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One Romeus, who was of race a Montague,

Upon whose tender chin, as yet, no manlike beard there grew,

Whose beauty and whose shape so far the rest did stain,

That from the chief of Verone youth he greatest fame did gain,

Hath found a maid so fair (he found so foul his hap),

Whose beauty, shape, and comely grace, did so his heart entrap

That from his own affairs, his thought she did remove;

Only he sought to honour her, to serve her and to love.

To her he writeth oft, oft messengers are sent,

At length, in hope of better speed, himself the lover went,

Present to plead for grace, which absent was not found:

And to discover to her eye his new receivéd wound.

But she that from her youth was fostered evermore

With virtue's food, and taught in school of wisdom's skilful lore

By answer did cut off th'affections of his love,

That he no more occasion had so vain a suit to move.

So stern she was of cheer, for all the pain he took,

That, in reward of toil, she would not give a friendly look.

And yet how much she did with constant mind retire;

So much the more his fervent mind was pricked forth by desire.

But when he many months, hopeless of his recure,

Had servéd her, who forced not what pains he did endure

At length he thought to leave Verona, and to prove

If change of place might change away his ill-bestowéd love;

And speaking to himself, thus 'gan he make his moan:

"What booteth me to love and serve a fell, unthankful one,

Sith that my humble suit and labour sowed in vain,

Can reap none other fruit at all but scorn and proud disdain?

What way she seeks to go, the same I seek to run,

But she the path wherein I tread, with speedy flight doth shun.

I cannot live, except that near to her I be;

She is aye best content when she is farthest off from me.

Wherefore henceforth I will far from her take my flight;

Perhaps mine eye once banished by absence from her sight,

This fire of mine, that by her pleasant eyne is fed,

Shall little and little wear away, and quite at last be dead."

But whilst he did decree this purpose still to keep,

A contrary, repugnant thought sank in his breast so deep,

That doubtful is he now which of the twain is best:

In sighs, in tears, in plaint, in care, in sorrow and unrest,

He moans the day, he wakes the long and weary night;

So deep hath love with piercing hand, y-graved her beauty bright

Within his breast, and hath so mastered quite his heart,

That he of force must yield as thrall; -- no way is left to start.

He cannot stay his step, but forth still must he run;

He languisheth and melts away, as snow against the sun.

His kindred and allies do wonder what he ails,

And each of them in friendly wise his heavy hap bewails.

But one among the rest, the trustiest of his feres,

Far more than he with counsel filled, and riper of his years,

'Gan sharply him rebuke, such love to him he bare,

That he was fellow of his smart, and partner of his care.

"What mean'st thou, Romeus, quoth he, what doting rage

Doth make thee thus consume away the best part of thine age,

In seeking her that scorns, and hides her from thy sight,

Not forcing all thy great expense, ne yet thy honour bright,

Thy tears, thy wretched life, ne thine unspotted truth,

Which are of force, I ween, to move the hardest heart to ruth?

Now for our friendship's sake, and for thy health, I pray,

That thou henceforth become thine own. -- Oh, give no more away

Unto a thankless wight thy precious free estate;

In that thou lovest such a one, thou seem'st thyself to hate.

For she doth love elsewhere, -- and then thy time is lorn,

Or else (what booteth thee to sue?) Love's court she hath forsworn.

Both young thou art of years, and high in Fortune's grace:

What man is better shaped than thou ? Who hath a sweeter face?

By painful studies' mean, great learning hast thou won;

Thy parents have none other heir, thou art their only son.

What greater grief, trowst thou, what woeful deadly smart

Should so be able to distrain thy seely father's heart,

As in his age to see thee plung