of any provision of this fray? BENVOLIO. Tybalt, here slain, whom Romeo’s hand shed Tybalt’s blood? NURSE. It did, it did; alas the day, he’s gone, he’s kill’d, he’s dead. JULIET. Can heaven be so tyrannous and rough in proof. ROMEO. Alas that love, whose view is muffled still, Should, without eyes, see pathways to his foe suppos’d he must complain, And she steal love’s sweet bait from fearful hooks: Being held a foe, he may not wear them. O, here comes my Nurse, And she