Good heart, at what?


BENVOLIO.

At thy good heart’s oppression.


ROMEO.

Why such is love’s transgression.

Griefs of mine own lie heavy in my breast,

Which thou wilt propagate to have it prest

With more of thine. This love that thou hast shown

Doth add more grief to too much of mine own.

Love is a smoke made with the fume of sighs;

Being purg’d, a fire sparkling in lovers’ eyes;

Being vex’d, a sea nourish’d with lovers’ tears:

What is it else? A madness most discreet,

A choking gall, and a preserving sweet.

Farewell, my coz.


 [Going.]
BENVOLIO.

Soft! I will go along:

And if you leave me so, you do me wrong.


ROMEO.

Tut! I have lost myself; I am not here.

This is not Romeo, he’s some other where.


BENVOLIO.

Tell me in sadness who is that you love?


ROMEO.

What, shall I groan and tell thee?


BENVOLIO.

Groan! Why, no; but sadly tell me who.


ROMEO.

Bid a sick man in sadness make his will,

A word ill urg’d to one that is so ill.

In sadness, cousin, I do love a woman.


BENVOLIO.

I aim’d so near when I suppos’d you lov’d.


ROMEO.

A right good markman, and she’s fair I love.


BENVOLIO.

A right fair mark, fair coz, is soonest hit.


ROMEO.

Well, in that hit you miss: she’ll not be hit

With Cupid’s arrow, she hath Dian’s wit;

And in strong proof of chastity well arm’d,

From love’s weak childish bow she lives uncharm’d.

She will not stay the siege of loving terms

Nor bide th’encounter of assailing eyes,

Nor ope her lap to saint-seducing gold:

O she’s rich in beauty, only poor

That when she dies, with beauty dies her store.


BENVOLIO.

Then she hath sworn that she will still live chaste?


ROMEO.

She hath, and in that sparing makes huge waste;

For beauty starv’d with her severity,

Cuts beauty off from all posterity.

She is too fair, too wise; wisely too fair,

To merit bliss by making me despair.

She hath forsworn to love, and in that vow