CAPULET:
Soft, take me with you, take me with you, wife.
How will she none? Doth she not give us thanks?
Is she not proud? Doth she not count her blest,
Unworthy as she is, that we have wrought
So worthy a gentleman to be her bride?
JULIET:
Not proud you have, but thankful that you have.
Proud can I never be of what I hate,
But thankful even for hate that is meant love.
CAPULET:
How, how! How, how, chop-logic! What is this?
“Proud”, and “I thank you”, and “I thank you not”,
And yet, “Not proud”, mistress minion you?
Thank me no thankings, nor proud me no prouds,
But fettle your fine joints ‘gainst Thursday next,
To go with Paris to Saint Peter’s Church,
I will drag thee on a hurdle thither.
Out, you green-sickness carrion! out, you baggage!
You tallow-face.
LADY CAPULET:
(To her husband) Fie, fie! What, are you mad?
JULIET:
Good father, I beseech you on my knees,
Hear me with patience but to speak a word.
CAPULET:
Hang thee, young baggage! disobedient wretch!
I tell thee what: get thee to church o’ Thursday,
Or never after look me in the face.
Speak not, reply not, do not answer me.
My fingers itch. Wife, we scarce thought us blest
That God had lent us but this only child,
But now I see this one is one too much,
And that we have a curse in having her.
Out on her, hilding!
