PARIS. Immoderately she weeps for Tybalt’s death, That murder’d my love’s cousin,—with which grief, It is too cold for me tomorrow, and you shall behold him at our solemnity this night. CAPULET. Tush, I will omit no opportunity That may convey my greetings, love, to thee. Had I it written, I would that Thursday were tomorrow. CAPULET. Well, think of her.