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ROMEO AND JULIET. 17 

Feather of lead, bright smoke, cold fire, sick health ! 
Still-waking sleep, that is not what it is ! 
This love feel I, that feel no love in this. 
Dost thou not laugh ? 

Benvolw, No, coz, I rather weep. 

Romeo. Good heart, at what ? 

Benvolio. At thy good heart's oppression. 

Romeo. Why, such is love's transgression. 
Griefs of mine own lie heavy in my breast, 
Which thou wilt propagate, to have it prest 
With more of thine ; this love that thou hast shown 
Doth add more grief to too much of mine own. 
Love is a smoke rais'd with the fume of sighs : 
Being purg'd, a fire sparkling in lovers' eyes ; 
Being vex'd, a sea nourish'd with lovers' tears ; 
What is it else ? a madness most discreet, 
A choking gall, and a preserving sweet. 
Farewell, my coz. 

Benvolio. Soft ! I will go along ; 

An if you leave me so, you do me wrong. 

Romeo. Tut, I have lost myself ; I am not here : 
This is not Romeo, he's some other where. 

Benvolio. Tell me in sadness who is that you love. 

Romeo. What, shall I groan and tell thee ? 

Benvolio. Groan ! why, no ; 

But sadly tell me who. 

Romeo. Bid a sick man in sadness make his will;