2 Servant.
Marry, sir, 'tis an ill cook that cannot lick his own fingers:
therefore he that cannot lick his fingers goes not with me.

Capulet.
Go, begone.--

[Exit second Servant.]

We shall be much unfurnish'd for this time.--
What, is my daughter gone to Friar Lawrence?

Nurse.
Ay, forsooth.

Capulet.
Well, be may chance to do some good on her:
A peevish self-will'd harlotry it is.

Nurse.
See where she comes from shrift with merry look.

[Enter Juliet.]

Capulet.
How now, my headstrong! where have you been gadding?

Juliet.
Where I have learn'd me to repent the sin