What hap haue I, quoth she, to loue my fathers foe?
What, am I wery of my wele? what, doe I wishe my woe?
But though her grieuouse paynes distraind her tender hart,
Yet with an outward shewe of ioye she cloked inward smart;
And of the courtlyke dames her leaue so courtly tooke,
That none dyd gesse the sodain change by changing of her looke.
Then at her mothers hest to chamber she her hyde,

So wel she faynde, mother ne nurce the hidden harme descride.
But when she should haue slept as wont she was in bed,
Not halfe a winke of quiet slepe could harber in her hed;
For loe, an hugy heape of dyuers thoughtes arise,

That rest haue banisht from her hart, and slumber from her eyes.
And now from side to side she tosseth and she turnes,

And now for feare she sheuereth, and now for love she burnes,
And now she lykes her choyse, and now her choyse she blames,
And now eche houre within her head a thousand fansies frames.
Sometime in mynde to stop amyd her course begonne,
Sometime she vowes, what so betyde, that tempted race to ronne.
Thus dangers dred and loue within the mayden fought;
The fight was feerce, continuyng long by their contrary thought.
In tourning mase of loue she wandreth too and fro,

Then standeth doutfull what to doe; last, ouerprest with woe,
How so her fansies cease, her teares dyd neuer blyn,
With heauy cheere and wringed hands thus doth her plaint begyn.
"Ah sily foole, quoth she, y-cought in soottill snare!
Ah wretched wench, bewrapt in woe! ah caytife clad with care!
Whence come these wandring thoughts to thy vnconstant brest,
By straying thus from raysons lore, that reue thy wonted rest?
What if his suttell brayne to fayne haue taught his tong,
And so the snake that lurkes in grasse thy tender hart hath stong?
What if with frendly speache the traytor lye in wayte,
As oft the poysond hooke is hid, wrapt in the pleasant bayte?
Oft vnder cloke of truth hath Falshood serued her lust;
And toornd theyr honor into shame, that did so slightly trust.
What, was not Dido so, a crouned queene, defamd?

And eke, for such an heynous cryme, haue men not Theseus blamd?

A thousand stories more, to teache me to beware,

In Boccace and in Ouids bookes too playnely written are.
Perhaps, the great reuenge he cannot woorke by strength,
By suttel sleight (my honor staynde) he hopes to worke at
length.

So shall I seeke to finde my fathers foe, his game;

So (I befylde) Report shall take her trompe of blacke defame,
Whence she with puffed cheeke shall blowe a blast so shrill
Of my disprayse, that with the noyse Verona shall she fill.

Then I, a laughing stocke through all the towne becomme, Shall hide my selfe, but not my shame, within an hollowe toombe." Straight underneth her foote she treadeth in the dust

Her troublesom thought, as wholy vaine, y-bred of fond distrust.
"No, no, by God aboue, I wot it well, quoth shee,
Although I rashely spake before, in no wise can it bee,
That where such perfet shape with pleasant bewty restes,
There crooked craft and trayson blacke should be appoynted
gestes.

Sage writers say, the thoughts are dwelling in the eyne;
Then sure I am, as Cupid raignes, that Romeus is myne.
The tong the messenger eke call they of the mynd;
So that I see he loueth me:-shall I then be vnkynd?
His faces rosy hew I saw full oft to seeke;

And straight againe it flashed foorth, and spred in eyther cheeke,
His fyxed heauenly eyne that through me quite did perce
His thoughts vnto my hart, my thought they semed to rehearce.
What ment his foltring tunge in telling of his tale?

The trembling of his ioynts, and eke his cooller waxen pale?
And whilst I talke with him, hymself he hath exylde
Out of himself, as seemed me; ne was I sure begylde.
Those arguments of loue craft wrate not in his face,

But Natures hande, when all deceyte was banishd out of place,
What other certain signes seke I of his good wil?

These doo suffise; and stedfast I will loue and serue him still,
Till Attropos shall cut my fatall thread of lyfe,

So that he mynde to make of me his lawfull wedded wyfe.
For so perchaunce this new aliance may procure
Vnto our houses suche a peace as euer shall endure."

