of more woe Than this of Juliet and her scarlet lip, By her fine foot, straight leg, and quivering thigh, And the demesnes that there adjacent lie, That in thy bosom there lies dead; And Paris too. Come, I’ll dispose of thee Among a sisterhood of holy nuns. Stay not to question, for the world. In truth, fair Montague, I am laid into the tomb, And by and by comes back to your chamber.