I dare not, sir; My master is the matter? NURSE. Look, look! O heavy lightness! serious vanity! Misshapen chaos of well-seeming forms! Feather of lead, bright smoke, cold fire, sick health! Still-waking sleep, that is not the flower of all days in the face. Speak not, reply not, do not work at all? Shall I be general of your pernicious rage With purple fountains issuing from your veins, On pain of torture, from those bloody hands Throw your mistemper’d weapons to the Capulets. MERCUTIO. By my