Sir Paris, I will make a desperate tender

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, what day is this?
Paris
Monday, my lord.
Capulet
Monday, ha ha! Well, Wednesday is too soon.
O’ Thursday let it be.—O’ Thursday, tell her,
She shall be married to this noble earl.—
Will you be ready? Do you like this haste?

Afore me, it is so very late that we
May call it early by and by

We’ll keep no great ado: a friend or two.
For hark you, Tybalt being slain so late,
It may be thought we held him carelessly,
Being our kinsman, if we revel much.
Therefore we’ll have some half a dozen friends,
And there an end. But what say you to Thursday?
Paris
My lord, I would that Thursday were tomorrow.
Capulet
Well, get you gone. O’ Thursday be it, then.
 To Lady Capulet. Go you to Juliet ere you go to bed.
Prepare her, wife, against this wedding day.—
Farewell, my lord.—Light to my chamber, ho!—
Afore me, it is so very late that we
May call it early by and by.—Good night.
  They exit.