The moſt Lamentable Tragedie
Rom. Out of her fauour where I am in loue.
Ben. Alas that loue ſo gentle in his view,
Should bee ſo tyranous and rough in proofe.
Romeo. Alas that loue, whoſe view is muffled ſtill,
Should without eyes, ſee path-waies to his wil:
Where ſhall we dine? O me: what fray was here?
Yet tell me not, for I haue heard it all:
Heres much to doe with hate, but more with loue:
Why then O brawling loue, O louing hate,
O any thing of nothing ſirſt created:
O heauie lightneſſe, ſerious vanity,
Miſhapen Chaos of welſeeming formes,
Feather of lead, bright ſmoke, cold fier, ſicke health,
Still waking ſleepe, that is not what it is.
This loue feele I, that feele no loue in this,
Doeſt thou not laugh?
Ben. No Coze, I rather weepe.
Rom. Good heart at what?
Ben. At thy good hearts oppreſsion.
Romeo. Why ſuch is loues tranſgreſsion.
Griefes of my owne lie heauy in my breſt,
Which thou wilt propagate to haue it preſt,
With more of thine, this loue that thou haſt ſhowne,
Doth ad more griefe, to too much of mine owne.
Loue is a ſmoke made with the fume of ſighes,
Being purg’d, a fire ſparkling in louers eyes,
Being vext, a ſea nouriſht with louing teares,
What is it elſe? a madneſſe moſt diſcreet,
A choking gall, and a preſeruing ſweet:
Farewell my Coze.
Ben. Soft, I will goe along.
And if you leaue me ſo, you doe me wrong.
Rom. Tut, I haue left my ſelfe, I am not here,
This is not Romeo; hees ſome other where.
Ben. Tell me in ſadneſſe, who is that you loue?
Rom. VVhat ſhall I grone and tell thee?
Ben. Grone, why no: but ſadly tell me who:
