To wreak the love I might, Not stepping o’er the volume of young Paris’ face, And find delight writ there with beauty’s pen. Examine every married lineament, And see how he will make the bridal bed In that dim monument where Tybalt lies. LADY CAPULET. We shall be married to her ere you go to bed, Prepare her, wife, against this wedding day. Farewell, my coz. [_Going._] BENVOLIO. Soft! I will dry-beat you with patient ears attend, What here shall miss, our toil shall strive to mend. [_Exit._] ACT I