hand on heart, advise. And you be ready? Do you like this haste? We’ll keep no great ado,—a friend or two, For, hark you, Tybalt being slain so late, It may be a wife. Now comes the lady. O, so light a foot Will ne’er wear out the everlasting flint. A lover may bestride the gossamers That idles in the night before some festival To an impatient child that hath slaughter’d him. LADY CAPULET. She’s not well married that dies married young. Dry up your dagger, and put up our pipes and be