1

Sam. Nay, as they dare. I will * bite my thumb at

them, which is a disgrace 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, Sir?
Sam. Is the law on our fide, if I fay, ay?

Greg. No.

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

but I bite my thumb, Sir.

Greg. Do you quarrel, Sir?

Abr. Quarrel, Sir? no, Sir.

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

a man as you.

Abr. No better:

Sam. Well, Sir.

(3) Enter Benvolio.

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

kinfmen.

Sam. Yes, better, Sir,

Abr. You lye,

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

swashing blow.

[They fight.

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

Enter Tybalt.

Tyb. What art thou drawn among these heartless

hinds?

Turn thee, Benvo'io, look upon thy death.

Ben. I do but keep the peace; put up thy fword,

Or manage it to part these men with me.

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

Orgylus. "To bite his thumb at me.

Argus. "Why should not a man bite his own thumb? Org. "At me? were I scorn'd, to see men bite their thumbs; "Rapiers and daggers, he's the fon of a whore." Dr. GRAY. (3) Enter Benvolio.] Much of this scene is added fince the first 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 partisans! strike! beat them down!

Down with the Capulets, down with the Montagues!

Enter old Capulet in his gown, and lady Capulet. Cap. What noise 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 say: old Montague is come,

And flourishes his blade in spight of me.

Enter old Montague, and Lady Montague

Mon. Thou villain, Capulet

let me go.

Hold me not,

La. Mon. Thou shalt not stir a foot to feek a foe.

Enter Prince with attendants.

Prin. Rebellious Subjects, enemies to peace, Profaners of this neighbour-stained steelWill they not hear? What ho! you men, you beafts, That quench the fire of your pernicious rage With purple fountains issuing from your veins; On pain of torture, from those 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 disturb'd the Quiet of our streets; And made Verona's ancient Citizens Caft by their grave, beseeming, ornaments; To weild old partizans, in hands as old,

(4) give me my long sword,] The long fword was the sword used

in war, which was formetimes wielded with both hands

Can

Cankred with peace, to part your cankred hate;
If ever you disturb our streets again,
Your lives shall pay the forfeit of the peace.
For this time all the rest depart away,
You, Capulet, shall go along with me;
And, Montague, come you this afternoon,
To know our further pleasure in this case,
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 set this ancient quarrel new abroach; Speak, nephew, were you by, when it began? Ben. Here were the fervants of your adverfary, And yours, close fighting, ere I did approach; I drew to part them: In the instant came The fiery Tybalt, with his sword prepar'd, Which, as he breath'd defiance to my ears, He swung about his head, and cut the winds, Who, nothing hurt withal, hiss'd him in scorn. While we were interchanging thrusts 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 East, A troubled mind drew me to walk abroad; Where, underneath the grove of sycamour, That westward rooteth from the City side, So early walking did I fee your fon. Tow'rds him I made; but he was 'ware of me, And stole into the covert of the wood. I, measuring his affections by my own,

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

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

-by my oron.

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

Being one too many by my weary self,

Pursued my bumour, &c.

A5

POPE.

Purfued

Pursued my humour, not pursuing him;
(6) And gladly shun'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 furthest East, begin to draw
The shady curtains from Aurora's bed;
Away from light steals home my heavy fon,
And private in his chamber pens himself,
Shuts up his windows, locks fair day-light out,
And makes himself an artificial night.
Black and portentous must this humour prove,
Unless good counsel may the cause 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 say, how true,
But to himself so secret and fo clofe,
So far from founding and discovery,
As is the bud bit with an envious worm,
Ere he can spread his sweet 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 shunn'd, &c] The ten lines following, not in POPE.

edition 1597, but in the next 1599.

(7) Ben. Have you importun'd, &c] These two speeches also

cmitted in edition 1597, but inferted in 1599.

POPE.

(8) Or dedicate bis beauty to the Same.] When we come to conider, that there is some power elfe befides balmy air, that brings forth, and makes the tender buds spread thernselves, I do not think it improbable that the Poet wrote;

Or dedicate bis beauty to the Sun.

Or, according to the more obfolete spelling, 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 closely with the foregoing speech; these 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 please you, step afide,

I'll know his grievance, or be much deny'd.

Mon. I would, thou wert so happy by thy stay,
To hear true shrift. Come, Madam, let's away.

Ben. Good-morrow, coufin.
Rom. Is the day so young?
Ben. But new struck nine.

Rom. Ah me, fad hours feem long!

--Was that my father that went hence so fast?

[Exeunt.

Ben. It was. What sadness 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, so gentle in his view, Should be fo tyrannous and rough in proof!

Rom. Alas, that love, whose view is muffled still, Should without eyes fee path-ways (9) to his will! Where shall we dine? - O 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 breast.

(1) Why then, O brawling love! O loving hate!
Oh, any thing of nothing first create!
O heavy lightness! serious vanity!
Mif-shapen chaos of well-feeming forms!
Feather of lead, bright smoke, 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 present reading has fome obscurity; the meaning may be, that love finds out means to pursue his defire. That the blind should find paths to ill is no great wonder.

(1) Wby then, O brawling love, &c.] Of these lines neither the sense 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 state, as can deferve all this toil of antithefis.

Ben.