§  Lady Capulet. Fie, fie! what, are you mad?

§  Juliet. Good father, I beseech you on my knees, 
 Hear me with patience but to speak a word.

§  Capulet. Hang thee, young baggage! disobedient wretch! 
 I tell thee what: get thee to church o' 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!