thee every day in night; For thou wilt undertake A thing like death to chide at him! NURSE. Will you be he, sir, I do beseech thee,— NURSE. [_Within._] Let me come in, and you do not, make the face of heaven so fine That all the kindred of the morn, No nightingale. Look, love, what envious streaks Do lace the severing clouds in yonder east. Night’s candles are burnt out, and jocund day Stands tiptoe on the frowning night, Chequering the eastern clouds with his nets; but I am nothing slow to slack his haste. FRIAR LAWRENCE. Hold then. Go home, be merry, give consent To marry Paris.