Sam. Nay, as they dare. I will bite my thumb at them, which is a difgrace to them if they bear it, Abr. Do you bite your thumb at us, Sir? Sam. I do bite my thumb, Sir.

Abr. Do you bite your thumb at us,

Sam. Is the law on our fide, if I fay, ay, ~

Grig. Nd.

Sam. No, Sir, I do not bite my thumb at you, Sir: but I bite my thumb, Sir.

Greg. Do you quarrel, Sir?

Abt. Quarrel, Sir? no, Sir.

Sam. If you do, Sir, I am for you, I ferve as good

a man as you.

Abr. No better

Sam. Well, Sir.

(3) Enter Benvolio.

Greg. Say, better. Here comes one of my mafter's kinfmen.

Sam. Yes, better, Sir,

Abr. You lye,

Sam. Draw, if you be men. Gregory, remember thy fwashing blow..

[They fight.

Ben. Part, fools, put up your fwords, you know not what you do.

Enter Tybalt.

Tyb. What art thou drawn among thefe heartless hinds?

Turn thee, Benvolio, look upon thy death.

Or

Ben. I do but keep the peace; put up-thy fword, manage it to part thefe men with me.

• Sam. I will bite my thumb at them, which is a difgrace to them, if they bear it.] So it fignifies in Randolpb's Muses LookingGlafs, act iii. fc. ii. p 43.

Orgylus. "To bite his thumb at me.

Argus. "Why fhould not a man bite his own thumb?

Org. "At me? were I fcorn'd, to fee men bite their thumbs; Rapiers and daggers, he's the fon of a whore." Dr. GRAY. (3) Enter Benvolio.] Much of this fcene is added fince the firft edition, but probably by Shakespeare, fince we find it in that of he year 1599.

A 4

POPE.

Tyb.

Tyb. What drawn, and talk of peace? I hate the

word

As I hate hell, all Montagues and thee.

Have at thee,

coward.

Enter three or four Citizens with Clubs.

[Fight.

Cit. Clubs, bills, and partifans! ftrike! beat them down!

Down with the Capulets, down with the Montagues!

Enter old Capulet in his gown, and lady Capulet.

Cap. What noife is this? (4) give me my long sword, ho!

Lad. Cap. A crutch, a crutch. Why call you for a fword?

Cap. My fword, I fay: old Montague is come,

And flourishes his blade in fpight of me.

Enter old Montague, and Lady Montague.

Mon. Thou villain, Capulet

Hold me not,

let me go.

La. Mon. Thou fhalt not ftir a foot to feek a foe.

Enter Prince with attendants,

Prin. Rebellious Subjects, enemies to peace,
Profaners of this neighbour-ftained steel-

Will they not hear? What ho! you men, you beafts,
That quench the fire of your pernicious rage
With purple fountains iffuing from your veins;
On pain of torture, from thofe bloody hands
Throw your mif-temper'd weapons to the ground,
And hear the fentence of your moved Prince.
Three civil broils, bred of an airy word,
By thee, old Capulet, and Montague,
Have thrice difturb'd the Quiet of our streets;
And made Verona's ancient Citizens
Caft by their grave, befeeming, ornaments
To weild old partizans, in hands as old,

(4) give me my long fword,] The long fword was the fword ufed in war, which was fometimes wielded with both hands

Can

Cankred with peace, to part your cankred hate;
If ever you difturb our ftreets again,
Your lives fhall pay the forfeit of the peace.
For this time all the reft depart away,
You, Capulet, fhall go along with me;
And, Montague, come you this afternoon,
To know our further pleasure in this cafe,
To old Free-town, our common judgment place :
Once more, on pain of death, all men depart.

[Exeunt Prince and Capulet, &c.

SCENE II.

La. Mon. Who fet this ancient quarrel new abroach; Speak, nephew, were you by, when it began? Ben. Here were the fervants of your adversary, And yours, clofe fighting, ere I did approach; I drew to part them: In the inftant came The fiery Tybalt, with his fword prepar'd, Which, as he breath'd defiance to my ears, He fwung about his head, and cut the winds, Who, nothing hurt withal, hifs'd him in fcorn. While we were interchanging thrufts and blows, Came more and more, and fought on part and part, 'Till the Prince came, who parted either Part.

La. Mon. O; where is Romeo! Saw you him to day? Right glad am I, he was not at this fray.

