(ANGRY) Day, night, month, year! My constant care... has been to have my only child worthily matched. And here I find an educated man of equal birth with honorable parts, with fine estates and handsome to behold, and what is my reward? A puking fool, who answers, "I'll not wed. I cannot love. I am too young. I pray you pardon me." (He lunges towards Juliet.) Now think on this. Thursday is near. If you will play the bride, then are you my daughter and all is forgot. If you will not, then you are mine no more. Graze where you will. You shall not house with me. Beg, starve or hang, I'll ne'er acknowledge thee, nor pass to you the slightest thing that's mine. I swear to this, my word, so help me God!

Death that has killed my daughter, ties my tongue and drains my eyes and will not let me grieve. Oh, child. My soul more than my child. Dead are you now. Alack. My child is dead... and with my child, all my joys are buried.