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| Montague |
Who set this ancient quarrel new abroach? |
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Speak, nephew, were you by when it began? |
| Benvolio |
Here were the servants of your adversary, |
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And yours, close fighting ere I did approach: |
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I drew to part them: in the instant came |
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The fiery Tybalt, with his sword prepared, |
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Which, as he breathed defiance to my ears, |
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He swung about his head and cut the winds, |
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Who nothing hurt withal hiss'd him in scorn: |
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While we were interchanging thrusts and blows, |
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Came more and more and fought on part and part, |
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Till the prince came, who parted either part. |
| Lady Montague |
O, where is Romeo? saw you him to-day? |
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Right glad I am he was not at this fray. |
| Benvolio |
Madam, an hour before the worshipp'd sun |
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Peer'd forth the golden window of the east, |
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A troubled mind drave me to walk abroad; |
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Where, underneath the grove of sycamore |
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That westward rooteth from the city's side, |
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So early walking did I see your son: |
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Towards him I made, but he was ware of me |
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And stole into the covert of the wood: |
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I, measuring his affections by my own, |
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That most are busied when they're most alone, |
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Pursued my humour not pursuing his, |
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And gladly shunn'd who gladly fled from me. |
| Montague |
Many a morning hath he there been seen, |
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With tears augmenting the fresh morning dew. |
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Adding to clouds more clouds with his deep sighs; |
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But all so soon as the all-cheering sun |
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Should in the furthest east begin to draw |
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The shady curtains from Aurora's bed, |
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Away from the light steals home my heavy son, |
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And private in his chamber pens himself, |
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Shuts up his windows, locks far daylight out |
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And makes himself an artificial night: |
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Black and portentous must this humour prove, |
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Unless good counsel may the cause remove. |
| Benvolio |
My noble uncle, do you know the cause? |
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I neither know it nor can learn of him. |
| Benvolio |
Have you importuned him by any means? |
| Montague |
Both by myself and many other friends: |
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But he, his own affections' counsellor, |
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Is to himself--I will not say how true-- |
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But to himself so secret and so close, |
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So far from sounding and discovery, |
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As is the bud bit with an envious worm, |
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Ere he can spread his sweet leaves to the air, |
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Or dedicate his beauty to the sun. |
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Could we but learn from whence his sorrows grow. |
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We would as willingly give cure as know. |
| Benvolio |
See, where he comes: so please you, step aside; |
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I'll know his grievance, or be much denied. |
| Montague |
I would thou wert so happy by thy stay, |
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To hear true shrift. Come, madam, let's away. |
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Exeunt MONTAGUE and LADY MONTAGUE |
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