_Lady Capulet._ Fie, fie! what, are you mad?
_Juliet._ Good father, I beseech you on my knees, Hear me with patience but to speak a word.
_Capulet._ Hang thee, young baggage! disobedient wretch! I tell thee what, get thee to church o' Thursday 160 Or never after look me in the face. Speak not, reply not, do not answer me; My fingers itch.--Wife, we scarce thought us blest That God had lent us but this only child, But now I see this one is one too much, And that we have a curse in having her; Out on her, hilding!
_Nurse._ God in heaven bless her! You are to blame, my lord, to rate her so.
_Capulet._ And why, my lady wisdom? hold your tongue, Good prudence; smatter with your gossips, go. 170
_Capulet._ Peace, you mumbling fool! Utter your gravity o'er a gossip's bowl, For here we need it not.
_Capulet._ God's bread! it makes me mad! Day, night, late, early, At home, abroad, alone, in company, Waking, or sleeping, still my care hath been To have her match'd; and having now provided A gentleman of noble parentage, Of fair demesnes, youthful, and nobly train'd, 180 Stuff'd, as they say, with honourable parts, Proportion'd as one's thought would wish a man,-- And then to have a wretched puling fool, A whining mammet, in her fortune's tender, To answer 'I'll not wed; I cannot love, 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. 190 An you be mine, I'll give you to my friend; An you be not, hang, beg, starve, die in 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 200 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!-- 210 What say'st thou? hast thou not a word of joy? Some comfort, nurse.