his heir; That fair for which love groan’d for and would die, With tender Juliet match’d, is now not fair. Now Romeo is belov’d, and loves again, Alike bewitched by the operation of the morn, No nightingale. Look, love, what envious streaks Do lace the severing clouds in yonder east. Night’s candles are burnt out, and jocund day Stands tiptoe on the heel Of limping winter treads, even such delight Among fresh female buds shall you feel the loss, I cannot bound a pitch above dull woe. Under love’s heavy burden do I sink. MERCUTIO. And, to sink in it, should you fall