To go with Paris to Saint Peters Church:
Or I will drag thee, on a Hurdle thither.
Out you greene sicknesse carrion, out you baggage,
You tallow face
Lady. Fie, fie, what are you mad?
Iul. Good Father, I beseech you on my knees
Heare me with patience, but to speake a word
Fa. Hang thee young baggage, disobedient wretch,
I tell thee what, get thee to Church a Thursday,
Or neuer after looke me in the face.
Speake not, reply not, do not answere me.
My fingers itch, wife: we scarce thought vs blest,
That God had lent vs but this onely Child,
But now I see this one is one too much,
And that we haue a curse in hauing her:
Out on her Hilding
Nur. God in heauen blesse her,
You are too blame my Lord to rate her so
Fa. And why my Lady wisedome? hold your tongue,
Good Prudence, smatter with your gossip, go
Nur. I speak no treason,
Father, O Godigoden,
May not one speake?
Fa. Peace you mumbling foole,
Vtter your grauitie ore a Gossips bowles
For here we need it not
La. You are too hot
Fa. Gods bread, it makes me mad:
Day, night, houre, ride, time, worke, play,
Alone in companie, still my care hath bin
To haue her matcht, and hauing now prouided
A Gentleman of Noble Parentage,
Of faire Demeanes, Youthfull, and Nobly Allied,
Stuft as they say with Honourable parts,
Proportion’d as ones thought would wish a man,
And then to haue a wretched puling foole,
A whining mammet, in her Fortunes tender,
To answer, Ile not wed, I cannot Loue:
I am too young, I pray you pardon me.
But, and you will not wed, Ile pardon you.
Graze where you will, you shall not house with me:
Looke too’t, thinke on’t, I do not vse to iest.
Thursday is neere, lay hand on heart, aduise,
And you be mine, Ile giue you to my Friend:
And you be not, hang, beg, starue, die in the streets,
For by my soule, Ile nere acknowledge thee,
Nor what is mine shall neuer do thee good:
Trust too’t, bethinke you, Ile not be forsworne
Iuli. Is there no pittie sitting in the Cloudes,
That sees into the bottome of my griefe?
O sweet my Mother cast me not away,
Delay this marriage, for a month, a weeke,
Or if you do not, make the Bridall bed
In that dim Monument where Tybalt lies
Mo. Talke not to me, for Ile not speake a word,
Do as thou wilt, for I haue done with thee.
Iul. O God!
O Nurse, how shall this be preuented?
My Husband is on earth, my faith in heauen,
How shall that faith returne againe to earth,
Vnlesse that Husband send it me from heauen,
By leauing earth? Comfort me, counsaile me:
Alacke, alacke, that heauen should practise stratagems
Vpon so soft a subiect as my selfe.
What saist thou? hast thou not a word of ioy?
Some comfort Nurse
Nur. Faith here it is,
Romeo is banished, and all the world to nothing,
That he dares nere come backe to challenge you:
Or if he do, it needs must be by stealth.
Then since the case so stands as now it doth,
I thinke it best you married with the Countie,
O hee’s a Louely Gentleman:
Romeos a dish-clout to him: an Eagle Madam
Hath not so greene, so quicke, so faire an eye
As Paris hath, beshrow my very heart,
I thinke 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 liuing here and you no vse of him
Iul. Speakest thou from thy heart?
Nur. And from my soule too,
Or else beshrew them both
Iul. Well, thou hast comforted me marue’lous much,
Go in, and tell my Lady I am gone,
Hauing displeas’d my Father, to Lawrence Cell,
To make confession, and to be absolu’d
Nur. Marrie I will, and this is wisely done
Iul. Auncient damnation, O most wicked fiend!
It is more sin to wish me thus forsworne,
Or to dispraise my Lord with that same tongue
Which she hath prais’d him with aboue compare,
So many thousand times? Go Counsellor,
Thou and my bosom henceforth shall be twaine:
Ile to the Frier to know his remedie,
If all else faile, my selfe haue power to die.
Enter Frier and Countie Paris.
Fri. On Thursday sir? the time is very short
Par. My Father Capulet will haue it so,
And I am nothing slow to slack his hast
Fri. You say you do not know the Ladies mind?
Vneuen is the course, I like it not
Pa. Immoderately she weepes for Tybalts death,
And therfore haue I little talke of Loue,
For Venus smiles not in a house of teares.
Now sir, her Father counts it dangerous
That she doth giue her sorrow so much sway:
And in his wisedome, hasts our marriage,
To stop the inundation of her teares,
Which too much minded by her selfe alone,
May be put from her by societie.
Now doe you know the reason of this hast?
Fri. I would I knew not why it should be slow’d.
Looke sir, here comes the Lady towards my Cell.
Par. Happily met, my Lady and my wife
Iul. That may be sir, when I may be a wife
Par. That may be, must be Loue, on Thursday next
Iul. What must be shall be
Fri. That’s a certaine text
Par. Come you to make confession to this Father?
Iul. To answere that, I should confesse to you
Par. Do not denie to him, that you Loue me
Iul. I will confesse to you that I Loue him
Par. So will ye, I am sure that you Loue me
Iul. If I do so, it will be of more price,
Being spoke behind your backe, then to your face
Par. Poore soule, thy face is much abus’d with teares