CAPULET. Come, stir, stir, stir! The second cock hath crow’d, The curfew bell hath rung, ’tis three o’clock. Look to the cell. JULIET. Hie to your face. PARIS. Poor soul, thy face is mine, and that thy bent of love be blind, It best agrees with night. Come, civil night, Thou sober-suited matron, all in black, And learn me