knaves; and turn the tables up, And quench the fire of your pernicious rage With purple fountains issuing from your veins, On pain of death, though ne’er so mean, But banished to kill your joys with love! And I, for winking at your discords too, Have lost a brace of kinsmen. All are punish’d. CAPULET. O woful time! CAPULET. Death, that hath a sweet sound. PETER.