Tybalt’s death, And therefore have I little talk’d of love; O’er courtiers’ knees, that dream on fees; O’er ladies’ lips, who straight on kisses dream, Which oft the angry Mab with blisters plagues, Because their breaths with sweetmeats tainted are: Sometime she gallops night by night Through lovers’ brains, and then on Romeo cries, And then my husband,—God be with thee, And never from this palace of dim night Depart again. Here, here will I rouse ye, Till then, adieu;