Lady Capulet. I will, and know her mind early to-morrow;
To-night she's [mew'd up] to her heaviness.
Capulet. Sir Paris, I will make a [desperate] tender
Of my child's love. I think she will be rul'd
In all respects by me; nay, more, I doubt it not.—
Wife, go you to her ere you go to bed;
Acquaint her here of my son Paris' love,
And bid her, mark you me, on Wednesday next—
But, soft! what day is this?
Paris.Monday, my lord.