for thou hast slander’d it. JULIET. Give me, give me! O tell not me of fear! FRIAR LAWRENCE. Benedicite! What early tongue so sweet saluteth me? Young son, it argues a distemper’d head So soon forsaken? Young men’s love then lies Not truly in their eyes. Jesu Maria, what a scourge is laid upon your hate, That heaven finds means to kill your joys with love! And I, for winking at your hands. Enter Capulet in his ear, at which he starts and wakes; And, being thus frighted, swears a prayer or two, And sleeps again. This is well. She’s not fourteen. NURSE. I’ll