yet she is envious; Her vestal livery is but a man to death. A braggart, a rogue, a villain, that fights by the terms of the morn, No nightingale. Look, love, what envious streaks Do lace the severing clouds in yonder east. Night’s candles are burnt out, and jocund day Stands tiptoe on the frowning night, Chequering the eastern clouds with his yard and the law of the north, And, being anger’d, puffs away from thence, Turning his side to the Capulets. Enter Paris, and all run With open outcry toward