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Beg pardon of thy Prince, and call thee back,
With twenty hundred thousand times more joy,
Than thou went'st forth in lamentation.
Go before, Nurse; Commend me to thy lady,
And bid her hasten all the house to rest ;
Romeo is coming.
Nurse. O lord, I could have staid here all night

To hear good counsel ; Oh, what learning is !
My lord, I'll tell my lady you will come.

Rom. Do so, and bid my sweet prepare to chide.

Nurse. Here, sir, a ring she bid me give you, sir : Hie you,

make haste, for it grows very late. Rom. How well my comfort is reviy'd by this !

Fri. Sojourn in Mantua ; I'll find out your man; And he shall signify, from time to time, Every good hap to you that chances here: Give me thy hand; "Tis late, farewell, good night.

Rom. But that a joy, past joy, calls out on me, It were a grief so soon to part with thee. [Exeunt.


CAPULET's House.

Cap. Things have fall’n out, sir, so unluckily,
That we have had no time to move our daughter
Look you, she lov’d her kinsman Tibalt dearly,
And so did 1-Well, we were born to die
'Tis very late, she'll not come down to-night.

Par. These times of grief afford no time to woo : Madam, good night, commend me to your daughter.


Cap. Sir Paris, I will make a desperate tender Of my child's love: I think she will be ruld In all respects by me; nay more, I doubt it not. But, soft; what day? Well, Wednesday is too soon, On Thursday, let it be, you shall be marry'd. We'll keep no great ado-a friend or twoFor, hark you, Tibalt 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's an end. But what say you to Thursday?

Par. My lord, I would that Thursday were to


Cap. Well, get you gone-on Thursday be it

then: Go you to Juliet ere you go to bed :

[To LADY CAPULET. Prepare her, wife, against this wedding day. Farewell, my lord Good night.



The Garden.

Enter Romeo and Juliet.
Jul. Wilt thou be gone? It is not yet near day:
It was the nightingale, and not the lark,
That pierc'd the fearful hollow of thine ear;
Nightly she sings on yon pomegranate tree:
Believe me, love, it was the nightingale.

Rom. It was the lark, the herald of the morn,
No nightingale. Look, love, what envious streaks
Do lace the severing clouds in yonder east:
Night's candles are burnt out, and jocund day

Cap. Sir Paris, I will make a desperate tender

I think abs will he ruld

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