[Which then] most sought where most might not be found,
Being one too many by my weary self,
Pursued my humour, not pursuing his,
And gladly shunn'd [who] gladly fled from me.
Montague. Many a morning hath he there been seen,
With tears augmenting the fresh morning's dew,
Adding to clouds more clouds with his deep sighs;
But [all so soon] as the all-cheering sun
Should in the farthest east begin to draw
The shady curtains from Aurora's bed,