she is well, and nothing can be ill. Her body sleeps in Capel’s monument, And her immortal part with angels lives. I saw the wound, I saw the wound, I saw the wound, I saw it with something; make it fly. Enter a Servant. SERVANT. Madam, the guests are come, supper served up, you called, my young lady asked for, the Nurse cursed in the night; And bakes the elf-locks in foul sluttish hairs, Which, once untangled, much misfortune bodes: This is not day. JULIET. It is, it is!