My conceal'd lady to our cancell'd love?  
_Nurse._ O, she says nothing, sir, but weeps and weeps;  
And now falls on her bed; and then starts up,  
And Tybalt calls; and then on Romeo cries,  
And then down falls again.  
_Romeo._ As if that name,  
Shot from the deadly level of a gun,  
Did murther her, as that name's cursed hand  
Murther'd her kinsman.--O, tell me, friar, tell me,  
In what vile part of this anatomy  
Doth my name lodge? tell me, that I may sack  
The hateful mansion. [_Drawing his sword._  
_Friar Laurence._ Hold thy desperate hand!  
Art thou a man? thy form cries out thou art;  
Thy tears are womanish, thy wild acts denote  
The unreasonable fury of a beast.  
Unseemly woman in a seeming man!  
Or ill-beseeming beast in seeming both!  
Thou hast amaz'd me; by my holy order,  
I thought thy disposition better temper'd.  
Hast thou slain Tybalt? wilt thou slay thyself?  
And slay thy lady too that lives in thee,  
By doing damned hate upon thyself?  
Why rail'st thou on thy birth, the heaven, and earth?  
Since birth and heaven and earth, all three do meet  
In thee at once, which thou at once wouldst lose.  
Fie, fie, thou sham'st thy shape, thy love, thy wit,  
Which, like a usurer, abound'st in all,  
And usest none in that true use indeed  
Which should bedeck thy shape, thy love, thy wit.  
Thy noble shape is but a form of wax,  
Digressing from the valour of a man;  
Thy dear love sworn, but hollow perjury,  
Killing that love which thou hast vow'd to cherish;  
Thy wit, that ornament to shape and love,  
Misshapen in the conduct of them both,  
Like powder in a skilless soldier's flask,  
Is set a-fire by thine own ignorance,  
And thou dismember'd with thine own defence.  
What, rouse thee, man! thy Juliet is alive,  

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