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A greater power than we can contradict Hath thwarted our intents. Come, come away. Thy husband in thy bosom there lies dead;
Where be these enemies? Capulet, Montage, See what a scourge is laid upon your hate, That heaven finds means to kill your joys with love!
A glooming peace this morning with it brings. The sun for sorrow will not show his head. Go hence, to have more talk of these sad things; Some shall be pardon’d, and some punished; For never was a story of more woe Than this of Juliet and her Romeo.
