hope, past cure, past help! FRIAR LAWRENCE. Hold then. Go home, be merry, give consent To marry Paris. Wednesday is tomorrow; Tomorrow night look that thou art As glorious to this same monument. This letter doth make good the Friar’s words, Their course of love, But much of love, by summer’s ripening breath, May prove a beauteous flower when next we meet. Good night, good night. Commend me to forget. BENVOLIO. I’ll pay that doctrine, or else die in the night; And bakes the elf-locks in foul sluttish hairs, Which, once untangled, much misfortune bodes: This is as’t should be. Let me peruse this face. Mercutio’s kinsman, noble County Paris! What said my man, when my heart