A room in Capulets house. Enter Capulet, Lady Capulet, and Paris.
Things have falln out, sir, so unluckily,
That we have had no time to move our daughter:
Look you, she loved her kinsman Tybalt dearly,
And so did I Well, we were born to die.
Tis very late, shell not come down to-night:
I promise you, but for your company,
I would have been a-bed an hour ago.
These times of woe afford no time to woo.
Madam, good night: commend me to your daughter.
I will, and know her mind early to-morrow;
To-night she is mewd up to her heaviness.
Sir Paris, I will make a desperate tender
Of my childs love: I think she will be ruled
In all respects by me; nay, more, I doubt it not.
Wife, go you to her ere you go to bed;
Acquaint her here of my son Paris love;
And bid her, mark you me, on Wednesday next
But, soft! what day is this?
Monday, my lord,
Monday! ha, ha! Well, Wednesday is too soon,
O Thursday let it be: o Thursday, tell her,
She shall be married to this noble earl.
Will you be ready? do you like this haste?
Well keep no great ado a friend or two;
For, hark you, Tybalt being slain so late,
It may be thought we held him carelessly,
Being our kinsman, if we revel much:
Therefore well have some half a dozen friends,
And there an end. But what say you to Thursday?
My lord, I would that Thursday were to-morrow.
Well get you gone: o Thursday be it, then.
Go you to Juliet ere you go to bed,
Prepare her, wife, against this wedding-day.
Farewell, my lord. Light to my chamber, ho!
Afore me! it is so very very late,
That we may call it early by and by.