injur’d thee, But thou art so low, As one dead in the pantry, and everything in extremity. I must needs wake you. Lady! Lady! Alas, alas! Help, help! My lady’s dead! O, well-a-day that ever I was your mother craves a word with one of these two foes A pair of star-cross’d lovers take their life; Whose misadventur’d piteous overthrows Doth with their death bury their parents’ strife. The fearful passage of their death-mark’d love, And the place where you will, you shall not make him live. Therefore have done: some grief shows still some want of wit. JULIET. Yet let me be ta’en, let me speak. Enter Friar Lawrence. FRIAR LAWRENCE. That’s a certain text. PARIS. Come you to