Paris.
These times of woe afford no tune to woo.--
Madam, good night: commend me to your daughter.

Lady Capulet.
I will, and know her mind early to-morrow;
To-night she's mew'd up to her heaviness.

Capulet.
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?

Paris.
Monday, my lord.

Capulet.
Monday! ha, ha! Well, Wednesday is too soon,
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: