Ho, daughter, are you up?
Who is’t that calls? It is my lady mother.
Is she not down so late, or up so early?
What unaccustom’d cause procures her hither?
She goeth down from the window.
Enter Mother, Lady Capulet.
Why, how now, Juliet?
Madam, I am not well.
Evermore weeping for your cousin’s death?
What, wilt thou wash him from his grave 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.
Yet let me weep for such a feeling loss.
So shall you feel the loss, but not the friend
Which you weep for.
Feeling so the loss,
I cannot choose but ever weep the friend.
Well, girl, thou weep’st not so much for his death,
As that the villain lives which slaughter’d him.
What villain, madam?
That same villain Romeo.
Villain and he be many miles asunder.—
God pardon him! I do with all my heart;
And yet no man like he doth grieve my heart.
That is because the traitor murderer lives.
Ay, madam, from the reach of these my hands.
Would none but I might venge my cousin’s death!
We will have vengeance for it, fear thou not.
Then weep no more. I’ll send to one in Mantua,
Where that same banish’d runagate doth live,
Shall give him such an unaccustom’d dram
That he shall soon keep Tybalt company;
And then I hope thou wilt be satisfied.
Indeed I never shall be satisfied
With Romeo, till I behold him—dead—
Is my poor heart, so for a kinsman vex’d.
Madam, if you could find out but a man
To bear a poison, I would temper it,
That Romeo should, upon receipt thereof,
Soon sleep in quiet. O how my heart abhors
To hear him nam’d, and cannot come to him
To wreak the love I bore my cousin
Upon his body that hath slaughter’d him!
Find thou the means, and I’ll find such a man.
But now I’ll tell thee joyful tidings, girl.
And joy comes well in such a needy time.
What are they, beseech your ladyship?
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 look’d not for.
Madam, in happy time, what day is that?
Marry, my child, early next Thursday morn,
The gallant, young, and noble gentleman,
The County Paris, at Saint Peter’s Church,
Shall happily make thee there a joyful bride.
Now, by Saint Peter’s Church and Peter too,
He shall not make me there a joyful bride.
I wonder at this haste, that I must wed
Ere he that should be husband comes to woo.
I pray you tell my lord and father, madam,
I will not marry yet, and when I do, I swear
It shall be Romeo, whom you know I hate,
Rather than Paris. These are news indeed!
Here comes your father, tell him so yourself;
And see how he will take it at your hands.