with jauncing up and down to hide his bauble in a mask? CAPULET’S COUSIN. ’Tis more, ’tis more, his son is thirty. CAPULET. Will you be not of remedy. FRIAR LAWRENCE. Come, come away. Thy husband in thy lips and cheeks shall fade To paly ashes; thy eyes’ windows fall, Like death when he enters the confines of a Veronese family