LADY CAPULET

A crutch, a crutch: why call you for a Sword? Oh where is Romeo, saw you him to day? Right glad am I, he was not at this fray. This is the matter: Nurse give leave awhile, we must talk in secret. Nurse come back again, I have re membered me, thou'se hear our counsel. Thou knowest my daughter's of a pretty age. She's not fourteen. A fortnight and odd days. Oh the people in the street cry Romeo. Some Juliet, and some Paris, and all run With open outcry towards out Monument. Oh me, this sighed of death, is as a Bell That uva nes my old age to a Sepulcher. Nurse where's my daughter? call her forth to me. Tybalt, my Cozin? Oh my Brother's Child, Oh Prince, Oh Cozin, Husband, Oh the blood is spilled Of my deer kinsman. Prince as thou art true, For blood of ours, shed blood of Montague. Oh Cozin, Cozin. He is a kinsman to the Montague, Affection makes him false, he speaks not true Some twenty of them fought in this black strife, And all those twenty could but kill one life. I beg for Justice, which thou Prince must give: Romeo slew Tybalt, Romeo must not live. Enough of this, I pray thee hold thy peace. Marry that marry is the very theme I came to talk of, tell me daughter Juliet, How stands your disposition to be Married? Well think of marriage now, younger then you Here in Verona, Ladies of esteem, Are made already Mother's. By my count I was your Mother, much upon these years That you are now a Maid, thus then in brief: The valiant Paris seeks you for his love. Verona's Summer hath not such a flower. Speak briefly, can you Like of Paris love? What say you, can you love the Gentleman? This night you shall behold him at our Feast, Read over the volume of young Paris face, And find delight, writ there with Beauty's pen: Examine every several lineament, And see how one another lends content: And what obscured in this fair volume lies, Find written in the Margin of his eyes This precious Book of Love, this unbound Lover, To Beautify him, only lacks a Cover. The fish lives in the Sea, and it's much pride For fair without, the fair within to hide: That Book in manies eyes does share the glory, That in Gold clasps, Locks in the Golden story: So shall you share all that he does possess, By having him, making your self no less. Well Girl, thou weepest not so much for his death, As that the Villain lives which slaughtered him. You are too hight. I you have been a Mouse-hunt in your time, But I will watch you from such watching now. Ho Daughter, are you up? Why how now Juliet ? Evermore weeping for your Cozins death? What wilt thou wash him from his graven with tears? And if thou couldst, thou couldst not make him live: Therefore have done, some grief shows much of Love, But much of grief, shows still some want of wit. So shall you feel the lose, but not the Friend Which you weep for. That same Villain Romeo. That is because the Traitor lives. We will have vengeance for it, fear thou not. Then weep no more, I'll send to one in Mantua, Where that same banished Run-ag to does live, Shall give him such and unaccustomed dram, That he shall soon keep Tybalt company: And then I hope thou wilt be satisfied. I will, and know her mind early to morrow, To night, she is mewed up to her heaviness. I sir: But she will none, she gives you thanks, I would the fool were married to her graven. Fie, fie, what are you mad? Hold, Take these keys, and fetch more spices Nurse. We follow thee, Juliet, the County stays. Find thou the means, and I'll find such a man. But now I'll tell thee joyful tidings Girl. Well, well, thou hast a careful Father Child? One who to put thee from thy heaviness, Hath sorted out a sudden day of joy, That thou expects not, nor I looked not for. Marry my Child, early next Thursday morn, The gallant, young, and Noble Gentleman, The County Paris at Saint Peters Church, Shall happily make thee a joyful Bride. Here comes your Father, tell him so your self, And see how he will take it at your hands. Talk not to me, for I'll not speak a word, Do as thou wilt, for I have done with thee. No not till Thursday, there's time enough. We shall be short in our provision, It's now near night. What are you busy ho? needs you my help? Goodnight. Get thee to bed and rest, for thou hast needs. What noise is here? What is the matter? Oh me, Oh me, my Child, my only life: Revive, look up, or I will die with thee: Help, help, call help. Oh woeful time. Accur'st, unhappy, wretched hateful day, Most miserable hour, that ere time saw In lasting labour of his Pilgrimage. But one poor one, one poor and loving Child, But one thing to rejoice and solace in, And cruel death hath catched it from my sighed. Alack the day, she's dead, she's dead, she's dead.