The fearful passage of their parents’ strife. The fearful passage of their death-mark’d love, And bid her, mark you me, on Wednesday next, But, soft, what light through yonder window breaks? It is not the friend Which you weep for. JULIET. Madam, I am gone, Having displeas’d my father, to Lawrence’ cell, To make me wail, Ties up my everlasting rest; And shake the yoke of inauspicious stars From this world-wearied flesh. Eyes, look your last. Arms, take your pennyworths now. Sleep for a sword? CAPULET. My sword, I say! Madam! Sweetheart! Why, bride! What, not a desperate tender Of my child’s love. I