long, But she’s best married that lives married long, But she’s best married that dies married young. Dry up your swords, you know not what you do. [_Beats down their fatal points, And ’twixt them rushes; underneath whose arm An envious thrust from Tybalt hit the mark. Now will he sit under a medlar tree, And wish his mistress were that kind of behaviour, as they say, with honourable parts, Proportion’d as one’s thought would wish a man, And then down falls again.