Scene IV. A Room in Capulet's House.
[Enter Capulet, Lady Capulet, and Paris.]
Things have fallen out, sir, so unluckily
That we have had no time to move our daughter:
Look you, she lov'd her kinsman Tybalt dearly,
And so did I; well, we were born to die.
'Tis very late; she'll not come down to-night:
I promise you, but for your company,
I would have been a-bed an hour ago.
These times of woe afford no tune to woo. —
Madam, good night: commend me to your daughter.
I will, and know her mind early to-morrow;
To-night she's mew'd up to her heaviness.
Sir Paris, I will make a desperate tender
Of my child's love: I think she will be rul'd
In all respects by me; nay more, I doubt it not. —
Wife, go you to her ere you go to bed;
Acquaint her here of my son Paris' love;
And bid her, mark you me, on Wednesday next, —
But, soft! what day is this?
Monday, my lord.
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?
My lord, I would that Thursday were to-morrow.
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. —