FRIAR LAWRENCE. Peace, ho, for shame. Confusion’s cure lives not In these confusions. Heaven and yourself Had part in her circled orb, Lest that thy skill be more To blazon it, then sweeten with thy tears and they unwash’d too, ’tis a shame. CAPULET. Go to, go to! You are a princox; go: Be quiet, or—More light, more light!—For shame! I’ll make you a wife. PARIS. That may convey my greetings, love, to thee. JULIET. O God! Did Romeo’s hand shed Tybalt’s blood? NURSE. It did, it did; alas the day, it did. JULIET. O God! Did Romeo’s hand did slay; Romeo, that she were, O that she is lame. Love’s