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The blindfold goddess that with frowning face doth fray,

And from their seat the mighty kings throws down with headlong sway.

Beginneth now to turn to these her smiling face;

Needs must they taste of great delight, so much in Fortune's grace.

If Cupid, god of love, be god of pleasant sport,

I think, O Romeus, Mars himself envies thy happy sort.

Ne Venus justly might, as I suppose, repent,

If in thy stead, O Juliet, this pleasant time she spent.

Thus pass they forth the night, in sport, in jolly game;

The hastiness of Phoebus' steeds in great despite they blame.

And now the virgin's fort hath warlike Romeus got,

In which as yet no breach was made by force of cannon shot,

And now in ease he doth possess the hopéd place:

How glad was he, speak you that may your lover's parts embrace.

The marriage thus made up, and both the parties pleased,

The nigh approach of day's return these seely fools dis-eased.

And for they might no while in pleasure pass their time,

Ne leisure had they much to blame the hasty morning's crime,

With friendly kiss in arms of her his leave he takes,

And every other night, to come, a solemn oath he makes,

By one self mean, and eke to come at one self hour:

And so he doth, till Fortune list to sauce his sweet with sour.

But who is he that can his present state assure?

And say unto himself, thy joys shall yet a day endure?

So wavering Fortune's wheel, her changes be so strange;

And every wight y-thralléd is by Fate unto her change,

Who reigns so over all, that each man hath his part

(Although not aye, perchance, alike) of pleasure and of smart.

For after many joys some feel but little pain,

And from that little grief they turn to happy joy again.

But other some there are, that, living long in woe,

At length they be in quiet ease, but long abide not so;

Whose grief is much increased by mirth that went before,

Because the sudden change of things doth make it seem the more.

Of this unlucky sort our Romeus is one,

For all his hap turns to mishap, and all his mirth to moan.

And joyful Juliet another leaf must turn;

As wont she was, her joys bereft, she must begin to mourn.

The summer of their bliss doth last a month or twain,

But winter's blast with speedy foot doth bring the fall again.

Whom glorious Fortune erst had heaved to the skies,

By envious Fortune overthrown, on earth now grovelling lies.

She paid their former grief with pleasure's doubled gain,

But now for pleasure's usury, tenfold redoubleth pain.

The prince could never cause those households so agree,

But that some sparkles of their wrath as yet remaining be;

Which lie this while raked up in ashes pale and dead

Till time do serve that they again in wasting flame may spread.

At holiest times, men say, most heinous crimes are done;

The morrow after Easter day the mischief new begun.

A band of Capulets did meet -- my heart it rues! --

Within the walls, by Purser's gate, a band of Montagues.

The Capulets, as chief, a young man have chose out,

Best exercised in feats of arms, and noblest of the rout,

Our Juliet's uncle's son, that clepéd was Tybalt;

He was of body tall and strong, and of his courage halt.

They need no trumpet sound to bid them give the charge,

So loud he cried with strainéd voice and mouth outstretchéd large:

"Now, now," quod he, "my friends, ourself so let us wreak,

That of this day's revenge and us our children's heirs may speak.

Now once for all let us their swelling pride assuage;

Let none of them escape alive." Then he, with furious rage,

And they with him, gave charge upon their present foes,

And then forthwith a skirmish great upon this fray arose.

For, lo, the Montagues thought shame away to fly,

And rather than to live with shame, with praise did choose to die.

The words that Tybalt used to stir his folk to ire,

Have in the breasts of Montagues kindled a furious fire.

With lions' hearts they fight, warely themself defend;

To wound his foe, his present wit and force each one doth bend.

This furious fray is long on each side stoutly fought,