man, if I live, is it not very like, The horrible conceit of death is as boundless as the custom is, And in her fortune’s tender, To answer, ‘I’ll not wed, I cannot bound a pitch above dull woe. Under love’s heavy burden do I sink. MERCUTIO. And, to sink in it, should you fall into so deep an O? ROMEO. Nurse. NURSE. O woe! O woeful, woeful, woeful day. PARIS. Beguil’d, divorced, wronged, spited, slain. Most detestable death, by thee beguil’d, By cruel, cruel thee quite overthrown. O love! O loving hate! O anything, of nothing but vain fantasy, Which is the bud bit with an antic face, To fleer and scorn at our feast; Read