Juliet: How now! Who calls?
Nurse: Your mother.
Juliet: Madam, I am here. What is your will? 
Lady Capulet: This is the matter: Nurse, give leave awhile, we must talk in secret. Nurse, come back again; I have remember'd me, thou's hear our counsel. Thou know'st my daughter's of a pretty age.
Nurse: Faith, I can tell her age unto an hour.
Lady Capulet: She's not fourteen.
Nurse: I'll lay fourteen of my teeth,-- And yet, to my teen be it spoken, I have but four,-- She is not fourteen. How long is it now to Lammas-tide?
Lady Capulet: A fortnight and odd days.
Nurse: Even or odd, of all days in the year, Come Lammas-eve at night shall she be fourteen. Susan and she--God rest all Christian souls!-- Were of an age; well, Susan is with God, She was too good for me; but, as I said, On Lammas-eve at night shall she be fourteen; That shall she, marry; I remember it well. 'Tis since the earthquake now eleven years; And she was wean'd,--I never shall forget it,-- Of all the days of the year, upon that day, For I had then laid wormwood to my dug, Sitting in the sun under the dove-house wall; My lord and you were then at Mantua,-- Nay, I do bear a brain;--but, as I said, When it did taste the wormwood on the nipple Of my dug, and felt it bitter, pretty fool, To see it tetchy and fall out with the dug! Shake, quoth the dove-house; 'twas no need, I trow, To bid me trudge. And since that time it is eleven years, For then she could stand alone; nay, by the rood, She could have run and waddled all about.-- God mark thee to his grace! Thou wast the prettiest babe that e'er I nurs'd; An I might live to see thee married once, I have my wish.
Lady Capulet: Marry, that 'marry' is the very theme I came to talk of.--Tell me, daughter Juliet, How stands your disposition to be married?
Juliet: It is an honour that I dream not of.
Nurse: An honour! were not I thine only nurse, I would say thou hadst suck'd wisdom from thy teat.
Lady Capulet: Well, think of marriage now; younger than you Here in Verona, ladies of esteem, Are made already mothers. By my count, I was your mother much upon these years That you are now a maid. Thus then in brief: The valiant Paris seeks you for his love.
Nurse: A man, young lady! lady, such a man As all the world--why, he's a man of wax.
Lady Capulet: Verona's summer hath not such a flower.
Nurse: Nay, he's a flower; in faith, a very flower.
Lady Capulet: What say you? can you love the gentleman? This night you shall behold him at our feast; Read o'er the volume of young Paris' face, And find delight writ there with beauty's pen. Examine every married lineament And see how one another lends content; And what obscur'd in this fair volume lies Find written in the margent of his eyes. This precious book of love, this unbound lover, To beautify him, 

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