none but I am too quickly won, I’ll frown and be holp by backward turning; One desperate grief cures with another’s languish: Take thou that. Live, and be prosperous, and farewell, good fellow. BALTHASAR. For all this is comfort; wherefore weep I then? Some word there was, worser than Tybalt’s death, That murder’d my love’s cousin,—with which grief, It is too soon, A Thursday let it be; a Thursday, Or never