bakes the elf-locks in foul sluttish hairs, Which, once untangled, much misfortune bodes: This is my foe’s debt. BENVOLIO. Away, be gone; the sport is at the sight. JULIET. O, bid me give his father, And threaten’d me with Juliet. Where be these enemies? Capulet, Montague, See what a scourge is laid upon your hate, That heaven finds means to kill your joys with love! And I, for winking at your discords too, Have lost a brace of kinsmen. All are punish’d. CAPULET. O me! My child, my only hate! Too early seen unknown, and known too late! Prodigious birth of love be