CAPULET

What noise is this? Give me my long Sword ho. My Sword I say: Old Montague is come, And flourishes his Blade in spite of me. Why how now kinsman, Wherefore storm you so? Young Romeo is it? Content thee gentle Coz, let him alone, A bears him Like a portly Gentleman: And to say truth, Verona brags of him, To be a virtuous and well governed youth: I would not for the wealth of all the town, Here in my house do him disparagement: Therefore be patient, take no note of him, It is my will, the which if thou respect, Show a fair presence, and put off these frowns, And ill beseeming semblance for a Feast. He shall be endu'rd. What goodman boy, I say he shall, go too, Am I the Master here or you? go too, Yowl not endure him, God shall mend my soul, Yowl make a Mutiny among the Guests: You will set cock a hoop, yowl be the man. Go too, go too, You are a saucy Boy, 'ist so indeed? This trick may chance to scathe you, I know what, You must contrary me, marry it's time. Well said my hearts, you are a Princox, go, Be quiet, or more light, more light for shame, I'll make you quiet. What, chearely my hearts. Nay Gentlemen prepare not to be gone, We have a trifling foolish Banquet towards: Is it e'ne so? why then I thank you all. I thank you honest Gentlemen, good night: More Torches here: come on, then let's to bed. Ah sirrah, by my faie it waxes late, I'll to my rest. Not Romeo Prince, he was Mercutios Friend, His fault concludes, but what the law should end, The life of Tybalt. Things have fallen ou sir so unluckily, That we have had no time to move our Daughter: Look you, she Loved her kinsman Tybalt dearly, And so did I. Well, we were born to die. It's very late, she'l not come down to night: I promise you, but for your company, I would have been a bed and hour ago. Sir Paris, I will make a desperate tender Of my Child's love: I think she will be ruled 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 Wendsday next, But soft, what day is this? Monday, would would: well Wendsday is too soon, A Thursday let it be: a Thursday tell her, She shall be married to this Noble Earl: Will you be ready? do you Like this hast? Weel 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 weel have some half a dozen Friends, And there and end. But what say you to Thursday? Well, get you gone, a 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 hoa, Afore me, it is so late, that we may call ir early by and by, Goodnight. When the Sun sets, the earth does drizzle daew But for the Sunset of my Brother's Son, It reins downright. How now? A Conduit Girl, what still in tears? Evermore showering in one little body? Thou counterfeits 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 fault flood, the winds thy sighs, Who raging with the tears and they with them, Without a sudden calm will over set Thy tempest tossed body. How now wife? Have you delivered to her our decree? Soft, take me with you, take me with you wife, How, will she none? does she not give us thanks? Is she not proud? does she not count her blessed, Unworthy as she is, that we have wrought So worthy a Gentleman, to be her Bridegroom How now? How now? Chopped Logic? what is this? Proud, and I thank you: and I thank you not. Thank me no thankings, nor proud me no prouds, But fettle your fine joints against Thursday next, To go with Paris to Saint Peters Church: Or I will drag thee, on a Hurdle thither. Out you green sickness carrion, out you baggage, You tallow face. So many guests invite as here are writ, Sirrah, go hire me twenty cunning Cooks. How canst thou try them so? Go be gone, we shall be much unfurnished for this time: what is my Daughter gone to Friar Laurence ? Well he may chance to do some good on her, A peevish self-willed harlotry it is. How now my headstrong, Where have you been gadding? Send for the County, go tell him of this, I'll have this knot knit up to morrow morning. Why I am glad on't, this is well, stand up, This is as't should be, let me see the County: I marry go I say, and fetch him hither. Now afore God, this reueren'd holy Friar, All our whole City is much bound to him. Come, stir, stir, stir, The second Cock hath Crowed, The Curphew Bell hath rung, it's three a clock: Look to the bakte meats, good Angelica, Spare not for cost. No not a whit: what? I have watched ere now All night for less cause, and never been sick. A jealous hood, a jealous hood, Now fellow, what there? Make hast, make hast, sirrah, fetch drier Logs. Call Peter, he will show thee where they are. Mass and well said, a merry horson, would, Thou shalt be loggerhead; good Father, it's day. The County will be here with Music straight, For so he said he would, I hear him near, Nurse, wife, what ho? what Nurse I say? Go waken Juliet, go and trim her up, I'll go and chat with Paris : High, make hast, Make hast, the Bridegroom, he is come already: Make hast I say. What should it be that they so shriek abroad? Oh heaven! Oh wife look how our Daughter bleeds! This Dagger hath mistaine, for lo his house Is empty on the back of Montague, And is misheathed in my Daughters bosom. Oh Brother Montague, give me thy hand, This is my Daughters jointure, for no more Can I demand. As rich shall Romeo by his Lady lie, Poor sacrifices of our