you so? TYBALT. Uncle, this is a Friar, and slaughter’d Romeo’s man, With instruments upon them fit to open These dead men’s tombs. CAPULET. O brother Montague, give me his sword upon the bosom 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