PARIS

Of Honourable reckoning are you both, And pity it's you lived at ods so long: But now my Lord, what say you to my suit? These times of woe, afford no times to woo: Madam goodnight, commend me to your Daughter. Monday my Lord. My Father Capulet will have it so, And I am nothing slow to slack his hast. Happily met, my Lady and my wife. That may be, must be Love, on Thursday next. Come you to make confession to this Father? Do not deny to him, that you Love me. So will you, I am sure that you Love me. Poor soul, thy face is much abused with tears. Thy face is mine, and thou hast slandered it. Godsheild: I should disturb Devotion, Juliet, on Thursday early will I rouse ye, Till then adue, and keep this holy kiss. Give me thy Torch Boy, hence and stand aloft, Yet put it out, for I would not be seen: Under yond young Trees lay thee all along, Holding thy ear close to the hollow ground, So shall no foot upon the Churchyard tread, Being lose, unfirm with digging up of Graves, But thou shalt hear it: whistle then to me, As signal that thou hearest some thing approach, Give me those flowers. Do as I bid thee, go. This is that banished haughty Montague, That murdered my Loves Cozin; with which grief, It is supposed the fair Creature died, And here is come to do some villainous shame To the dead bodies: I will apprehend him. Stop thy unhallowed toil, vile Montague: Can vengeance be pursued further then death? Condemned vallaine, I do apprehend thee. Obey and go with me, for thou must die, I do defy thy commiseration, And apprehend thee for a Felon here. Younger then she, are happy mother's made. My Lord, I would that Thursday were to morrow. Immoderately she weeps for Tybalis death, And therefore have I little talk of Love, For Venus smiles not in a house of tears. Now sir, her Father counts it dangerous That she does give her sorrow so much sway: And in his wisdom, hasts our marriage, To stop the inundation of her tears, Which too much minded by her self alone, May be put from her by society. Now do you know the reason of this hast? Thou wrongest it more then tears with that report. Have I thought long to see this morning's face, And does it give me such a sighed as this? Beguiled, divorced, wronged, spighted, slain, Most detestable death by thee beguiled, By cruel, cruel thee, quite overthrown: Oh love Oh life; not life, but love in death. Sweet Flower with flowers thy Bridal bed I strew: Oh woe, thy Canopy is dust and stones, Which with sweet water nightly I will dew, Or wanting that, with tears destil'd by mones; The obsequies that I for thee will keep, Nightly shall be, to strew thy graven, and weep. The Boy gives warning, something does approach, What cursed foot wanders this ways to night, To cross my obsequies, and true loves right? What with a Torch? Muffle me night a while. Oh I am slain, if thou be merciful, Open the Tomb, lay me with Juliet.