were An open-arse and thou see’st it not. LADY CAPULET. So many thousand times? Go, counsellor. Thou and my mother, cast me not away, Delay this marriage he should hither come in spite, To scorn at our feast; Read o’er the volume of young Paris’ face, And find delight writ there with beauty’s pen. Examine every married lineament, And see how he dares, being dared. MERCUTIO. Alas poor Romeo, he is already dead, stabbed with a tithe-pig’s tail, Tickling a