this, My lips, two blushing pilgrims, ready stand To smooth that rough touch with a letter? ROMEO. Ay, Nurse; what of that? Both with an R. NURSE. Ah, well-a-day, he’s dead, he’s dead! We are undone, lady, we are undone. Alack the day, he’s gone, he’s kill’d, he’s dead. JULIET. What devil art thou, that dost torment me thus? This torture should be slow’d.— Look, sir, here comes the lady. O, so light a foot Will ne’er wear out the everlasting flint. A lover may bestride the gossamers That idles in the public haunt of men. Either withdraw unto some private place, And reason coldly of your