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God’s bread, it makes me mad

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,
A whining mammet, in her fortune’s tender,
To answer “I’ll not wed. I cannot love.
I am too young. I pray you, pardon me.”

Is there no pity sitting in the clouds
That sees into the bottom of my grief?

But, an you will not wed, I’ll pardon you!
Graze where you will, you shall not house with me.
Look to ’t; think on ’t. I do not use to jest.
Thursday is near. Lay hand on heart; advise.
An you be mine, I’ll give you to my friend.
An you be not, hang, beg, starve, die in the streets,
For, by my soul, I’ll ne’er acknowledge thee,
Nor what is mine shall never do thee good.
Trust to ’t; bethink you. I’ll not be forsworn.
  He exits.
Is there no pity sitting in the clouds
That sees into the bottom of my grief?—
O sweet my mother, cast me not away.
Delay this marriage for a month, a week,
Or, if you do not, make the bridal bed
In that dim monument where Tybalt lies.
Lady Capulet
Talk not to me, for I’ll not speak a word.
Do as thou wilt, for I have done with thee.
  She exits.
Juliet, rising
O God! O nurse, how shall this be prevented?
My husband is on Earth, my faith in heaven.
How shall that faith return again to Earth
Unless that husband send it me from heaven
By leaving Earth? Comfort me; counsel me.—
Alack, alack, that heaven should practice stratagems
Upon so soft a subject as myself.—
What sayst thou? Hast thou not a word of joy?
Some comfort, nurse.
Faith, here it is.
Romeo is banished, and all the world to nothing
That he dares ne’er come back to challenge you,
Or, if he do, it needs must be by stealth.
Then, since the case so stands as now it doth,
I think it best you married with the County.
O, he’s a lovely gentleman!
Romeo’s a dishclout to him. An eagle, madam,
Hath not so green, so quick, so fair an eye
As Paris hath. Beshrew my very heart,
I think you are happy in this second match,
For it excels your first, or, if it did not,
Your first is dead, or ’twere as good he were
As living here and you no use of him.
Speak’st thou from thy heart?
And from my soul too, else beshrew them both.
Well, thou hast comforted me marvelous much.
Go in and tell my lady I am gone,
Having displeased my father, to Lawrence’ cell
To make confession and to be absolved.
Marry, I will; and this is wisely done.
  She exits.
Ancient damnation, O most wicked fiend!
Is it more sin to wish me thus forsworn
Or to dispraise my lord with that same tongue
Which she hath praised him with above compare
So many thousand times? Go, counselor.
Thou and my bosom henceforth shall be twain.
I’ll to the Friar to know his remedy.
If all else fail, myself have power to die.
  She exits.

Act 3
Scene 5
Line 186

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