It were a griefe, so briefe to part with thee:
Farewell.

Exeunt.

Enter old Capulet, his Wife and Paris.

Cap. Things haue falne out sir so vnluckily,
That we haue had no time to moue our Daughter:
Looke you, she Lou'd her kinsman Tybalt dearely,
And so did I. Well, we were borne to die.
'Tis very late, she'l not come downe to night:
I promise you, but for your company,
I would haue bin a bed an houre ago

Par. These times of wo, affoord no times to wooe:
Madam goodnight, commend me to your Daughter

Lady. I will, and know her mind early to morrow,
To night, she is mewed vp to her heauinesse

Cap. Sir Paris, I will make a desperate tender
Of my Childes loue: I thinke 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 Sonne Paris Loue,
And bid her, marke you me, on Wendsday next,
But soft, what day is this?
Par. Monday my Lord