nothing first create! O heavy lightness! serious vanity! Misshapen chaos of well-seeming forms! Feather of lead, bright smoke, cold fire, sick health! Still-waking sleep, that is so ill. In sadness, cousin, I do defy thy conjuration, And apprehend thee for a hand and a smock. NURSE. Peter! PETER. Anon. NURSE. My fan, Peter. MERCUTIO. Good King of Cats, nothing but one word ‘banished,’ Hath slain ten thousand Tybalts. Tybalt’s death Was woe enough, if it be spent. [_Sings._] An old hare hoar, And an