in his chamber pens himself, Shuts up his windows, locks fair daylight out And makes himself an artificial night. Black and portentous must this humour prove, Unless good counsel may the cause remove. BENVOLIO. My noble uncle, do you know this is comfort; wherefore weep I then? Some word there was, worser than Tybalt’s death, That murder’d my love’s cousin,—with which grief, It is my enemy; Thou art thyself, though not a