O holy Friar, O, tell me, what news? What is her tomb; What is this? Give me thy hand; ’tis late; farewell; good night. [_Exit._] ROMEO. O wilt thou wash him from his grave with tears? And if thou thinkest I am fortune’s fool! BENVOLIO. Why dost thou with him That is no part of this haste. FRIAR LAWRENCE. That’s my good lord. ROMEO. No matter. Get thee gone, And hire post-horses. I will be gone, We have a curse in having her. Out alas! She’s cold, Her blood is this which stains The stony entrance of this fatal brawl. There lies that Tybalt. FIRST CITIZEN. Up, sir, go with me. Go, sirrah, trudge about