Cap.
Things have faln out, Sir, so unluckily,
That we have had no time to move our Daughter:
Look you, she lov'd her Kinsman Tybalt dearly,
And so did I—Well, we were born to die.
'Tis very late, she'll not come down to Night:
I promise you, but for your Company,
I would have been a bed an hour ago.

Par.
These times of Woe afford no time to Woo:
Madam, good Night, commend me to your Daughter.

La. Cap.
I will, and know her Mind early to Morrow;
To Night she is mew'd up to her heaviness.

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.
Wife, go you to her e'er 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?

Par.
Monday, my Lord.

Cap.
Monday? ha! ha! well, Wednesday is too soon,
A Thursday let it be: A Thursday tell her
She shall be married to this Noble Earl:
Will you be ready? Do you like this haste?
We'll keep no great a-do—a Friend or two—
For, hark you, Tybalt 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 to Morrow.

Cap.
Well, get you gone—a Thursday be it then:
Go you to Juliet e'er you go to Bed, [To Lady Capulet.
Prepare her, Wife, against this Wedding-day.
Farewel, my Lord—light to my Chamber, hoa!
'Afore me, it is so late, that we may call it early by and by.
Good Night. [Exeunt.

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