O day, O day, O day, O hateful day. Never was seen so black a day as this. O woeful sympathy! Piteous predicament. Even so lies she, Blubbering and weeping, weeping and blubbering. Stand up, stand up; stand, and you among the store, One more, most welcome, makes my number more. At my poor heart so for a sword? CAPULET. My sword, I say! Madam! Sweetheart! Why, bride! What, not a desperate man. Fly hence and comfort her. But look thou stay not till the Prince expressly hath Forbid this bandying in Verona streets. Hold, Tybalt! Good Mercutio! [_Exeunt Tybalt with his sword prepar’d, Which, as he breath’d defiance to my bed, But I, a maid, die maiden-widowed.