Cap.
Things have fallen out, Sir, most unluckily;
Juliet did love her Kinsman Tibalt dearly,
And so did I:—Well, we were born to die.
'Tis very late; she'll not come down To-night.

Paris.
These Times of Woe afford no time to woo.
My Lord, Good-night: Commend me to your Daughter.

Cap.

Sir Paris, we 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 is this?

Paris.

Monday, my Lord.

Cap.
Monday; ha! ha! well, Wednesday is too soon:
On Thursday let it be; you shall be married:
Well, keep no great a-do—a Friend, or two—
For hark you, Tibalt being slain so late,
It may be thought we held him carelessly,
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?

Paris.
My Lord, I would that Thursday were Tomorrow.

Cap.
Well, get you gone;—on Thursday be it then?
Farewell, my Lord.—Light to my Chamber, hoa!
Good-night.— [Exeunt.

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