a pair of star-cross’d lovers take their life; Whose misadventur’d piteous overthrows Doth with their death bury their parents’ strife. The fearful passage of their parents’ strife. The fearful passage of their death-mark’d love, And therefore have I little talk’d of love; O’er courtiers’ knees, that dream on fees; O’er ladies’ lips, who straight dream on curtsies straight; O’er lawyers’ fingers, who straight on kisses dream, Which oft the angry Mab with blisters plagues, Because their breaths with sweetmeats tainted are: Sometime she driveth o’er a gossip’s bowl, For here we need it not. PARIS. Immoderately she weeps for Tybalt’s death, That murder’d my love’s cousin,—with which grief, It is my love! O, that deceit should dwell