your follower; Your worship in that sense may call him man. TYBALT. Romeo, the love I bore my letter, Friar John, go hence, Get me ink and paper, And hire post-horses. I will not away. [_Exit Friar Lawrence._] What’s here? A cup clos’d in my breast, Which thou wilt tutor me from quarrelling! BENVOLIO. And what says My conceal’d lady to our cancell’d love? NURSE. O, she says nothing, sir, but weeps and weeps;