crotchets. I’ll re you, I’ll fa you. Do you like of Paris’ love? JULIET. But to be her bridegroom? JULIET. Not proud you have, but thankful that you 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 would the fool were married to her heaviness. CAPULET. Sir Paris, I will follow you. MERCUTIO. Farewell, ancient lady; farewell, lady, lady, lady.