Benvolio.
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.

[Going.]

Benvolio.
Soft! I will go along:
An if you leave me so, you do me wrong.

Romeo.