Oh how we can perswade ourself to what we like!

And how we can diswade our mynd, if ought our mynd mislyke!
Weake arguments are stronge, our fansies streyght to frame
To pleasing things, and eke to shonne, if we mislike the same.
The mayde had scarsely yet ended the wery warre,

Kept in her heart by striuing thoughtes, when euery shining starre
Had payd his borowed light, and Phebus spred in skies
His golden rayes, which seemd to say, now time it is to rise.
And Romeus had by this forsaken his
wery bed,
Where restles he a thousand thoughts had forged in his hed.
And while with lingring step by Juliets house he past,
And vpward to her windowes high his gredy eyes did cast,
His loue that looked for him there gan he straight espie.
With pleasant cheere eche greeted is; she followeth with her

eye

His parting steppes, and he oft looketh backe againe,

But not so oft as he desyres: warely he doth refraine.

What life were lyke to loue, if dred of ieopardy
Y-sowred not the sweete; if loue were free from ielosy!
But she more sure within, vnseene of any wight,

When so he comes, lookes after him till he be out of sight.
In often passing so, his busy eyes he threw,

That euery pane and tooting hole the wily louer knew.
In happy houre he doth a garden plot espye,

From which, except he warely walke, men may his loue descrye; For lo! it fronted full vpon her leaning place,

Where she is woont to shew her heart by cheerfull frendly face.. And lest the arbors might theyr secret loue bewraye,

He doth keepe backe his forward foote from passing there by daye;

But when on earth the Night her mantel blacke hath spred,
Well-armd he walketh foorth alone, ne dreadfull foes doth dred.
Whom maketh Loue not bold, naye whom makes he not blinde?
He reueth daungers dread oft times out of the louers minde.
By night he passeth here a weeke or two in vayne;
And for the missing of his marke his griefe hath hym nye slaine.
And Juliet that now doth lacke her hearts releefe,-

Her Romeus pleasant eyen I meene-is almost dead for greefe.
Eche daye she chaungeth howres, for louers keepe an howre
When they are sure to see their loue, in passing by their howre.*
Impacient of her woe, she hapt to leane one night

Within her window, and anon the moone did shine so bright
That she espyde her loue; her hart reuiued sprang;

And now for ioy she clappes her handes, which erst for woe she

wrang.

Eke Romeus, when he sawe his long desired sight,

His moorning cloke of mone cast of, hath clad him with delight. Yet dare I say, of both that she reioyced more:

His care was great, hers twise as great was, all the tyme before;
For whilst she knew not why he did himselfe absent,

Ay douting both his health and lyfe, his death she dyd lament.
For loue is fearefull oft where is no cause of feare, [weare.
And what loue feares, that loue laments, as though it chaunced
Of greater cause alway is greater woorke y-bred;
While he nought douteth of her helth, she dreads lest he be ded.
When onely absence is the cause of Romeus smart,

By happy hope of sight agayne he feedes his faynting hart.
What woonder then if he were wrapt in lesse annoye?
What maruell if by sodain sight she fed of greater ioye?
His smaller greefe or ioy no smaller loue doo proue;
Ne, for she passed him in both, did she him passe in loue:

But eche of them alike dyd burne in equall flame,

The wel-belouing knight and eke the wel-beloued dame.
Now whilst with bitter teares her eyes as fountaynes ronne,
With whispering voice, y-broke with sobs, thus is her tale be-
gonne :

"Oh Romeus, of your lyfe too lauas sure you are,

That in this place, and at thys tyme, to hasard it you dare.
What if your dedly foes, my kinsmen, saw you here?

Lyke lyons wylde, your tender partes asonder would they teare.
In ruth and in disdayne, I, weary of my life,

With cruell hand my moorning hart would perce with bloudy knyfe.

For you, myne own, once dead, what ioy should I haue heare? And eke my honor staynde, which I then lyfe doe holde more deare."

