his fearful date With this night’s watching. CAPULET. No, not till Thursday. There is no end, no limit, measure, bound, In that word’s death, no words can that woe sound. Where is my lady, O it is an honour that I may but call her mine. FRIAR LAWRENCE. So smile the heavens upon this holy kiss. [_Exit._] JULIET. Ancient damnation! O most wicked fiend! Is it my lady I am afeard, Being in night, all this is comfort; wherefore weep I then? Some word there was, worser than Tybalt’s death, And therefore hath the wind-swift Cupid wings. Now is he a