Enter olde Capolet. Moth. Here comes your father, you may tell him fo. In one little bodie thou resemblest a sea, a barke, a storme: And toft with sighes arifing from thy hart : Will without fuccour fhipwracke presently. But heare you wife, what haue you founded her, what faies fhe to it? Moth. I haue, but she will none fhe thankes ye : Would God that she were married to her graue. Capo. What will fhe not, doth fhe not thanke vs, doth fhe not wexe proud? Iul. Not proud ye haue, but thankfull that ye haue: Proud can I neuer be of that I hate, But thankfull euen for hate that is ment loue. Capo. Proud and I thanke you, and I thanke you not, Out you greene ficknes baggage, out you tallow face. She kneeles done. Cap. I tell thee what, eyther refolue on Thursday next To goe with Paris to faint Peter's church: Or henceforth neuer looke me in the face. Speake not, reply not, for my fingers ytch. Why wife, we thought that we were scarcely bleft But But now I fee this one is one too much, Nur. Mary God in heauen blesse her my lord, Cap. And why my lady wifedome? hold your tung, Good prudence fmatter with your goffips, goe. Nur. Why my lord I fpeake no treason. Cap. Oh goddegodden. Vtter your grauity ouer a goffips boule, Mo. My lord ye are too hotte. Cap. Gods bleffed mother wife it mads me, A puling mammet in her fortunes tender, To fay I cannot loue, I am too young, I pray you pardon mee? But if you cannot wedde Ile pardon you. Graze where you will, you shall not house with me. Looke to it, thinke ont, I do not vse to iest. I tell yee what, Thursday is neere, Lay hand on heart, aduife, bethinke your felfe, If you be mine, Ile giue you to my frend: If not, hang, drowne, ftarue, beg, Ile neuer more acknowledge thee, Nor what I haue shall euer doe thee good, Thinke ont, looke toot, I doe not vse to iest : Exit. Iul. Is there no pitty hanging in the cloudes, I doe beseech you madame, cast me not away, Or if you cannot, make my mariage bed Do what thou wilt for I haue done with thee. me. Exit. Iul. Ah nurfe what comfort? what counsell canft thou giue Nur. Now truft me madame, I know not what to fay: Your Romeo he is banisht, and all the world to nothing He neuer dares returne to challendge you. Now I thinke good you marry with this county, Oh he is a gallant gentleman, Romeo is but a difhclout I thinke you happy in this fecond match. As for your hufband he is dead: haue no vse of him. Or twere as good he were, for you Nur. I and from my foule, or els befhrew them both. Nur. What fay you madame? Iul. Well, thou haft comforted me wondrous much, I pray thee goe thy waies vnto my mother Tell her I am gone hauing difpleafde my father, And to be abfolu'd. Nur. I will, and this is wifely done. Shee lookes after nurse. Iul. Auncient damnation, O most curfed fiend. That That thou haft praisde him with aboue compare If all faile els, I haue the power to dye. Enter Fryer and Paris. Fr. On Thursday fay ye: the time is very short, And I am nothing flacke to flow his haft. Fr. You fay you doe not know the ladies minde? Par. Immoderately fhe weepes for Tybalts death, Now doe ye know the reafon of this haft. Fr. I would I knew not why it should be flowd. Enter Paris. Heere comes the lady to my cell, Par. Welcome my loue, my lady and my wife : Par. That may be, must be loue, on Thursday next. Fr. Thats a certaine text. Par. What come ye to confeffion to this fryer. Exit. Par. Par. Do not deny to him that Iul. I will confeffe to you that I love him, Par. So I am fure you will that you loue me. Being spoke behinde your backe, than to your face. Par. Thou wrongft it more than teares by that report. And what I fpake I fpake it to my face. Par. Thy face is mine and thou hast slaundred it. lu. It may be fo, for it is not mine owne. Are you at leasure holy father now: Or fhall I come to you at euening maffe? Fr. My leafure ferues me penfiue daughter now, My lord we must entreate the time alone. Par. God fheild I fhould disturbe deuotion, Juliet farwell, and keep this holy kisse. Exit Paris. Iu. Goe fhut the doore and when thou haft done fo, Come weepe with me that am past cure, past help, Fr. Ah Juliet I already know thy griefe, I heare thou muft and nothing may proroge it, lul. Tell me not frier that thou hearst of it, Speake not, be briefe: for I defire to die, Fr. |