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 made 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. [_Going._]
BENVOLIO.
Soft! I will go along: 
And 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, 
A word ill urg’d to one that is so ill. 
In sadness, cousin, I do love a woman.
BENVOLIO.
I aim’d so near when I suppos’d you lov’d.
ROMEO.
A right good markman, and she’s fair I love.
BENVOLIO.
A right fair mark, fair coz, is soonest hit.
ROMEO.

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