Cap.
Things have fall'n out, sir, so unluckily,
That we have had no time to move our daughter:
Look you, she lov'd her kinsman Tibalt, dearly,
And so did I—Well, we were born to die—
'Tis very late, she'll not come down, to night.

Par.
These times of grief afford no time to woo:
Madam, good night, commend me to your daughter.

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 two—
For, hark you, Tibalt being slain so late,
It may be thought we held him carelesly,
Being our kinsman, if we revel much:
Therefore we'll have some half a dozen friends,
And there's an end. But what say you to Thursday?

Par.
My lord, I would that Thursday were tomorrow.

Cap.
Well, get you gone—on Thursday be it, then.
Go you to Juliet ere you go to bed: [To lady Cap.
Prepare her, wife, against this wedding-day.
Farewel, my lord—Light to my chamber, hoa!
Good-night. [Exeunt.

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