Lord Capulet

Paris
But now, my lord, what say you to my suit?
Capulet
But saying o’er what I have said before.
My child is yet a stranger in the world.
She hath not seen the change of fourteen years.
Let two more summers wither in their pride
Ere we may think her ripe to be a bride.
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Capulet
Sir Paris, I will make a desperate tender
Of my child’s love. I think she will be ruled
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,
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Lady Capulet
Well, well, thou hast a careful father, child,
One who, to put thee from thy heaviness,
Hath sorted out a sudden day of joy
That thou expects not, nor I looked not for.
Juliet
Madam, in happy time! What day is that?

I would the fool were married to her grave.
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Capulet
God’s bread, it makes me mad.
Day, night, hour, tide, time, work, play,
Alone, in company, still my care hath been
To have her matched. And having now provided
A gentleman of noble parentage,
Of fair demesnes, youthful, and nobly ligned,
Stuffed, as they say, with honorable parts,
Proportioned as one’s thought would wish a man—
And then to have a wretched puling fool,
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Lady Capulet
What noise is here?
Nurse
O lamentable day!
Lady Capulet
What is the matter?
Nurse
Look, look!—O heavy day!

Death lies on her like an untimely frost
Upon the sweetest flower of all the field.

Lady Capulet
O me! O me!
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Friar Lawrence
Come, is the bride ready to go to church?
Capulet
Ready to go, but never to return.—
O son, the night before thy wedding day
Hath Death lain with thy wife. There she lies,
Flower as she was, deflowerèd by him.
Death is my son-in-law; Death is my heir.
My daughter he hath wedded.
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Prince
What misadventure is so early up
That calls our person from our morning rest?
  Enter Capulet and Lady Capulet.
Capulet
What should it be that is so shrieked abroad?
Lady Capulet
O, the people in the street cry “Romeo,”
Some “Juliet,” and some “Paris,” and all run
With open outcry toward our monument.
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Where be these enemies?—Capulet, Montague,
See what a scourge is laid upon your hate,
That heaven finds means to kill your joys with love,Paradox
And I, for winking at your discords too,
Have lost a brace of kinsmen. All are punished.

See what a scourge is laid upon your hate,
That heaven finds means to kill your joys with love

Capulet
O brother Montague,
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