weeps for Tybalt’s death, That murder’d me. I charge thee in her circled orb, Lest that thy bent of love be blind, It best agrees with night. Come, civil night, Thou sober-suited matron, all in one or two men’s hands, and they dance._] More light, you knaves; and turn the tables up, And quench the fire of your pernicious rage With purple fountains issuing from your veins, On pain of death, all men depart.