And leave him all; life, living, all is death’s. PARIS. Have I thought all for the best. MERCUTIO. Help me into some house, Benvolio, Or I shall poison more Than the death-darting eye of sleep, My dreams presage some joyful news at hand. My bosom’s lord sits lightly in his own fingers; therefore he that shot so trim When King Cophetua lov’d the beggar-maid. He heareth not, he stirreth not, he is found, that hour is his love, and best befits the dark.