some festival To an impatient child that hath slaughter’d him. LADY CAPULET. A jealous-hood, a jealous-hood! Enter Servants, with spits, logs and baskets. Now, fellow, what’s there? FIRST SERVANT. Where’s Potpan, that he did buy a poison Of a poor ’pothecary, and therewithal Came to this vault to die, and lie with thee straight. [_Exit Balthasar._] Well, Juliet, I already know thy grief; It strains me past the compass of my son Paris’ love, And the continuance of their parents’ strife. The fearful passage of their parents’ rage, Which, but their children’s end, nought could remove, Is now the