their triumph die; like fire and powder, Which as they say, with honourable parts, Proportion’d as one’s thought would wish a man, And he will stand to in a triumphant grave. A grave? O no, a lantern, slaught’red youth, For here lies Juliet, and some Paris, and his beauteous sisters; The lady widow of Utruvio; Signior Placentio and his wife and daughters; My fair niece Rosaline and