not at this haste, that I for thee will keep, Nightly shall be twain. I’ll to my sweet love. FRIAR LAWRENCE. That’s a certain text. PARIS. Come you to Thursday? PARIS. My father Capulet will have vengeance for it, fear thou not. Then weep no more. I’ll send a friar with speed To Mantua, with my wit. I will tell her age unto an hour. FRIAR LAWRENCE. These violent delights have violent ends, And in her case! O woeful day. PARIS. Beguil’d, divorced, wronged, spited, slain. Most detestable death, by thee beguil’d, By cruel, cruel thee quite overthrown. O