The Quintessential Shakespeare: 11 Most Famous Plays in One Edition. William Shakespeare
I am too young,—I pray you pardon me:’—
But, an you will not wed, I’ll pardon you:
Graze where you will, you shall not house with me:
Look to’t, think on’t, I do not use to jest.
Thursday is near; lay hand on heart, advise:
An you be mine, I’ll give you to my friend;
An you be not, hang, beg, starve, die i’ the streets,
For, by my soul, I’ll ne’er acknowledge thee,
Nor what is mine shall never do thee good:
Trust to’t, bethink you, I’ll not be forsworn.
[Exit.]
Juliet.
Is there no pity sitting in the clouds,
That sees into the bottom of my grief?
O, sweet my mother, cast me not away!
Delay this marriage for a month, a week;
Or, if you do not, make the bridal bed
In that dim monument where Tybalt lies.
Lady Capulet.
Talk not to me, for I’ll not speak a word;
Do as thou wilt, for I have done with thee.
[Exit.]
Juliet.
O God!—O nurse! how shall this be prevented?
My husband is on earth, my faith in heaven;
How shall that faith return again to earth,
Unless that husband send it me from heaven
By leaving earth?—comfort me, counsel me.—
Alack, alack, that heaven should practise stratagems
Upon so soft a subject as myself!—
What say’st thou? hast thou not a word of joy?
Some comfort, nurse.
Nurse.
Faith, here ‘tis; Romeo
Is banished; and all the world to nothing
That he dares ne’er come back to challenge you;
Or if he do, it needs must be by stealth.
Then, since the case so stands as now it doth,
I think it best you married with the county.
O, he’s a lovely gentleman!
Romeo’s a dishclout to him; an eagle, madam,
Hath not so green, so quick, so fair an eye
As Paris hath. Beshrew my very heart,
I think you are happy in this second match,
For it excels your first: or if it did not,
Your first is dead; or ‘twere as good he were,
As living here, and you no use of him.
Juliet.
Speakest thou this from thy heart?
Nurse.
And from my soul too;
Or else beshrew them both.
Juliet.
Amen!
Nurse.
What?
Juliet.
Well, thou hast comforted me marvellous much.
Go in; and tell my lady I am gone,
Having displeas’d my father, to Lawrence’ cell,
To make confession and to be absolv’d.
Nurse.
Marry, I will; and this is wisely done.
[Exit.]
Juliet.
Ancient damnation! O most wicked fiend!
Is it more sin to wish me thus forsworn,
Or to dispraise my lord with that same tongue
Which she hath prais’d him with above compare
So many thousand times?—Go, counsellor;
Thou and my bosom henceforth shall be twain.—
I’ll to the friar to know his remedy;
If all else fail, myself have power to die.
[Exit.]
ACT IV.
SCENE I. Friar Lawrence’s Cell.
[Enter Friar Lawrence and Paris.]
Friar.
On Thursday, sir? the time is very short.
Paris.
My father Capulet will have it so;
And I am nothing slow to slack his haste.
Friar.
You say you do not know the lady’s mind:
Uneven is the course; I like it not.
Paris.
Immoderately she weeps for Tybalt’s death,
And therefore have I little talk’d of love;
For Venus smiles not in a house of tears.
Now, sir, her father counts it dangerous
That she do give her sorrow so much sway;
And, in his wisdom, hastes our marriage,
To stop the inundation of her tears;
Which, too much minded by herself alone,
May be put from her by society:
Now do you know the reason of this haste.
Friar.
[Aside.] I would I knew not why it should be slow’d.—
Look, sir, here comes the lady toward my cell.
[Enter Juliet.]
Paris.
Happily met, my lady and my wife!
Juliet.
That may be, sir, when I may be a wife.
Paris.
That may be must be, love, on Thursday next.
Juliet.
What must be shall be.
Friar.
That’s a certain text.
Paris.
Come you to make confession to this father?
Juliet.
To answer that, I should confess to you.
Paris.
Do not deny to him that you love me.
Juliet.
I will confess to you that I love him.
Paris.
So will ye, I am sure, that you love me.
Juliet.
If I do so, it will be of more price,
Being spoke behind your back than to your face.
Paris.
Poor soul, thy face is much abus’d with tears.
Juliet.
The tears have got small victory by that;
For it was bad enough before their spite.
Paris.
Thou wrong’st it more than tears with that report.
Juliet.
That is no slander,