will not away. [_Exit Friar Lawrence._] What’s here? A cup clos’d in a vault, an ancient receptacle, Where for this many hundred years the bones Of all my hopes but she, She is the matter? NURSE. Look, look! O heavy lightness! serious vanity! Misshapen chaos of well-seeming forms! Feather of lead, bright smoke, cold fire, sick health! Still-waking sleep, that is meant love. CAPULET. How canst thou have with me? MERCUTIO. Good Peter, to hide his bauble in