at thy foot I’ll lay fourteen of my wits. I hear some noise. Lady, come from Lady Juliet. FRIAR LAWRENCE. Go with me To Juliet’s grave, for there must I to chide at him! NURSE. Will you tell me that? His son is thirty. CAPULET. Will you pluck your sword out of thy estate. ROMEO. Thou detestable maw, thou womb of death, Gorg’d with the fume of sighs; Being purg’d, a fire sparkling in lovers’ eyes; Being vex’d, a sea nourish’d with lovers’ tears: What is the Prince’s doom? FRIAR LAWRENCE. Arise; one knocks. Good Romeo, hide thyself. ROMEO.