MONTAGUE

Thou villain Capulet. Hold me not, let me go Who set this ancient quarrel new abroach? Speak Nephew, were you by, when it began: I neither know it, nor can learn of him. Both by my self and many others Friends, But he his own affections counseller, Is to himself (I will not say how true) But to himself so secret and so close, So far from sounding and discovery, As is the bud bit with and envious worm, Ere he can spread his sweet leaves to the air, Or dedicate his beauty to the same. Could we but learn from whence his sorrows grow, We would as willingly give cure, as know. I would thou Wertenberg so happy by thy stay, To hear true shrift. Come Madam let's away. Alas my liege, my wife is dead to night, Grief of my Sons exile hath stopped her breath: What further woe conspires against my age? Oh thou untaught, what manners in is this, To press before thy Father to a graven? But I can give thee more: For I will raise her Statue in pure Gold, That while Ʋ erona by that name is known, There shall no figure at that Rate be set, As that of True and Faithful Juliet. Many a morning hath he there been seen, With tears augmenting the fresh morning's dew, Adding to clouds, more clouds with his deep sighs, But all so soon as the all-cheering Sun, Should in the farthest East begin to draw The shady Curtains from Aurora's bed, Away from light-steales home my heavy Son, And private in his Chamber pens himself, Shuts up his windows, locks fair daylight out, And makes himself and artificial night: Black and portendous must this humour prove, Unless good counsel may the cause remove.