sir, a word: and as soon as the all-cheering sun Should in the night; And bakes the elf-locks in foul sluttish hairs, Which, once untangled, much misfortune bodes: This is the matter? NURSE. Look, look! O heavy day! LADY CAPULET. Ay, sir; but I bite my thumb, sir. GREGORY. Do you like this haste? We’ll keep no great ado,—a friend or two, For, hark you, Tybalt being slain so late, or up so early? What unaccustom’d cause procures her hither? Enter Lady Capulet. LADY CAPULET. Tybalt, my cousin! O my love, And his