Celia.
What! ſtill a but, Madam?
Juliet.
Celia, don't diſtract me; he expects to ſpeak to me this night in the garden; I have promiſed to meet him there.
Celia.
Don't meet him, Madam; he will be piqued at it, and you will ſee him no more: it is the only method readily to cure your wound.
Juliet.
You are right; now I know who he is, I ought to avoid him. I am ſenſible a ſecond interview would wound my honour, and deprive me of what little tranquility I have ſtill left; you ſhall go and enquire for him to-morrow; you ſhall tell him from me—Ah! Heavens! you ſhall tell him, that the blood from whence he is ſprung, places between us an unſurmountable barrier, and, that I beg of him, never to come near our houſe again.
Celia.
Very well! I will obey you. To ſpeak freely, I was very uneaſy to ſee that you took ſo much pleaſure in talking with him during the ball.
Juliet.
Why did you not tell me then, that he was the ſon of a Montague?
Celia.
His valet placed himſelf cloſe to me, and I too had an inclination to hear him.
