L. C.
Nurse, where's my daughter?14Q1391 call her forth me.

Nur.
Now, by my maidenhead,—at twelve year ^note old,—
I bad ^note her come:—What, lamb! what lady-bird!—
God forbid! where's this girl?—what, Juliet! Enter Juliet.

Jul.
How now? who calls?

Nur.
Your mother.

Jul.
Madam, I am here;
What is your will?

L. C.
This is the matter:—Nurse, give leave a while,
We must talk in secret. Nurse, came back again;

I have remember'd me, thou shalt hear ^note our counsel.
Thou know'st, my daughter's of a pretty age:

Nur.
'Faith, I can tell her age unto an hour.

L. C.
She's not fourteen.

Nur.
I'll lay fourteen o' my teeth,—
And yet, to my teeth be ^note it spoken, I have but four,—
She's not fourteen: How long is't now to Lammas-tide?

L. C.
A fortnight, and odd days.

Nur.
Even or odd, of all days i' the year,
Come Lammas-eve at night, shall she be fourteen.
Susan, and she,—God rest all christian souls!—
Were of an age: Well, Susan is with God;
She was too good for me: But, as I said,
On Lammas-eve at night shall she be fourteen;
That shall ^note she, marry; I remember it well.
'Tis since the earth-quake now eleven years;
And she was wean'd,—I never shall forget it,—
Of all the days o' the year, upon that day:
For I had then lay'd wormwood to my dug,
Sitting i' the sun under the dove-house wall,
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 my dug, and felt it bitter, pretty fool!
To see it teachy, and fall out wi' the dug:
Shake, quoth the dove-house: 'twas no need, I trow,
To bid me trudge.
And since that time it is eleven years:
For then she could stand alone; nay, by the rood,
She could have run and waddl'd all about.
For even the day before she broke her brow:
And then my husband—God 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, Juli' ^note? and, by my holy-dam,
The pretty wretch left crying, and said—Ay:
To see now how a jest shall come about!
I warr'nt, an I should live ^note a thousand years,
I never should forget it; Wilt thou not, Juli' ^note? quoth he:
And, pretty fool, it stinted, and said—Ay.

L. C.
Enough of this; I pray thee ^note, hold thy peace.

Nur.
Yes, madam; Yet I cannot choose but laugh,
To think it should leave crying, and say—Ay:
And yet, I warr'nt, it had upon ^note it's brow
A bump ^note as big as a young cock'rel's stone;
A par'lous knock; and it cry'd bitterly.
Yea, quoth my husband, fall'st upon thy face?
Thou wilt fall backward, when thou com'st to age;
Wilt thou not, Juli' ^note? it stinted, and said—Ay.

Jul.
And stint thou too, I pray thee ^note, nurse, say I.

Nur.
Peace, I have done. God mark thee to his grace!
Thou wast the ^note prettiest babe that e'er I nurs'd:
An I might live to see thee marry'd once,
I have my wish.

L. C.
Marry, that marry is the very theme
I came to talk of:—Tell me, daughter Juliet ^note,
How stands your disposition ^{note note} to be marry'd?

Jul.
It is an hour ^note that I dream not of.

Nur.
An hour ^note! were not I thine ^note only nurse,
I'd say, thou hadst suck'd wisdom from thy teat.

L. C.
Well, think of marriage now; younger than you,
Here in Verona ^note, 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. ^note

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

L. C.
Verona's summer hath not such a flower.

Nur.
Nay, he's a flower; in faith, a very flower.

L. C.
What say you? can you love the gentleman?
This night you shall behold him at our feast:
Read o'er the volume of young Paris' face,
And find delight writ there with beauty's pen;
Examine every several lineament ^note,
And see how one another lends content;
And what obscur'd in this fair volume lies,
Find written in the margin of his eyes.
This precious book of love, this unbound lover,
To beautify him, only lacks a cover:
The fish lives in the sea; and 'tis much pride,
For fair without the fair within to hide:
That book in many's eyes ^note doth share the glory,
That in gold clasps locks-in the golden story;
So shall you share all that he doth possess,
By having him, making yourself no less.

Nur.
No less? nay, bigger; women grow by men.

L. C.
Speak briefly, can you like of Paris' love?

Jul.
I'll look to like, if looking liking move:
But no more deep will I endart mine eye,
Than your consent gives strength to make it ^note fly. Enter a Servant.

Ser.

Madam, the guests are come, supper serv'd up, you call'd, my young lady ask'd for, the nurse curs'd in the pantry, and every thing in extremity. I must hence to

wait; I beseech you, follow strait.

L. C.
We follow thee.—Juliet, the county stays.

Nur.
Go, girl, seek happy nights to happy days. [Exeunt.

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