Actus Quartus. Scæna Prima.
Enter Montague alone in mean habit.
Mont. Now Montague, who discerns thy spirit now?
Thy breeding, or thy bloud? here's a poor cloud
Eclipseth all thy splendor; who can read
In thy pale face, dead eye, or lenten shute,
The liberty thy ever-giving hand
Hath bought for others, manacling it self
In gyves of parchment indissoluble?
The greatest hearted man supplyed with means,
Nobility of birth and gentlest parts,
I thought the right hand of his Sovereign,
If virtue quit her seat in his high soul,
Glitters but like a Palace set on fire,
Whose glory whilst it shines, but ruins him,
And his bright show each hour to ashes tending
Shall at the last be rak'd up like a sparkle,
Unless mens lives and fortunes feed the flame.
Not for my own wants, though blame I my Stars,
But suffering others to cast love on me,
When I can neither take, nor thankful be.
My Ladies woman, fair and virtuous
Young as the present month, sollicites me
For love and marriage now being nothing worth—
Enter Veramour.
Ver. Oh! Master, I have sought you a long hour,
Good faith, I never joy'd out of your sight;
For Heavens sake, Sir, be merry, or else bear
The buffets of your fortunes with more scorn;
Do but begin to rail, teach me the way,
And I'll sit down, and help your anger forth:
I have known you wear a suit; full worth a Lordship,
Give to a man whose need ne'er frighted you
From calling of him friend, five hundred Crowns
E'er sleep had left your sences to consider
Your own important present uses; yet
Since I have seen you with a t[r]encher wait,
Void of all scorn, therefore I'll wait on you.
Mont. Would [God] thou wert less honest.
Ver. Would to [God] you were less worthy: I am ev'n w'e Sir.
Mon. Is not thy Master strangely fall'n, when thou
Servest for no wages, but for charity?
Thou dost surcharge me with thy plenteous love:
The goodness of thy virtue shown to me,
More opens still my disability
To quit thy pains: credit me loving boy,
A free and honest nature may be opprest,
Tir'd with courtesies from a liberal spirit,
When they exceed his means of gratitude.
Ver. But 'tis a due in him that to that end
Extends his love or duty.
Mont. Little world
Of virtue, why dost love and follow me?