This casual description is as full of passionate beauty as when Romeo dwells in frantic fondness on 'the white wonder of his Juliet's hand'. The reader may, if he pleases, contrast the exquisite pastoral simplicity of the above lines with the gorgeous description of Juliet when Romeo first sees her at her father's house, surrounded by company and artificial splendour. What lady's that which doth enrich the hand Of yonder knight? O she doth teach the torches to burn bright; Her beauty hangs upon the cheek of night, Like a rich jewel in an Aethiop's ear. It would be hard to say which of the two garden scenes is the finest, that where he first converses with his love, or takes leave of her the morning after their marriage. Both are like a heaven upon earth: the blissful bowers of Paradise let down upon this lower world. We will give only one passage of these well-known scenes to show the perfect refinement and delicacy of Shakespeare's conception of the female character. It is wonderful how Collins, who was a critic and a poet of great sensibility, should have encouraged the common error on this subject by saying--'But stronger Shakespeare felt for man alone'. The passage we mean is Juliet's apology for her maiden boldness. Thou know'st the mask of night is on my face; Else would a maiden blush bepaint my cheek For that which thou hast heard me speak to-night. Fain would I dwell on form, fain, fain deny What I have spoke--but farewell compliment: Dost thou love me? I know thou wilt say, aye, And I will take thee at thy word--Yet if thou swear'st, Thou may'st prove false; at lovers' perjuries They say Jove laughs. Oh gentle Romeo, If thou dost love, pronounce it faithfully; Or if thou think I am too quickly won, I'll frown and be perverse, and say thee nay, So thou wilt woo: but else not for the world. In truth, fair Montague, I am too fond; And therefore thou may'st think my 'haviour light; But trust me, gentleman, I'll prove more true Than those that have more cunning to be strange. I should have been more strange, I must confess, But that thou over-heard'st, ere I was ware, My true love's passion; therefore pardon me, And not impute this yielding to light love, Which the dark night hath so discovered. In this and all the rest her heart, fluttering between pleasure, hope, and fear, seems to have dictated to her tongue, and 'calls true love spoken simple modesty'. Of the same sort, but bolder in virgin innocence, is her soliloquy after her marriage with Romeo.