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ROMEO AND JULIET. 129 To think it was so ? — 0, give me tliy hand, One writ with me in sour misfortune's book ! I'll bury thee in a triumphant grave, — A grave ? 0, no ! a lantern, slaughter'd youth ; For here lies Juliet, and her beauty makes This vault a feasting presence full of light. Death, lie thou there, by a dead man interr'd. — \_Laying Paris in the tomb. How oft when men are at the point of death Have they been merry ! which their keepers call A lightning before death ; 0, how may I Call this a lightning ? — my love ! my wife ! Death, that hath suck'd the honey of thy breath, Hath had no power yet upon thy beauty : Thou art not conquer'd ; beauty's ensign yet Is crimson in thy lips and in thy cheeks. And death's pale flag is not advanced there. — Tybalt, liest thou there in thy bloody sheet ? O, what more favor can I do to thee Than with that hand that cut thy youth in twain To sunder his that was thine enemy ? Forgive me, cousin ! — Ah, dear Juliet, Why art thou yet so fair ? shall I believe That unsubstantial Death is amorous. And that the lean abhorred monster keeps Thee here in dark to be his paramour ? For fear of that, I still will stay with thee ;