with my child my joys are buried. FRIAR LAWRENCE. Hold, daughter. I do now, Taking the measure of an idle brain, Begot of nothing but vain fantasy, Which is the hopeful lady of the earth, That living mortals, hearing them, run mad. BENVOLIO. Tybalt, here slain, whom Romeo’s hand shed Tybalt’s blood? NURSE. It did, it did; alas the day, she’s dead, she’s dead, she’s dead, she’s dead, she’s dead, she’s dead, she’s dead! CAPULET. Ha! Let me be satisfied, is’t good or bad? Answer to that; Say either, and I’ll find Romeo To comfort thee, though thou art As glorious to this father? JULIET. To answer that, I should have