La. Cap.

Nurse, where's my daughter? Call her forth to me.

Nurse.

Now (by my maiden-head, at twelve year old) I bade her come. What, lamb! what, lady-bird! God forbid—where's this girl? What, Juliet!

Jul.

How now! who calls?

Nurse.

Your mother.

Jul.

Madam, I am here, what is your will?

La. Cap.

This is the matter—Nurse, give leave a while, we must talk in secret. Nurse, come back again, I have remember'd me; thou shalt hear my counsel: thou know'st my daughter's of a pretty age.

Nurse.

Faith, I can tell her age unto an hour.

La. Cap.

She's not eighteen.

Nurse.

I'll lay eighteen of my teeth, and yet to my teeth be it spoken, I have but eight: she's not eighteen. How long is it now to Lammas-tide?

La. Cap.

A fortnight and odd days.

Nurse.

Even or odd, of all days in the year, come Lammas eve at night, shall she be eighteen. Susan and she, (Heav'n rest all christian souls) were of an age.‡ ^note Well, Susan is in Heav'n; she was too good for me. But

as I said, on Lammas-eve at night, shall she be eighteen, that shall she, marry; I remember it well. 'Tis since the earthquake, now fifteen years; and she was wean'd, I never shall forget it, of all the days in the year, upon that day: for I had then laid wormwood to my breast, sitting in the sun under the dove-housewall; my lord and you, were then at Mantua—Nay, I do bear a brain. But as I said, when it did taste the wormwood on the nipple of the breast, and felt it bitter, pretty fool, to see it teachy, and fall out with the breast. Shake, quoth the dove-house—'twas no need, I trow, to bid me trudge. And since that time it is fifteen years, for then she could stand alone, nay, by the rood, she could have run, and waddled all about; for even the day before, she broke her brow: And then my husband, (Heav'n be with his soul, a'was a merry man) took up the child. Yea, quoth he, dost thou fall upon thy face? Thou wilt fall backward, when thou hast more wit? Wilt thou not, Jule? And by my holy dam, the pretty wretch left crying, and said, ay. To see now, how a jest shall come about. I warrant, an I should live a thousand years, I should not forget it. Wilt thou not, Jule, quoth he? And pretty fool, it stinted,* ^note and said ay.

Jul.
And stint thee, too, I pray thee, peace.

Nurse.
Peace, I have done. Heav'n mark thee to its grace.
Thou wast the prettiest babe that e'er I nurst:
An' I might live to see thee married once,
I have my wish.

La. Cap.
And that same marriage is the very theme
I came to talk of. Tell me, daughter Juliet,
How stands your disposition to be married?

Jul.
It is an honour that I dream not of.

Nurse.
An honour! Were not I thine only nurse,
I'd say, thou hadst suck'd wisdom from thy teat.

La. Cap.
Well, think of marriage, now. Younger than you,
Here, in Verona, ladies of esteem,
Are made already mothers. By my 'count,
I was your mother, much upon these years
That you are now a maid. Thus then, in brief,
The valiant Paris seeks you for his love.

Nurse.
A man, young lady, lady, such a man,
As all the world—Why, he's a man of wax.

La. Cap.
Verona's summer hath not such a flower.

Nurse.
Nay, he's a flower, in faith, a very flower.

La. Cap.
Speak briefly, can you like of Paris' love?

Jul.
I'll look to like, if looking liking move;
But no more deep will I indart my eye,
Than your consent gives strength to make it fly. Enter Gregory.

Greg.

Madam, new guests are come, and brave ones, all in masks. You are call'd; my young lady ask'd for, the Nurse curs'd in the pantry; supper almost ready to be serv'd up, and every thing in extremity. I must hence, and wait.

La. Cap.

We follow thee.