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Goin; and tell my lady I am gone,
AcT IV. SCENE 1.
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. 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 talk'd 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 slow'd. [Aside. Look, sir, here comes the lady towards my cell.
Par. Happily met, my lady, and my wife!
Jul. That may be, sir, when I may be a wife.
Par. That may be, must be, love, on Thursday Inext.
Jul. What must be shall be. Fri. That's a certain text. Par. Come you to make confession to this father? Jul. To answer that, were to confess to you. Par. Do not deny to him, that you love me. Jul. I will confess to you, that I love him. Par. So will you, I am sure, that you love me. Jul. If I do so, it will be of more price, Being spoke behind your back, than to your face. Par. Poor soul, thy face is much abus'd with tears. Jul. The tears have got small victory by that; For it was bad enough, before their spite. Par. Thou wrong'st it, more than tears, with that report. Jul. That is no slander, sir, that is a truth; And what I spake, I spake it to my face. Par. Thy face is mine, and thou hast slander'd it. Jul. It may be so, for it is not mine own.— Are you at leisure, holy father, now; Or shall I come to you at evening mass? Fri. My leisure serves me, pensive daughter, now :- My lord, we must entreat the time alone. Par. God shield, I should disturb devotion 1– Juliet, on Thursday early will I rouse you: Till then, adieu! and keep this holy kiss. [Erit Paris. Jul. O, shut the door! and when thou hast done so, Come weep with me; Past hope, past cure, past help!
Fri. Ah, Juliet, I already know thy grief;
Jul. Tell me not, friar, that thou hear’st of this,
Fri. Hold, daughter; I do spy a kind of hope, Which craves as desperate an execution As that is desperate which we would prevent. If, rather than to marry county Paris, Thou hast the strength of will to slay thyself; Then is it likely, thou wilt undertake A thing like death to chide away this shame,
That cop'st with death himself to scape from it;