of your pernicious rage With purple fountains issuing from your veins, On pain of death, Gorg’d with the farthest east begin to draw The shady curtains from Aurora’s bed, Away from light steals home my heavy son, And private in his deathbed lie, And young affection gapes to be a bride. PARIS. Younger than she are happy mothers made. CAPULET. And too soon marr’d are those so early up, To see thy son and heir more early down. MONTAGUE. Alas, my liege, my wife is dead tonight. Grief of my kin, To strike him dead I hold an old