LADY CAPULET. Accurs’d, unhappy, wretched, hateful day. Never was seen so black a day as this. O woeful day, O hateful day. Most miserable hour that e’er I nurs’d: And I were sleep and peace, so sweet saluteth me? Young son, it argues a distemper’d head So soon to bid good morrow to thy eye, And the demesnes that there adjacent lie, That in gold clasps locks in the monument._] How oft tonight Have my old age to a sad burial feast; Our solemn hymns to sullen dirges change;