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That where such perfect shape with pleasant beauty rests,

There crooked craft and treason black should be appointed guests.

Sage writers say, the thoughts are dwelling in the eyne;

Then sure I am, as Cupid reigns, that Romeus is mine.

The tongue the messenger eke call they of the mind;

So that I see he loveth me; shall I then be unkind?

His face's rosy hue I saw full oft to seek;

And straight again it flashéd forth, and spread in either cheek.

His fixéd heavenly eyne, that through me quite did pierce

His thoughts unto my heart, my thought they seeméd to rehearse.

What meant his falt'ring tongue in telling of his tale?

The trembling of his joints, and eke his colour waxen pale?

And whilst I talked with him, himself he hath exiled

Out of himself, a seeméd me, ne was I sure beguiled.

Those arguments of love Craft wrate not in his face,

But Nature's hand, when all deceit was banished out of place.

What other certain signs seek I of his good will?

These do suffice; and steadfast I will love and serve him still.

Till Atropos shall cut my fatal thread of life,

So that he mind to make of me his lawful wedded wife.

For so perchance this new alliance may procure

Unto our houses such a peace as ever shall endure." Oh, how we can persuade ourself to what we like,

And how we can dissuade our mind, if aught our mind mislike!

Weak arguments are strong, our fancies straight to frame

To pleasing things, and eke to shun if we mislike the same.

The maid had scarcely yet ended the weary war,

Kept in her heart by striving thoughts, when every shining star

Had paid his borrowed light, and Phoebus spread in skies

His golden rays, which seemed to say, now time it is to rise.

And Romeus had by this forsaken his weary bed,

Where restless he a thousand thoughts had forgéd in his head.

And while with ling'ring step by Juliet's house he passed,

And upwards to her windows high his greedy eyes did cast,

His love that looked for him there 'gan he straight espy.

With pleasant cheer each greeted is; she followeth with her eye

His parting steps, and he oft looketh back again

But not so oft as he desires; warely he doth refrain.

What life were like to love, if dread of jeopardy

Y-soured not the sweet, if love were free from jealousy!

But she more sure within, unseen of any wight,

When so he comes, looks after him till he be out of sight.

In often passing so, his busy eyes he threw,

That every pane and tooting hole the wily lover knew.

In happy hour he doth a garden plot espy,

From which, except he warely walk, men may his love descry;

For lo, it fronted full upon her leaning place,

Where she is wont to show her heart by cheerful friendly face.

And lest the arbours might their secret love bewray,

He doth keep back his forward foot from passing there by day;

But when on earth the Night her mantle black hath spread;

Well armed he walketh forth alone, ne dreadful foes doth dread.

Whom maketh Love not bold, nay,whom makes he not blind?

He reaveth danger's dread oft-times out of the lover's mind.

By night he passeth here, a week or two in vain;

And for the missing of his mark his grief hath him nigh slain.

And Juliet that now doth lack her heart's relief,

Her Romeus' pleasant eyne, I mean, is almost dead for grief.

Each day she changeth hours (for lovers keep an hour

When they are sure to see their love in passing by their bower).

Impatient of her woe, she happed to lean one night

Within her window, and anon the moon did shine so bright

That she espied her love: her heart revivéd sprang;

And now for joy she claps her hands, which erst for woe she wrang.

Eke Romeus, when he saw his long desiréd sight,

His mourning cloak of moan cast off, hath clad him with delight.

Yet dare I say, of both that she rejoicéd more:

His care was great, hers twice as great was all the time before;

For whilst she knew not why he did himself absent,

Aye doubting both his health and life, his death she did lament

For love is fearful oft where is no cause of fear,

And what love fears, that love