Ben. Madam, an hour before the worshipp'd Sun,
Peer'd through the golden window of the Eaft,
A troubled mind drew me to walk abroad;
Where, underneath the grove of fycamour,
That weftward rooteth from the City fide,
So early walking did I fee your fon.

Tow'rds him I made; but he was 'ware of me,
And ftole into the covert of the wood.

I, meafuring his affections by my own,

(5) That most are bufied, when they're moft alone,

(5) That moft are bufied, &c.] Edition 1597. Inftead of which it is in the other editions thus.

by my own.

Which then moft fought, where might moft not be found,

Being one too many by my weary felf,

Purfued my bumour, &c.

A 5

POPE. Purfued

Pursued my humour, not purfuing him;
(6) And gladly fhun'd, who gladly fled from me.
Mon. Many a morning hath he there been seen
With tears augmenting the fresh morning-dew,
Adding to clouds more clouds with his deep fighs:
But all fo foon as the all-cheering Sun
Should, in the furtheft Eaft, begin to draw
The fhady curtains from Aurora's bed;
Away from light fteals home my heavy fon,
And private in his chamber pens himfelf,
Shuts up his windows, locks fair day-light out,
And makes himself an artificial night.

Black and portentous muft this humour prove,
Unless good couníel may the caufe remove.

Ben. My noble uncle, do you know the cause?
Mon. I neither know it, nor can learn it of him.
(7) Ben. Have you importun'd him by any means?
Mon. Both by myfelf, and many other friends;
But he, his own affections' counsellor,

Is to himself, I will not fay, how true,
But to himself fo fecret and fo clofe,
So far from founding and discovery,
As is the bud bit with an envious worm,
Ere he can fpread his fweet leaves to the Air,
(8) Or dedicate his beauty to the Sun.

Could we but learn from whence his forrows grow,
We would as willingly give Cure, as know.

(6) And gladly hunn'd, &c] The ten lines following, not in edition 1597, but in the next 1599.

POPE.

(7) Ben. Have you importun'd, &c] Thefe two fpeeches alfo cmitted in edition 1597, but inferted in 1599.

POPE.

(8) Or dedicate his beauty to the Same.] When we come to conLider, that there is fome power elfe befides balmy air, that brings forth, and makes the tender buds fpread themselves, I do not think it improbable that the Poet wrote;

Or dedicate his beauty to the Sun.

Or, according to the more obfolete fpelling, Sunne; which brings it nearer to the traces of the corrupted text.

THEOB.

I cannot but fufpect that fome lines are loft, which connected this fimile more clofely with the foregoing fpeech; thefe lines, if fuch there were, lamented the danger that Romeo would die of his melancholy, before his virtues or abilities are known to the world.

Enter

Enter Romeo.

Ben. See, where he comes. So pleafe you, ftep afide, I'll know his grievance, or be much deny'd.

Mon. I would, thou wert fo happy by thy ftay,
To hear true fhrift. Come, Madam, let's away.

Ben. Good-morrow, coufin.
Rom. Is the day fo young?

Ben. But new ftruck nine.

Rom. Ah me, fad hours feem long!

[Exeunt.

Was that my father that went hence fo faft?
Ben. It was. What fadnefs lengthens Romeo's hours?
Rom. Not having That, which, having, makes them
short.

Ben. In love?

Rom. Out

Ben. Of love?

Rom. Out of her favour, where I am in love. Ben. Alas, that love, fo gentle in his view, Should be fo' tyrannous and rough in proof!

Rom. Alas, that love, whofe view is muffled ftill, Should without eyes fee path-ways (9) to his will! Where shall we dine? -Ô 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.
[Striking his breaft.
(1) Why then, O brawling love! O loving hate!
Oh, any thing of nothing first create !

O heavy lightners! ferious vanity!
Mif-shapen chaos of well-feeming forms!

Feather of lead, bright fmoke, cold fire, fick health!
Still-waking fleep, that is not what it is!

This love feel I, that feel no love in this.
Doft thou not laugh?

(9)-to bis will!] Sir T. Hanmer, and after him Dr. Warburton, read, to his ill. The prefent reading has fome obfcurity; the meaning inay be, that love finds out means to pursue his defire. That the blind fhould find paths to ill is no great wonder.

(1) Why then, O brawling love, &c.] Of thefe lines neither the fenfe nor occafion is very evident. He is not yet in love with an enemy, and to love one and hate another is no fuch uncommon ftate, as can deferve all this toil of antithefis,

Ben.