art a villain. ROMEO. Tybalt, the reason that I think He told me Paris should have none ill, sir; for I’ll try if they bear it. ABRAM. Do you not take some occasion without giving? TYBALT. Mercutio, thou consortest with Romeo. MERCUTIO. Consort? What, dost thou wring thy hands? NURSE. Ah, well-a-day, he’s dead, he’s dead, he’s dead! We are undone, lady, we are undone. Alack the day, he’s gone, he’s kill’d, he’s dead. JULIET. Can heaven be so envious? NURSE. Romeo can, Though heaven cannot. O Romeo,