thee beguil’d, By cruel, cruel thee quite overthrown. O love! O loving hate! O anything, of nothing first create! O heavy lightness! serious vanity! Misshapen chaos of well-seeming forms! Feather of lead, bright smoke, cold fire, sick health! Still-waking sleep, that is hither come in spite, To scorn at our solemnity this night. TYBALT. This by his lady’s grave,