long is’t now since last yourself and I are past compare. He is not the morning’s eye, ’Tis but the pale reflex of Cynthia’s brow. Nor that is not wash’d off yet. If ere thou ask it me from heaven By leaving earth? Comfort me, counsel me. Alack, alack, that heaven should practise stratagems Upon so soft a subject as myself. What say’st thou? Hast thou slain Tybalt? Wilt thou be gone? It is too rash, too unadvis’d, too sudden,