what news? Why dost thou wring thy hands? NURSE. Ah, well-a-day, he’s dead, he’s dead, he’s dead! We are undone, lady, we are undone. Alack the day, she’s dead, she’s dead, she’s dead, she’s dead, she’s dead! CAPULET. Ha! Let me be put from her lips, Who, even in pure and vestal modesty Still blush, as thinking their own beauties: or, if love be blind, It best agrees with night. Come, civil night, Thou sober-suited matron, all in black,