Paris

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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Pandarus
I come to speak with Paris
from the Prince Troilus. I will make a complimental
assault upon him, for my business seethes.
Man
Sodden business! There’s a stewed phrase indeed.
 Enter Paris and Helen with Attendants.
Pandarus
Fair be to you, my lord, and to all this fair
company!
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Pandurus
Come, come, I’ll hear no more of this. I’ll
sing you a song now.
Helen
Ay, ay, prithee. Now, by my troth, sweet lord,
thou hast a fine forehead.
Pandurus
Ay, you may, you may.
Helen
Let thy song be love. “This love will undo us all.”
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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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Aeneas
Health to you, valiant sir,
During all question of the gentle truce;
But when I meet you armed, as black defiance
As heart can think or courage execute.
Diomedes
The one and other Diomed embraces.
Our bloods are now in calm, and, so long, health;
But when contention and occasion meet,
By Jove,
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Paris
And tell me, noble Diomed, faith, tell me true,
Even in the soul of sound good-fellowship,
Who, in your thoughts, deserves fair Helen best,
Myself or Menelaus?
Diomedes
Both alike.
He merits well to have her that doth seek her,
Not making any scruple of her soilure,
With such a hell of pain and world of charge;
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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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Sweet flower, with flowers thy bridal bed I strew
(O woe, thy canopy is dust and stones!)
Which with sweet water nightly I will dew,
Or, wanting that, with tears distilled by moans.
The obsequies that I for thee will keep
Nightly shall be to strew thy grave and weep.
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Paris
O, I am slain! If thou be merciful,
Open the tomb; lay me with Juliet.  He dies.
Romeo
In faith, I will.—Let me peruse this face.
Mercutio’s kinsman, noble County Paris!
What said my man when my betossèd soul
Did not attend him as we rode? I think
He told me Paris should have married Juliet.
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