enmity. Montague is bound as well as I, In penalty alike, and it's not hard I think, For men so old as we, to keep the peace. But saying over what I have said before, My Child is yet a stranger in the world, She hath not seen the change of fourteen years, Let two more Summer's wither in their pride, Ere we may think her ripe to be a Bride. And too soon marred are those so early made: Earth hath swallowed all my Hope's but she, She's the hopeful Lady of my earth: But woo her gentle Paris, get her heart, My will to her consent, is but a partly, And she agree, within her scope of choice, Lies my consent, and fair according voice: This night I hold and old accustomed Feast, Whereto I have invited many a Guest, Such as I love, and you among the store, One more, most welcome makes my number more: At my poor house, look to behold this night, Earth-treading stars, that make dark heaven light, Such comfort as do lusty young men feel, When well appareled April on the heel Of limping Winter treads, even such delight Among fresh Fennell buds shall you this night Inherit at my house: hear all, all see: And Like her most, whose merit most shall be: Which one more view, of many, mine being one, May stand in number, though in reckoning none. Come, go with me: go sirrah trudge about, Through fair Verona, find those persons out, Whose names are written there, and to them say, My house and welcome, on their pleasure stay. Welcome Gentlemen, Ladies that have their toes Unplagued with Corns, will walk about with you: Ah my Mistress's, which of you all Will now deny to dance? She that makes dainty, She I'll swear hath Corns: am I come near you now? Welcome Gentlemen, I have seen the day That I have worn a Visor, and could tell A whispering tale in a fair Ladies ear: Such as would please: it's gone, it's gone, it's gone, You are welcome Gentlemen, come Musicians play: A Hall, Hall, give room, and foot it Girls, More light you knaves, and turn the Tables up: And quench the fire, the Room is grown too hight. Ah sirrah, this unlooked for sport comes well: Nay fit, nay fit, good Cozin Capulet, For you and I are passed our dancing days: How long 'ist now since last your self and I Were in a Mask? What man: it's not so much, it's not so much, It's since the Nuptial of Lucentio, Come Pentycost as quickly as it will, Some five and twenty years, and then we Masked. Hang thee young baggage, disobedient wretch, I tell thee what, get thee to Church a 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 blessed, 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. And why my Lady wisdom? hold your tongue, Good Prudence, smatter with your gossip, go. Peace you mumbling fool, Utter your gravity over a Gossips bowls For here we needs it not. Gods bred, it makes me mad: Day, night, hour, ride, time, work, play, Alone in company, still my care hath been To have her matched, and having now provided A Gentleman of Noble Parentage, Of fair Demeans, Youthful, and Nobly Allied, Stuffed as they say with Honourable parts, Proportioned as ones thought would wish a man, And then to have a wretched puling fool, A whining mammet, in her Fortune's tender, To answer, I'll no wed, I cannot Love: I am too young, I pray you pardon me. But, and you will not wed, I'll pardon you. Graze where you will, you shall not house with me: Look too't, think on't, I do not use to jest. Thursday is near, lay hand on heart, advise, And you be mine, I'll give you to my Friend: And you be not, hang, beg, strave, die in the streets, For by my soul, I'll never acknowledge thee, Nor what is mine shall never do thee good: Trust too't, bethink you, I'll not be forsworn Go Nurse, go with her, Weel to Church to morrow. Tush, I will stir about, And all things shall be well, I warrant thee wife: Go thou to Juliet, help to deckevp her, I'll not to bed to night, let me alone: I'll play the huswife for this once. What ho? They are all forth, well I will walk my self To County Paris, to prepare him up Against to morrow, my heart is wondrous light, Since this same wayward Girl is so reclaimed. For shame bring Juliet forth, her Lord is come. Would? Let me see her: out alas she's cold, Her blood is settled and her joints are stiff: Life and these lips have long be sep erated: Death lies on her Like and untimely frost Upon the sweetest flower of all the field. Death that hath taken her hence to make me wail, Ties up my tongue, and will not let me speak. Ready to go, but never to return. Oh Son, the night before thy wedding day, Hath death lain with thy wife: there she lies, Flower as she was, deflowered by him. Death is my Son inlaw, death is my Heir, My Daughter he hath wedded, I will die, And leave him all life living, all is death's. All things that we ordained Festival, Turn from their office to black Funeral: Our instruments to melancholy Bells', Our wedding cheer, to a sad burial Feast: Our solemn Hymns, to sullen Dyrges change: Our Bridal flowers serve for a buried Coarse: And all things change them to the contrary. Despised, distressed, hated, martyred, killed, Uncomfortable time, why camest thou now To murder, murder, our solemnity? Oh Child, Oh Child; my soul, and not my Child, Dead art thou, alack my Child is dead, And with my Child, my joys are buried.