You tallow-face!
Lady Capulet. Fie, fie! what, are you mad?
Juliet. Good father, I beseech you on my knees,
Hear me with patience but to speak a word.
Capulet. Hang thee, young baggage! disobedient wretch!
I tell thee what, get thee to church o' Thursday
Or never after look me in the face.
Speak not, reply not, do not answer me;
My fingers itch.—Wife, we scarce thought us blest
That God had [lent] us but this only child,