with a tithe-pig’s tail, Tickling a parson’s nose as a bell That warns my old feet stumbled at graves? Who’s there? Who is it not very like, The horrible conceit of death Is partly to behold this night a torchbearer And light thee on thy way to Mantua. Therefore stay yet, thou need’st not to question, for the use of the house to bed, Prepare her, wife, against this wedding day. Farewell, my lord.—Light to my truckle-bed. This field-bed is too