At my poor house, look to behold this night
Earth-treading stars that make dark heav'n light;
Such comfort as do lusty young men feel
When well-apparel'd April on the heel
Of limping winter treads, even such delight
Among fresh female-buds shall you this night
Inherit at my house.
The feelings of youth and of the spring are here blended together
like the breath of opening flowers. Images of vernal beauty appear
to have floated before the author's mind, in writing this poem, in
profusion. Here is another of exquisite beauty, brought in more by
accident than by necessity. Montague declares of his son smit with a
hopeless passion, which he will not reveal:
But he, his own affection's counsellor,
Is to himself so secret and so close,
So far from sounding and discovery,
As is the bud bit with an envious worm,
Ere he can spread his sweet leaves to the air,
Or dedicate his beauty to the sun.
This casual description is as full of passionate beauty as when
Romeo dwells in frantic fondness on 'the white wonder of his
Juliet's hand'. The reader may, if he pleases, contrast the
exquisite pastoral simplicity of the above lines with the gorgeous
description of Juliet when Romeo first sees her at her father's
house, surrounded by company and artificial splendour.
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