_Exeunt._ _M_: wife. Who set this auncient quarrel first abroach? Speake Nephew, were you by when it began? _Benuo_: Here were the seruants of your aduersaries, And yours close fighting ere I did approch. 60 _Wife_: Ah where is _Romeo_, saw you him to day? Right glad I am he was not at this fray. _Ben_: Madame, an houre before the worshipt sunne Peept through the golden window of the East, A troubled thought drew me from companie: Where vnderneath the groue _Sicamoure_, That Westward rooteth from the Citties side, So early walking might I see your sonne. I drew towards him, but he was ware of me, And drew into the thicket of the wood: 70 I noting his affections by mine owne, That most are busied when th' are most alone, Pursued my honor, not pursuing his. _Moun_: Black and portentious must this honor proue, Vnlesse good counsaile doo the cause remooue. 75 _Ben_: Why tell me Vncle do you know the cause? _Enter Romeo._ _Moun_: I neyther know it nor can learne of him. _Ben_: See where he is, but stand you both aside, Ile know his grieuance, or be much denied. _Mount_: I would thou wert so happie by thy stay 80 To heare true shrift. Come Madame lets away. _Benuo_: Good morrow Cosen. _Romeo_: Is the day so young? _Ben_: But new stroke nine. _Romeo_: Ay me, sad hopes seeme long. 85 Was that my Father that went hence so fast? _Ben_: It was, what sorrow lengthens _Romeos_ houres? _Rom_: Not hauing that, which hauing makes them short. _Ben_: In loue. _Ro_: Out. 90 _Ben_: Of loue. _Ro_: Out of her fauor where I am in loue. _Ben_: Alas that loue so gentle in her view, Should be so tyrranous and rough in proofe. _Ro_: Alas that loue whose view is muffled still, 95 Should without lawes giue path-waies to our will: Where shall we dine? Gods me, what fray was here? Yet tell me not for I haue heard it all, Heres much to doe with hate, but more with loue. Why then, O brawling loue, O louing hate, 100 O anie thing, of nothing first create! O heauie lightnes serious vanitie! Mishapen _Caos_ of best seeming thinges, Feather of lead, bright smoke, cold fire, sicke health, Still waking sleepe, that is not what it is: 105 This loue feele I, which feele no loue in this. Doest thou not laugh? _Ben_: No Cose I rather weepe. _Rom_: Good hart at what? _Ben_: At thy good hearts oppression. 110