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,
  Away from light steals home my heavy son,
  And private in his chamber pens himself,
  Shuts up his windows, locks fair daylight out,
  And makes himself an artificial night.
  Black and portentous must this humour prove,
  Unless good counsel may the cause remove.                        
Benvolio: My noble uncle, do you know the cause?  
Montague: I neither know it nor can learn of him.  
Benvolio: Have you importun'd him by any means?  
Montague: Both by myself and many other friends;
  But he, his own affections' counsellor,
  Is to himself--I will not say how true--
  But 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.                               
  Could we but learn from whence his sorrows grow,
  We would as willingly give cure as know.
Enter Romeo  
Benvolio: See, where he comes! So please you, step aside;
  I'll know his grievance or be much denied.  
Montague: I would thou wert so happy by thy stay
  To hear true shrift.--Come, madam, let's away.  
Benvolio: Good morrow, cousin.  
Romeo: Is the day so young?  
Benvolio: But new struck nine.  
Romeo: Ay me! sad hours seem long.
  Was that my father that went hence so fast?  
Benvolio: It was. What sadness lengthens Romeo's hours?        
Romeo: Not having that which, having, makes them short.  
Benvolio: In love?  
Romeo: Out--  
Benvolio: Of love?  
Romeo: Out of her favour where I am in love.  

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