calls within, Juliet.

Come, let's away, the ftrangers are all gone. [Exeunt.