Juliet. The tears have got small victory by that,
For it was bad enough before their [spite].
Paris. Thou wrong'st it more than tears with that report.
Juliet. That is no slander, sir, which is a truth;
And what I spake, I spake it to my face.
Paris. Thy face is mine, and thou hast slander'd it.
Juliet. It may be so, for it is not mine own.—
Are you at leisure, holy father, now,
Or shall I come to you at [evening mass]?
Friar Laurence. My leisure serves me, pensive daughter, now.—