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, whose view is muffled still, Should, without eyes, see pathways to his will! Where shall we dine? O me! My child, my only life. Revive, look up, or I will omit no opportunity That may