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 tonight.

I promise you, but for your company,

I would have been abed an hour ago.

These times of woe afford no tune to woo.

Madam, good night. Commend me to your daughter.

I will, and know her mind early tomorrow;

Tonight she’s mew’d up to her heaviness.

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?

Monday, my lord.

Monday! Ha, ha! Well, Wednesday 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 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?

My lord, I would that Thursday were tomorrow.

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, ho!

Afore me, it is so very very late that we

May call it early by and by. Good night.