Thursday is near; [lay hand on heart, advise].
An you be mine, I'll give you to my friend;
An you be not, hang, beg, starve, die in the streets,
For, by my soul, I'll ne'er acknowledge thee,
Nor what is mine shall never do thee good.
Trust to 't, bethink you; I'll not be forsworn. [Exit.
Juliet. Is there no pity sitting in the clouds,
That sees into the bottom of my grief?
O, [sweet my mother], cast me not away!
Delay this marriage for a month, a week;