Shall I speak ill of him that is my husband?
Ah, poor my lord, what tongue shall smooth thy name
When I, thy three-hours wife, hath mangled it?
But wherefore, villian, didst thou kill my cousin?
That villian cousin would have killed my husband!
Back, foolish tears, back to your native spring
Your tributary drops belong to woe, which you, mistaking, offer up to joy
My husband lives, who Tybalt would have slain
Tybalt's dead, who would have slain my husband
All this is comfort, wherefore weep I then?
Some word there was, worse than Tybalt's death
I would forget it fain, but, oh, it presses in my memory
Like damned guilty deeds in sinners minds!
"Tybalt is dead-and Romeo banished"
Banished, that one word, banished, hath slain ten-thousand Tybalts!
Romeo is banished--that is mother, father, Tybalt, Romeo, Juliet, all slain, all dead!
There is no measure, no bound, no limit in that words death
No words can that woe sound!
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