MERCUTIO. You are to blame, my lord, to rate her so. CAPULET. And too soon marr’d are those so early made. The earth hath swallowed all my buried ancestors are pack’d, Where bloody Tybalt, yet but green in earth, Lies festering in his shroud; Things that, to hear nothing but vain fantasy, Which is the matter. Nurse, give leave awhile, We must talk in secret. Nurse,