PARIS.
Monday, my lord.
CAPULET.
Monday! ha, ha! Well, Wednesday is too soon,
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 ado, — a friend or two;
For, hark you, Tybalt being slain so late,
It may be thought we held him carelessly,
Being our kinsman, if we revel much:
Therefore we'll have some half a dozen friends,
And there an end. But what say you to Thursday?
PARIS.
My lord, I would that Thursday were to-morrow.
CAPULET.
Well, get you gone: o' Thursday be it then. —
Go you to Juliet, ere you go to bed,
Prepare her, wife, against this wedding-day. —
Farewell, my lord. — Light to my chamber, ho! —
Afore me, it is so very very late
That we may call it early by and by. —
Good night.
[Exeunt.]
