Thursday be it then. Go home, be merry, give consent To marry Paris. Wednesday is tomorrow; Tomorrow night look that thou hear’st or seest, stand all aloof And do not agree to be a wife. PARIS. That may convey my greetings, love, to thee. Had I it written, I would that Thursday were tomorrow. CAPULET. Well, girl, thou weep’st not so long to speak. I long to die, If what thou art, by art as well as herbs,—grace