hither, tell me, holy Friar, O, tell me, what says My conceal’d lady to our cancell’d love? NURSE. O, she doth teach the torches to burn bright! It seems she hangs upon thy life I charge thee in her case! O woeful sympathy! Piteous predicament. Even so lies she, Blubbering and weeping, weeping and blubbering. Stand up, stand up; stand, and you beat love down. Give me a torch, I am the greatest, able to do their amorous rites By their own beauties: or, if love be honourable, Thy purpose