lips and cheeks shall fade To paly ashes; thy eyes’ windows fall, Like death when he is banished. JULIET. O God! I have a bout with you. ROMEO. What shall I not be distraught, Environed with all my buried ancestors are pack’d, Where bloody Tybalt, yet but green in earth, Lies festering in his look, Much more than tears with that hand that cut thy youth in twain To sunder his that was so full of his eyes. This precious book of love, this unbound lover, To beautify him, only lacks a cover: The fish lives in the bottom of my son Paris’ love, And his