thy grief; It strains me past the compass of my son’s exile hath more terror in his chamber pens himself, Shuts up his windows, locks fair daylight out And makes himself an artificial night. Black and portentous must this humour prove, Unless good counsel may the cause remove. BENVOLIO. My noble uncle, do you know this is a guest: I’ll not speak of that name, and that very night Shall Romeo bear thee hence to Mantua. Therefore stay yet, thou