Or I will drag thee on a hurdle thither.
Out, you green-sickness carrion! out, you baggage!
You tallow-face!

La. Cap. Fie, fie! what are you mad?

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; My fingers itch.-Wife, we scarce thought us bless'd, That God 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.

God in 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.
Сар.

0, God ye good den! Nurse. May not one speak? Сар. .

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

You are too hot. Cap. God's bread! 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 princely parentage,
Of fair demesnes, youthful, and nobly train'd,
Stuff’d (as they say,) with honourable parts,
Proportion'd as one's heart could 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.

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 Tybalt lies.

La. Cap. Talk not to me, for I'll not speak a word; Do as thou wilt, for I have done with thee. [Exit. Jul. O God! O nurse! how shall this be pre

vented ?

51)

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.

Jul. Speakest thou from thy heart?
Nurse.

From my soul too;
Or else beshrew them both.
Jul.

Ar n!
Nurse.

To what?
Jul. Well, thou hast comforted me marvellous

much.

Go in; and tell my lady I am gone,
Having displeas'd my father, to Laurence' cell,
To make confession, and to be absolv'd.
Nurse. Marry, I will; and this is wisely done.

[Exit.
Jul. 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;
If all else fail, myself have power to die. [Erit.

ACT IV. SCENE I.

Friar Laurence's Cell.

Enter Friar LAURENCE and PARIS.

Fri, On Thursday, sir? the time is very short.

Par. My father Capulet will have it so; And I am nothing slow, to slack his haste.

Fri. You say, you do not know the lady's mind; Uneven is the course, I like it not.

Par. 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. Now, sir, her father counts it dangerous, That she doth give her sorrow so much sway ; And, in his wisdom, hastes our marriage, To stop the inundation of her tears; Which, too much minded by herself alone, May be put from her by society: Now do you know the reason of this haste. Fri. I would I knew not why it should be slow'd.

[Aside. Look, sir, here comes the lady towards my cell.

Enter JULIET.

Par. Happily met, my lady, and my wife!
Jul. That may be, sir, when I may be a wife.
Par. That may be, must be, love, on Thursday

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