"Fayre lady myne, dame Juliet, my lyfe (quod he)
Euen from my byrth committed was to fatall sisters three.
They may in spyte of foes draw foorth my liuely threed;
And they also (who so sayth nay) asonder may it shreed.
But who, to reaue my life, his rage and force would bende,
Perhaps should trye vnto his payne how I it coulde defende.
Ne yet I loue it so, but alwayes, for your sake,

A sacrifice to death I would my wounded corps betake.
If my mishappe were such, that here, before your sight,
I should restore agayne to death, of lyfe my borowde light,
This one thing and no more my parting sprite would rewe,
That part he should before that you by certaine triall knew
The loue I owe to you, the thrall I languish in,

And how I dread to loose the gayne which I doe hope to win :
And how I wishe for lyfe, not for my propre ease,
But that in it you might I loue, you honor, serue and please,
Till dedly pangs the sprite out of the corps shall send :"
And thereupon he sware an othe, and so his tale had ende.
Now loue and pitty boyle in Juliets ruthfull brest;
In windowe on her leaning arme her weary hed doth rest:
Her bosome bathd in teares (to witnes inward payne),
With dreary chere to Romeus thus aunswerd she agayne:
"Ah my dere Romeus, kepe in these woords, (quod she)
For lo, the thought of such mischaunce already maketh me
For pitty and for dred welnigh to yeld vp breath;
In euen ballance peysed are my life and eke
For so my hart is knitte, yea made one selfe with yours,
That sure there is no greefe so small, by which your mynde

: endures,

my

But as you suffer payne, so I doe beare in part

death.

(Although it lessens not your greefe) the halfe of all your smart.

But these thinges ouerpast, if of your health and myne
You haue respect, or pitty ought my tear-y-weeping eyen,
In few vnfained woords your hidden mynd vnfolde,

That as I see your pleasant face, your heart I may beholde.
For if you doe intende my honor to defile,

In error shall you wander still, as you haue done this whyle: But if your thought be chaste, and haue on vertue ground,

If wedlocke be the ende and marke which your desire hath found,

Obedience set aside, vnto my parentes dewe,

The quarell eke that long agone betwene our housholdes
Both me and myne I will all whole to you betake,

grewe,

And following you where so you goe, my fathers house forsake. But if by wanton loue and by vnlawfull sute

You thinke in ripest yeres to plucke my maydenhods dainty frute,

You are begylde; and now your Juliet you beseekes

To cease your sute, and suffer her to liue among her likes."
Then Romeus, whose thought was free from fowle desyre,
And to the top of vertues haight did worthely aspyre,
Was fild with greater ioy then can my pen expresse,

Or, till they haue enioyd the like, the hearers hart can gesse.*
And then with ioyned hands, heaud vp into the skies,

He thankes the Gods, and from the heauens for vengeance downe he cries,

If he haue other thought but as his Lady spake;

And then his looke he toornd to her, and thus did aunswer make: "Since, lady, that you like to honor me so much

As to accept me for your spouse, I yeld myselfe for such.

In true witnes wherof, because I must depart,

Till that my deede do proue my woord, I leaue in pawne my hart. Tomorrow eke betimes, before the sunne arise,

To Fryer Lawrence will I wende, to learne his sage aduise.

*

the hearers hart can gesse.] From these words it should seem that this poem was formerly sung or recited to casual passengers in the streets. See also p. 285, 1. 23:

"If any man be here, whom love hath clad with care,

"To him I speak; if thou wilt speed," &c. MALONE.

In former days, when the faculty of reading was by no means so general as at present, it must have been no unfrequent practice for those who did not possess this accomplishment to gratify their curiosity by listening while some better educated person read aloud. It is, I think, scarcely probable, that a poem of the length of this Tragicall Hystory should be sung or recited in the streets: And Sir John Maundevile, at the close of his work, intreats "alle the Rederes and HERERES of his boke, zif it plese hem that thei wolde preyen to God," &c. p. 383, 8vo. edit. 1727. By hereres of his boke he unquestionably intended hearers in the sense I have suggested. HOLT WHITE.