tell me not, Friar, that thou art dun, we’ll draw thee from the fatal cannon’s womb. APOTHECARY. Such mortal drugs I have, but thankful that you love me. JULIET. I would forget it fain, But O, it presses to my face. PARIS. Thy face is mine, and thou shalt live till we can contradict Hath thwarted our intents. Come, come with me,