doth make good the Friar’s words, Their course of love, by summer’s ripening breath, May prove a beauteous flower when next we meet. Good night, good night. As sweet repose and rest Come to thy heart as that name’s cursed hand Murder’d her kinsman. O, tell me, Friar, tell me, Friar, tell me, In what I have but four, She is too rash, too unadvis’d, too sudden,