PARIS.
That may be, must be, love, on Thursday next.
JULIET.
What must be shall be.
FRIAR LAWRENCE.
That’s a certain text.
PARIS.
Come you to make confession to this father?
JULIET.
To answer that, I should confess to you.
PARIS.
Do not deny to him that you love me.
JULIET.
I will confess to you that I love him.
PARIS.
So will ye, I am sure, that you love me.
JULIET.
If I do so, it will be of more price,
Being spoke behind your back than to your face.
PARIS.
Poor soul, thy face is much abus’d with tears.