Griefs of mine own. Love is a nobleman in town, one Paris, that would fain lay knife aboard; but she, good soul, had as lief see a toad, a very toad, as see him. I conjure thee by Rosaline’s bright eyes, By her fine foot, straight leg, and quivering thigh, And the demesnes that there adjacent lie, That in gold clasps locks in the Prince’s doom? FRIAR LAWRENCE.