Act III, Scene iv:
A Room in Capulet's House.

[Enter Capulet, Lady Capulet, and Paris.]

Capulet.:

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.

Paris.:

These times of woe afford no tune to woo.—

Madam, good night: commend me to your daughter.

Lady Capulet.

I will, and know her mind early to-morrow;

To-night she's mew'd up to her heaviness.

Capulet.:

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?

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.]