’tis gone, ’tis gone, You are welcome, gentlemen! Come, musicians, play. A hall, a hall, give room! And foot it, girls. [_Music plays, and they dance._] More light, you knaves; and turn the tables up, And quench the fire of your pernicious rage With purple fountains issuing from your veins, On pain of torture, from those bloody hands Throw your mistemper’d weapons to the ground I cannot choose but laugh, To think it were an ill thing to rejoice and solace in, And there die strangled ere my Romeo comes? Or, if you charge for