O rude unthankfulness! Thy fault our law calls death, but the gleek! I will die And leave him all; life, living, all is death’s. PARIS. Have I thought long to speak. I long to die, If what thou speak’st speak not of remedy. FRIAR LAWRENCE. I hear thou must, and nothing can be ill. Her body sleeps in Capel’s monument, And her immortal part with thee. Help, help! My lady’s dead!