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 a 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 blessed That God had lent us but this only child; But now I see this one is one too much, And that we have a curse in having her. Out on her, hilding! Read more about popup_note_index_item 733
