Cap. Sir Paris, I will make a desperate tender Of my child's love: I think she will be rul'd In all respects by me; nay more, I doubt it not. But, soft; what day? Well, Wednesday is too soon, On Thursday, let it be, you shall be marry'd. We'll keep no great ado-a friend or twoFor, hark you, Tibalt being slain so late, It may be thought we held him carelessly, Being our kinsman, if we revel much; Therefore we'll have some half a dozen friends, And there's an end.

Par. My lord, I

morrow.

But what say you to Thursday? would that Thursday were to

Cap. Well, get you gone-on Thursday be it

then:

Go you to Juliet ere you go to bed:

[TO LADY CAPulet.

[Exeunt.

Prepare her, wife, against this wedding day.
Farewell, my lord-Good night.

SCENE V.

The Garden.

Enter ROMEO and JULI ET.

Jul. Wilt thou be gone? It is not yet near day:
It was the nightingale, and not the lark,
That pierc'd the fearful hollow of thine ear;
Nightly she sings on yon pomegranate tree:
Believe me, love, it was the nightingale.

Rom. It was the lark, the herald of the morn,
No nightingale. Look, love, what envious streaks
Do lace the severing clouds in yonder east:
Night's candles are burnt out, and jocund day

Stands tip-toe on the misty mountain tops.
I must be gone, and live; or stay, and die.
Jul. Yon light is not day-light, I know it well;
It is some meteor, that the sun exhales,
To be to thee this night a torch-bearer,
And light thee on thy way to Mantua ;
Then stay awhile, thou shalt not go so soon.
Rom. Let me be ta'en; let me be put to death;
I am content, if thou wilt have it so.

I'll say, yon grey is not the morning's eye,
"Tis but the pale reflex of Cynthia's brow,
I'll say, 'tis not the lark, whose notes do beat
The vaulty heaven so high above our heads :
Come, death, and welcome: Juliet wills it so.
What says my love? Let's talk, it is not day.
Jul. It is, it is; hie hence, away, begone;
It is the lark, that sings so out of tune,
Straining harsh discords, and unpleasing sharps.
Oh now begone, more light and light it grows,

Rom. More light and light ?—more dark and dark

our woes.

Farewell, my love; one kiss, and I'll begone.

[ROMEO descends the Ropeladder.

Enter NURSE.

Nurse. Madam.

Jul. Nurse.

Nurse. Your lady mother's coming to your cham

ber:

The day is broke, be wary, look about.

Jul. Art thou gone so ? love! lord! ah, husband, friend!

I must hear from thee ev'ry day in th' hour,
For in love's hours there are many days.
Oh! by this count I shall be much in years,
Ere I again behold my Romeo.

Rom. Farewell: I will omit no opportunity,
That may convey my greetings to thee, love.

Jul. Oh, think'st thou we shall ever meet again? Rom. I doubt it not, and all these woes shall serve For sweet discourses, in our time to come.

Jul. O Heaven! I have an ill-divining soul: Methinks I see thee, now thou'rt parting from me, As one, dead in the bottom of a tomb! Either my eyesight fails, or thou look'st pale. Rom. And trust me, love, in mine eye so do you ; Dry sorrow drinks our blood. Adieu! Adieu!

[Exeunt.

SCENE VI.

JULIET'S Chamber.

Enter LADY CAPULET.

Lady C. Ho, daughter, are you up?

Enter JULIET.

Jul. Who is't that calls? is it my lady mother? What unaccustom'd cause procures her hither? Lady C. Why, how now, Juliet?

Jul. Madam, I am not well.

Lady C. Evermore weeping for your cousin's death;

What, wilt thou wash him from his grave with tears? Jul. Yet let me weep for such a feeling loss. Lady C. I come to bring thee joyful tidings, girl. Jul. And joy comes well, in such a needful time. What are they, I beseech your ladyship?

Lady C. Marry, my child, early next Thursday

morn,

The gallant, young, and noble gentleman,
The County Paris, at St. Peter's church,
Shall happily make thee a joyful bride.

Jul. I wonder at this haste, that I must wed,
Ere he, that must be husband, comes to woo.
I pray you, tell my lord and father, madam,
I cannot marry yet.

Lady C. Here comes your father; tell him so yourself,

And see, how he will take it at your hands.

Enter CAPULET and NURSE.

Cap. How now? a conduit, girl? what, still in tears?

Evermore showering? Why, how now, wife?
Have you
delivered to her our decree?

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

I would the fool were married to her grave.

Cap. 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 blest,
(Unworthy as she is) that we have wrought
So worthy gentleman to be her bridegroom?

Jul. Proud can I never be of what I hate,
But thankful even for hate, that is meant love.
Cap. Thank me no thankings,

But settle your fine joints 'gainst Thursday next,
To go with Paris to St. Peter's church,
Or I will drag thee on a hurdle thither.

Jul. Good father, I beseech you on my knees, Hear me with patience but to speak a word.

Cap. 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.

Wife, we scarce thought us blest,

That Heav'n had sent 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. Heaven bless her

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

Cap. And why, my lady wisdom? Hold your tongue,

Good prudence; smatter with your gossips, go.
Nurse. I speak no treason.

Cap. Peace! you mumbling fool;
Utter your gravity o'er a gossip's bowl,
For here we need it not.

Lady C. You are too hot.

Cap. Good wife! it makes me mad-Day, night, late, early;

At home, abroad; alone, in company;

Waking or sleeping; 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 allied:
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 if you will not wed-look to't, think on't,
I do not use to jest-Thursday is near:

If

you be mine, I'll give you to my

friend;

If you be not, hang, beg, starve, die i'the streets;
For, by my soul, I'll ne'er acknowledge thee. [Exit.
Jul. 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 Tibalt lies.