_Rom_: Sleepe dwell vpon thine eyes, peace on thy breast, 205 I would that I were sleep and peace of sweet to rest. Now will I to my Ghostly fathers Cell, His help to craue, and my good hap to tell. [Sidenote: [SC. VII.]] _Enter Frier Francis._ _Frier_: The gray ey'd morne smiles on the frowning night, Checkring the Easterne clouds with streakes of light, And flecked darkenes like a drunkard reeles, From forth daies path, and _Titans_ fierie wheeles: Now ere the Sunne aduance his burning eye, 5 The world to cheare, and nights darke dew to drie. We must vp fill this oasier Cage of ours, With balefull weeds, and precious iuyced flowers. Oh mickle is the powerfull grace that lies In hearbes, plants, stones, and their true qualities: 10 For nought so vile, that vile on earth doth liue, But to the earth some speciall good doth giue: Nor nought so good, but straind from that faire use, Reuolts to vice and stumbles on abuse: Vertue it selfe turnes vice being misapplied, 15 And vice sometimes by action dignified. Within the infant rinde of this small flower, Poyson hath residence, and medecine power: For this being smelt too, with that part cheares ech hart, Being tasted slaies all sences with the hart. 20 Two such opposed foes incampe them still, In man as well as herbes, grace and rude will, And where the worser is predominant, Full soone the canker death eats vp that plant. _Rom_: Good morrow to my Ghostly Confessor. 25 _Fri: Benedicite_, what earlie tongue so soone saluteth me? Yong sonne it argues a distempered head, So soone to bid good morrow to my bed. Care keepes his watch in euerie old mans eye, And where care lodgeth, sleep can neuer lie: 30 But where vnbrused youth with vnstuft braines Doth couch his limmes, there golden sleepe remaines: Therefore thy earlines doth me assure, Thou art vprows'd by some distemperature. Or if not so, then here I hit it right 35 Our _Romeo_ hath not bin a bed to night. _Ro_: The last was true, the sweeter rest was mine. _Fr_: God pardon sin, wert thou with _Rosaline_? _Ro_: With _Rosaline_ my Ghostly father no, I haue forgot that name, and that names woe. 40 _Fri_: Thats my good sonne: but where hast thou bin then? _Ro_: I tell thee ere thou aske it me againe, I haue bin feasting with mine enemie: Where on the sodaine one hath wounded mee Thats by me wounded, both our remedies With in thy help and holy phisicke lies, I beare no hatred blessed man: for loe My intercession likewise steades my foe.