I beseech your ladyship?
Lady Capulet.
Well, well, thou hast a careful father, child;
One who, to put thee from thy heaviness,
Hath sorted out a sudden day of joy
That thou expect’st not, nor I look’d not for.
Juliet.
Madam, in happy time, what day is that?
Lady Capulet.
Marry, my child, early next Thursday morn
The gallant, young, and noble gentleman,
The County Paris, at St. Peter’s Church,
Shall happily make thee there a joyful bride.
Juliet.
Now by Saint Peter’s Church, and Peter too,
He shall not make me there a joyful bride.
I wonder at this haste; that I must wed
Ere he that should be husband comes to woo.
I pray you, tell my lord and father, madam,
I will not marry yet; and when I do, I swear
It shall be Romeo, whom you know I hate,
Rather than Paris:—these are news indeed!
Lady Capulet.
Here comes your father: tell him so yourself,
And see how he will take it at your hands.
[Enter Capulet and Nurse.]
Capulet.
When the sun sets, the air doth drizzle dew;
But for the sunset of my brother’s son
It rains downright.—
How now! a conduit, girl? what, still in tears?
Evermore showering? In one little body
Thou counterfeit’st a bark, a sea, a wind:
For still thy eyes, which I may call the sea,
Do ebb and flow with tears; the bark thy body is,
Sailing in this salt flood; the winds, thy sighs;
Who,—raging with thy tears and they with them,—
Without a sudden calm, will overset
Thy tempest-tossed body.—How now, wife!
Have you deliver’d to her our decree?
Lady Capulet.
Ay, sir; but she will none, she gives you thanks.
I would the fool were married to her grave!
Capulet.
Soft! take me with you, take me with you, wife.
How! will she none? doth she not give us thanks?
Is she not proud? doth she not count her bles’d,
Unworthy as she is, that we have wrought
So worthy a gentleman to be her bridegroom?
Juliet.
Not proud you have; but thankful that you have:
Proud can I never be of what I hate;
But thankful even for hate that is meant love.
Capulet.
How now, how now, chop-logic! What is this?
Proud,—and, I thank you,—and I thank you not;—
And yet not proud:—mistress minion, you,
Thank me no thankings, nor proud me no prouds,
But fettle your fine joints ‘gainst Thursday next
To go with Paris to Saint Peter’s Church,
Or I will drag thee on a hurdle thither.
Out, you green-sickness carrion! out, you baggage!
You tallow-face!
Lady Capulet.
Fie, fie! what, are you mad?
Juliet.
Good father, I beseech you on my knees,
Hear me with patience but to speak a word.
Capulet.
Hang thee, young baggage! disobedient wretch!
I tell thee what,—get thee to church o’ Thursday,
Or never after look me in the face:
Speak not, reply not, do not answer me;
My fingers itch.—Wife, we scarce thought us bles’d
That God had lent us but this only child;
But now I see this one is one too much,
And that we have a curse in having her:
Out on her, hilding!
Nurse.
God in heaven bless her!—
You are to blame, my lord, to rate her so.
Capulet.
And why, my lady wisdom? hold your tongue,
Good prudence; smatter with your gossips, go.
Nurse.
I speak no treason.
Capulet.
O, God ye good-en!
Nurse.
May not one speak?
Capulet.
Peace, you mumbling fool!
Utter your gravity o’er a gossip’s bowl,
For here we need it not.
Lady Capulet.
You are too hot.
Capulet.
God’s bread! it makes me mad:
Day, night, hour, time, tide, work, play,
Alone, in company, still my care hath been
To have her match’d, and having now provided
A gentleman of noble parentage,
Of fair demesnes, youthful, and nobly train’d,
Stuff’d, as they say, with honourable parts,
Proportion’d as one’s heart would wish a man,—
And then to have a wretched puling fool,
A whining mammet, in her fortune’s tender,
To answer, ‘I’ll not wed,—I cannot love,
I am too young,—I pray you pardon me:’—
But, an you will not wed, I’ll pardon you:
Graze where you will, you shall not house with me:
Look to’t, think on’t, I do not use to jest.
Thursday is near; lay hand on heart, advise:
An you be mine, I’ll give you to my friend;
An you be not, hang, beg, starve, die i’ the streets,
For, by my soul, I’ll ne’er acknowledge thee,
Nor what is mine shall never do thee good:
Trust to’t, bethink you, I’ll not be forsworn.
[Exit.]
Juliet.
Is there no pity sitting in the clouds,
That sees into the bottom of my grief?
O, sweet my mother, cast me not away!
Delay this marriage for a month, a week;
Or, if you do not, make the bridal bed
In that dim monument where Tybalt