La. Cap.

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

Nurse.

Now (by my maiden-head, at twelve years old) I bad her come; what lamb, what lady-bird, god forbid—where's this girl? what, Juliet?

Enter 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 remembred 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 fourteen.

Nurse.

I'll lay fourteen of my teeth, and yet to my ^{c note}teeth be it spoken, I have but four, she's not four-teen; how long is it now to Lammas-tide?

La. Cap.

A fortnight and odd days.

&plquo;Nurse.

&plquo;Even or odd, of all days in 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 fourreen, that shall she, marry, I remember it well. 'Tis since the earthquake now eleven 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 worm-wood to my dug, sitting in 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 worm-wood on the nipple of my dug, and felt it bitter, pretty fool, to see it teachy, and fall out with 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 th' rood she could have run, and wadled 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, Julé? 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 never should forget it: Wilt thou not, Julé, quoth he? and pretty fool, it stinted, and said, ay.&prquo;

La. Cap.

Enough of this, I pray thee hold thy peace.

† ^noteNurse.

Yes, madam; yet I cannot chuse but laugh, to think it should leave crying, and say, ay; and yet I warrant it had upon its brow a bump as big as a young cockrel's stone: a perilous knock, and it cried bitterly. Yea, quoth my husband, fall'st upon thy face? thou wilt fall backward when thou comest to age; wilt thou not, Julé? it stinted, and said, ay.

Jul.
And stint thee too, I pray thee, nurse, say I.

Nurse.
Peace, I have done: God mark thee to his 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.
^{d note}And that same marriage is the very theam
I came to talk of. Tell me, daughter Juliet,
How stands your disposition to be married?

Jul.
It is an ^{e note}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.‡ ^note

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 ingage mine eye,
Than your consent gives strength to make it 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 curst in the pantry, and every thing in extremity; I must hence to wait, I beseech you follow.* ^note