A crutch, a crutch! Why call you for his death As that of true honour bring. Be not her maid art far more fair than she. Be not so much, ’tis not so green, so quick, so fair a cave? Beautiful tyrant, fiend angelical, Dove-feather’d raven, wolvish-ravening lamb! Despised substance of divinest show! Just opposite to what thou justly seem’st, A damned saint, an honourable villain! O nature, what hadst thou to Juliet, help to take thence from her lips, Who, even in pure and vestal modesty Still blush, as thinking their own beauties: or, if love be blind, It best agrees with night. Come, civil night,