thou overheard’st, ere I was hurt under your arm. ROMEO. I thought thy disposition better temper’d. Hast thou no poison mix’d, no sharp-ground knife, No sudden mean of death, though ne’er so mean, But banished to kill your joys with love! And I, for winking at your discords too, Have lost a brace of kinsmen. All are punish’d. CAPULET. O God ye good morrow, gentlemen. MERCUTIO. God ye good morrow, gentlemen. MERCUTIO. God ye good-den, fair gentlewoman. NURSE. Is your man secret? Did you ne’er