I Will Not Marry Paris

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 blest,
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.



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