I pray you, tell my lord and father, madam, La. Cap. Here comes your father; tell him so yourself, And see how he will take it at your hands. Enter CAPULET and Nurse. Cap. When the sun sets, the air doth drizzle dew;" But for the sunset of my brother's son, It rains downright.— How now, a conduit, girl? what, still in tears? Evermore showering? In one little body Thy tempest-tossed body.-How now, wife? 1 La. Cap. Ay, sir; but she will none, she gives you thanks. I would the fool were married to her grave! Cap. Soft, take me with you, take me with you, wife. How! will she none? doth she not give us thanks? Is she not proud? doth she not count her blessed, Unworthy as she is, that we have wrought So worthy a gentleman to be her bridegroom? Jul. Not proud, you have; but thankful, that you have; Proud can I never be of what I hate; But thankful even for hate, that is meant love. Cap. How now! how now, chop-logic! What is this? 1 Thus the quarto 1597. The quarto 1599, and the folio, read, "the earth doth drizzle dew," which is philosophically true; and so, perhaps, the Poet wrote. 2 Capulet, as Steevens observes, uses this as a nickname. The hyphen Proud, and, I thank you,—and, I thank you not;— Or I will drag thee on a hurdle thither. Out, you green-sickness carrion! out, you baggage! You tallow-face! La. Cap. Fie, fie! what, are you mad? Jul. Good father, I beseech you on my knees, Hear me with patience but to speak a word. Cap. Hang thee, young baggage! disobedient wretch! I tell thee what,-get thee to church o' Thursday, Speak not, reply not, do not answer me; My fingers itch.-Wife, we scarce thought us blessed, Nurse. God in heaven bless her! You are to blame, my lord, to rate her so. tongue, Hold your Good prudence; smatter with your gossips, go. Cap. Nurse. May not one speak? Cap. O, God ye good den! Peace, you mumbling fool! You are too hot. Utter your gravity o'er a gossip's bowl, For here we need it not. La. Cap. Cap. God's bread! it makes me mad. Day, night, late, early, is wanting in the old copy. rebuketh his servaunt for his "Choplogyk is he that whan his mayster defawtes, he will give him xx wordes for one, or elles he will bydde the devylles paternoster in scylence."—The xxiiii Orders of Knaves, blk. 1. 1 Base woman. At home, abroad, alone, in company, Of fair demesnes, youthful, and nobly trained, [Exit. [Exit. Jul. O God!-O nurse! how shall this be pre vented? My husband is on earth, my faith in heaven; What say'st thou hast thou not a word of joy? Nurse. 'Faith, here 'tis. Romeo Is banished; and all the world to nothing, That he dares ne'er come back to challenge you; Romeo's a dishclout to him; an eagle, madam, I think you are happy in this second match, Or else beshrew them both. Jul. Nurse. From my soul too; Amen! To what? Jul. Well, thou hast comforted me marvellous much. Go in; and tell my lady I am gone, Having displeased my father, to Laurence' cell, Nurse. Marry, I will; and this is wisely done. [Exit. Jul. Ancient damnation! O most wicked fiend! Is it more sin-to wish me thus forsworn, If all else fail, myself have power to die. [Exit. 1 In The Two Noble Kinsmen, by Fletcher and Shakspeare, we find :— ACT IV. SCENE I. Friar Laurence's Cell. Enter FRIAR LAURENCE and PARIS. Fri. On Thursday, sir? The time is very short. Par. My father Capulet will have it so; And I am nothing slow, to slack his haste.1 Fri. You say you do not know the lady's mind: Uneven is the course; I like it not. Par. Immoderately she weeps for Tybalt's death, And therefore have I little talked of love; For Venus smiles not in a house of tears. Now, sir, her father counts it dangerous, That she doth 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. Fri. I would I knew not why it should be slowed.2 Look, sir, here comes the lady towards my cell. Enter JULIET. [Aside. Par. Happily met, my lady, and my wife! next. Jul. What must be, shall be. Fri. That's a certain text. Par. Come you to make confession to this father? 1 The meaning of Paris is, there is nothing of slowness in me, to induce me to slacken or abate his haste; but the words the Poet has given him import the reverse. The first edition reads, "And I am nothing slack to slow his haste." 2 To slow and to foreslow were anciently in common use as verbs. |