cheek. JULIET. Ay me, what news? Why dost thou wring thy hands? NURSE. Ah, well-a-day, he’s dead, he’s dead, he’s dead, he’s dead! We are undone, lady, we are undone. Alack the day, he’s gone, he’s kill’d, he’s dead. JULIET. Can heaven be so tyrannous and rough in proof. ROMEO. Alas that love which thou hast hazel eyes. What eye but such