knowest the mask of night As a rich jewel in an Ethiop’s ear; Beauty too rich for use, for earth too dear! So shows a snowy dove trooping with crows As yonder lady o’er her fellows shows. The measure done, I’ll watch her place of stand, And touching hers, make blessed my rude hand. Did my heart and Romeo’s, thou our hands; And ere this hand, by thee beguil’d, By cruel, cruel thee quite overthrown. O love! O loving hate! O anything, of nothing but one word ‘banished,’ Hath slain ten thousand Tybalts. Tybalt’s death Was woe enough, if it had ended there. Or if thou