Lady Capulet.

Marry, my child, early next Thursday morning

The gallant, young, and noble gentleman,

The County Paris, at St. Peter’s Church,

Shall happily make thee there a joyful bride.

Juliet.

Now by Saint Peter’s Church, and Peter too,

He shall not make me there a joyful bride.

I wonder at this haste; that I must wed

Ere he that should be husband comes to woo.

I pray you, tell my lord and father, madam,

I will not marry yet; and when I do,

I swear It shall be Romeo, whom you know

I hate, Rather than Paris:—these are news indeed!

Lady Capulet.

Here comes your father: tell him so yourself,

And see how he will take it at your hands.

          [Enter Capulet and Nurse.]

Capulet.

When the sun sets, the air doth drizzle dew;

But for the sunset of my brother’s son It rains downright.—

How now! a conduit, girl? what, still in tears?

Evermore showering? In one little body

Thou counterfeit’st a bark, a sea, a wind:

For still thy eyes, which I may call the sea,

Do ebb and flow with tears; the bark thy body is,

Sailing in this salt flood; the winds, thy sighs;

Who,—raging with thy tears and they with them,—

Without a sudden calm, will overset

Thy tempest-tossed body.—

How now, wife! Have you deliver’d to her our decree?

Lady Capulet.

Ay, sir; but she will none, she gives you thanks.

I would the fool were married to her grave!

Capulet.

Soft! take me with you, take me with you, wife.

How! will she none? doth she not give us thanks?

Is she not proud? doth she not count her bles’d,

Unworthy as she is, that we have wrought

So worthy a gentleman to be her bridegroom?

Juliet.

Not proud you have; but thankful that you have:

Proud can I never be of what I hate;

But thankful even for hate that is meant love.

Capulet.

How now, how now, chop-logic!

What is this? Proud,—and,

I thank you,—and I thank you not;—

And yet not proud:—mistress minion, you,

Thank me no thankings, nor proud me no prouds,

But fettle your fine joints ‘gainst Thursday next

To go with Paris to Saint Peter’s Church,

Or I will drag thee on a hurdle thither.

Out, you green-sickness carrion! out, you baggage!

You tallow-face!

Lady Capulet.

Fie, fie! what, are you mad?

Juliet.

Good father, I beseech you on my knees,

Hear me with patience but to speak a word.

Capulet.

Hang thee, young baggage! disobedient wretch!

I tell thee what,—get thee to church o’ Thursday,

Or never after look me in the face:

Speak not, reply not, do not answer me;

My fingers itch.—Wife, we scarce thought us bles’d

That God had lent us but this only child;

But now I see this one is one too much,

And that we have a curse in having her:

Out on her, hilding!

Nurse.

God in heaven bless her!—

You are to blame, my lord, to rate her so.

Capulet.

And why, my lady wisdom? hold your tongue,

Good prudence; smatter with your gossips, go.

Nurse.

I speak no treason.

Capulet.

O, God ye good-en!

Nurse.

May not one speak?

Capulet.

Peace, you mumbling fool!

Utter your gravity o’er a gossip’s bowl,

For here we need it not.

Lady Capulet.

You are too hot.

Capulet.

God’s bread! it makes me mad:

Day, night, hour, time, tide, work, play,

Alone, in company, still my care hath been

To have her match’d, and having now provided

A gentleman of noble parentage,

Of fair demesnes, youthful, and nobly train’d,

Stuff’d, as they say, with honourable parts,

Proportion’d as one’s heart would wish a man,—

And then to have a wretched puling fool,

A whining mammet, in her fortune’s tender,

To answer, ‘I’ll not wed,—I cannot love,

I am too young,—I pray you pardon me:’—

But, an you will not wed, I’ll pardon you:

Graze where you will, you shall not house with me:

Look to’t, think on’t, I do not use to jest.

Thursday is near; lay hand on heart, advise:

An you be mine, I’ll give you to my friend;

An you be not, hang, beg, starve, die i’ the streets,

For, by my soul, I’ll ne’er acknowledge thee,

Nor what is mine shall never do thee good:

Trust to’t, bethink you, I’ll not be forsworn.

          [Exit.]

Juliet.

Is there no pity sitting in the clouds,

That sees into the bottom of my grief?

O, sweet my mother, cast me not away!

Delay this marriage for a month, a week;

Or, if you do not, make the bridal bed

In that dim monument where Tybalt lies.

Lady Capulet.

Talk not to me, for I’ll not speak a word;

Do as thou wilt, for I have done with thee.

          [Exit.]

Juliet.

O God!—O nurse! how shall this be prevented?

My husband is on earth, my faith in heaven;

How shall that faith return again to earth,

Unless that husband send it me from heaven

By leaving earth?—comfort me, counsel me.—

Alack, alack, that heaven should practise stratagems

Upon so soft a subject as myself!—

What say’st thou? hast thou not a word of joy?

Some comfort, nurse.

Nurse.

Faith, here ‘tis; Romeo

Is banished; and all the world to nothing

That he dares ne’er come back to challenge you;

Or if he do, it needs must be by stealth.

Then, since the case so stands as now it doth,

I think it best you married with the county.

O, he’s a lovely gentleman!

Romeo’s a dishclout to him; an eagle, madam,

Hath not so green, so quick, so fair an eye

As Paris hath. Beshrew my very heart,

I think you are happy in this second match,

For it excels your first: or if it did not,

Your first is dead; or ‘twere as good he were,

As living here, and you no use of him.

Juliet.

 Speakest thou this from thy heart?

Nurse.

And from my soul too;

Or else beshrew them both.

Juliet.

Amen!

Nurse.

What?

Juliet.

Well, thou hast comforted me marvellous much.

Go in; and tell my lady I am gone,

Having displeas’d my father, to Lawrence’ cell,

To make confession and to be absolv’d.

Nurse.

Marry, I will; and this is wisely done.

          [Exit.]

Juliet.

Ancient damnation! O most wicked fiend!

Is it more sin to wish me thus forsworn,

Or to dispraise my lord with that same tongue

Which she hath prais’d him with above compare

So many thousand times?—Go, counsellor;

Thou and my bosom henceforth shall be twain.—

I’ll to the friar to know his remedy; I

f all else fail, myself have power to die.

          [Exit.]

ACT IV.

Scene I. Friar Lawrence’s Cell.

          [Enter Friar Lawrence and Paris.]

Friar.

On Thursday, sir? the time is very short.

Paris.

My father Capulet will have it so;

And I am nothing slow to slack his haste.

Friar.

You say you do not know the lady’s mind:

Uneven is the course; I like it not.

Paris.

Immoderately she weeps for Tybalt’s death,

And therefore have I little talk’d of love;

 For Venus smiles not in a house of tears.