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Folly it is to fear that thou canst not avoid,

And madness to desire it much that cannot be enjoyed.

To give to Fortune place, not aye deserveth blame,

But skill it is, according to the times thyself to frame."

Whilst to this skilful lore he lent his list'ning ears,

His sighs are stopped and stoppéd are the conduits of his tears.

As blackest clouds are chased by winter's nimble wind,

So have his reasons chaséd care out of his careful mind.

As of a morning foul ensues an evening fair,

So banished hope returneth home to banish his despair.

Now is affection's veil removed from his eyes,

He seeth the path that he must walk, and reason makes him wise.

For very shame the blood doth flash in both his cheeks,

He thanks the father for his lore, and farther aid he seeks.

He saith, that skill-less youth for counsel is unfit,

And anger oft with hastiness are joined to want of wit;

But sound advice abounds in heads with hoarish hairs,

For wisdom is by practice won, and perfect made by years.

But aye from this time forth his ready bending will

Shall be in awe and governéd by Friar Laurence' skill.

The governor is now right careful of his charge,

To whom he doth wisely discourse of his affairs at large.

He tells him how he shall depart the town unknown,

Both mindful of his friend's safety, and careful of his own;

How he shall guide himself, how he shall seek to win

The friendship of the better sort, how warely to creep in

The favour of the Mantuan prince, and how he may

Appease the wrath of Escalus, and wipe the fault away;

The choler of his foes by gentle means t' assuage,

Or else by force and practices to bridle quite their rage:

And last he chargeth him at his appointed hour

To go with manly, merry cheer unto his lady's bower,

And there with wholesome words to salve her sorrow's smart,

And to revive, if need require, her faint and dying heart.

The old man's words have filled with joy our Romeus' breast,

And eke the old wife's talk hath set our Juliet's heart at rest.

Whereto may I compare, O lovers, this your day?

Like days the painful mariners are wonted to assay;

For, beat with tempest great, when they at length espy

Some little beam of Phoebus' light, that pierceth through the sky,

To clear the shadowed earth by clearness of his face,

They hope that dreadless they shall run the remnant of their race;

Yea, they assure themself, and quite behind their back

They cast all doubt, and thank the gods for scaping of the wrack;

But straight the boisterous winds with greater fury blow,

And overboard the broken mast the stormy blasts do throw;

The heavens large are clad with clouds as dark as hell,

And twice as high the striving waves begin to roar and swell;

With greater dangers dread the men are vexéd more,

In greater peril of their life than they had been before.

The golden sun was gone to lodge him in the west,

The full moon eke in yonder south had sent most men to rest,

When restless Romeus and restless Juliet

In wonted sort, by wonted mean, in Juliet's chamber met.

And from the window's top down had he leapéd scarce,

When she with arms outstretchéd wide so hard did him embrace,

That well nigh had the sprite, not forced by deadly force,

Flown unto death, before the time abandoning the corse,

Thus muet stood they both the eighth part of an hour,

And both would speak, but neither had of speaking any power;

But on his breast her head doth joyless Juliet lay,

And on her slender neck his chin doth ruthful Romeus stay.

Their scalding sighs ascend, and by their cheeks down fall

Their trickling tears, as crystal clear, but bitterer far than gall.

Then he, to end the grief which both they lived in,

Did kiss his love, and wisely thus his tale he did begin:

"My Juliet, my love, my only hope and care,

To you I purpose not as now with length of word declare

The diverseness and eke the accidents so strange

Of frail unconstant Fortune, that delighteth still in change;

Who in a moment heaves her friends up to the height