A room in Capulet’s house.
Things have fall’n out, sir, so unluckily, That we have had no time to move our daughter: Look you, she loved her kinsman Tybalt dearly, And so did I:—Well, we were born to die. ’Tis very late, she’ll not come down to-night: I promise you, but for your company, I would have been a-bed an hour ago.
These times of woe afford no time to woo. Madam, good night: commend me to your daughter.
I will, and know her mind early to-morrow; To-night she is mew’d up to her heaviness.