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.