_Iul_: Now by Saint _Peters_ Church and _Peter_ too, 90 He shall not there make mee a ioyfull Bride. Are these the newes you had to tell me of? Marrie here are newes indeed. Madame I will not marrie yet. And when I doo, it shalbe rather _Romeo_ whom I hate, Than Countie _Paris_ that I cannot loue. 95 _Enter olde Capolet._ _Moth_: Here comes your Father, you may tell him so. _Capo_: Why how now, euermore showring? In one little bodie thou resemblest a sea, a barke, a storme: For this thy bodie which I tearme a barke, Still floating in thy euerfalling teares, 100 And tost with sighes arising from thy hart: Will without succour shipwracke presently. But heare you Wife, what haue you sounded her, what saies she to it? _Moth_: I haue, but she will none she thankes ye: Would God that she were married to her graue. 105 _Capo_: What will she not, doth she not thanke vs, doth she not wexe proud? _Iul_: Not proud ye haue, but thankfull that ye haue: Proud can I neuer be of that I hate, But thankfull euen for hate that is ment loue. 110 _Capo_: Proud and I thanke you, and I thanke you not, And yet not proud. Whats here, chop logicke. Proud me no prouds, nor thanke me no thankes, But fettle your fine ioynts on Thursday next To goe with _Paris_ to Saint _Peters_ Church, 115 Or I will drag you on a hurdle thether. Out you greene sicknes baggage, out you tallow face. _Iu_: Good father heare me speake? _She kneeles downe._ _Cap_: I tell thee what, eyther resolue on thursday next To goe with _Paris_ to Saint _Peters_ Church: 120 Or henceforth neuer looke me in the face. Speake not, reply not, for my fingers ytch. Why wife, we thought that we were scarcely blest That God had sent vs but this onely chyld: But now I see this one is one too much, 125 And that we haue a crosse in hauing her. _Nur_: Mary God in heauen blesse her my Lord, You are too blame to rate her so. _Cap._ And why my Lady wisedome? hold your tung, Good prudence smatter with your gossips, goe. 130 _Nur_: Why my Lord I speake no treason. _Cap_: Oh goddegodden. Vtter your grauity ouer a gossips boule, For heere wee need it not. _Mo_: My lord ye are too hotte. 135