Scene I. Friar Lawrence's Cell.
[Enter Friar Lawrence and Paris.]
On Thursday, sir? the time is very short.
My father Capulet will have it so;
And I am nothing slow to slack his haste.
You say you do not know the lady's mind:
Uneven is the course; I like it not.
Immoderately she weeps for Tybalt's death,
And therefore have I little talk'd of love;
For Venus smiles not in a house of tears.
Now, sir, her father counts it dangerous
That she do give her sorrow so much sway;
And, in his wisdom, hastes our marriage,
To stop the inundation of her tears;
Which, too much minded by herself alone,
May be put from her by society:
Now do you know the reason of this haste.
[Aside.] I would I knew not why it should be slow'd. —
Look, sir, here comes the lady toward my cell.
Happily met, my lady and my wife!
That may be, sir, when I may be a wife.
That may be must be, love, on Thursday next.
What must be shall be.
That's a certain text.
Come you to make confession to this father?
To answer that, I should confess to you.
Do not deny to him that you love me.
I will confess to you that I love him.
So will ye, I am sure, that you love me.
If I do so, it will be of more price,
Being spoke behind your back than to your face.
Poor soul, thy face is much abus'd with tears.
The tears have got small victory by that;
For it was bad enough before their spite.
Thou wrong'st it more than tears with that report.
That is no slander, sir, which is a truth;
And what I spake, I spake it to my face.
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