Where, underneath the grove of sycamore
That westward rooteth from the city's side, 128
So early walking did I see your son:
Towards him I made; but he was ware of me,
And stole into the covert of the wood:
I, measuring his affections by my own, 132
Which then most sought where most might not be found,
Being one too many by my weary self,
Pursu'd my humour not pursuing his,
And gladly shunn'd who gladly fled from me.
Mon. Many a morning hath he there been seen, 136
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 furthest east begin to draw 140
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. 145
Black and portentous must this humour prove
Unless good counsel may the cause remove.
Ben. My noble uncle, do you know the cause?
Mon. I neither know it nor can learn of him.
Ben. Have you importun'd him by any means?
Mon. Both by myself and many other friends:
But he, his own affections' counsellor, 152
Is to himself, I will not say how true,
But to himself so secret and so close,
So far from sounding and discovery,
130 ware: aware
132 affections: inclinations
133 most sought: i.e., most sought to be
142 heavy: sad
