O my love, my wife! Death, that hath sucked the honey of thy breath, hath had no power yet upon thy beauty. thou art not conquered. beauty's engine yet is crimson in thy lips and in thy cheeks, and death's pale flag is not advanced there.
Thy husband in thy bosom there lies dead; And paris too. Come, I'll dispose of thee Among a sisterhood oh holy nuns.
Yea, noise? Then i'll brief. O happy dagger! This is thy sheath; there rust, and let me die.
where be these enemies? Capulet, Montague, See what a scourges laid upon your hate, That heaven finds means to kill your joys with love. And I for winking at your discords too, Have lost a brace of kinsmen. All are punished