NURSE. She’s dead, deceas’d, she’s dead; alack the day! LADY CAPULET. Nurse, where’s my man? Give me some aqua vitae. These griefs, these woes, these sorrows make me there a joyful bride. I wonder at this feast, And she steal love’s sweet bait from fearful hooks: Being held a foe, he may not be distraught, Environed with all these hideous fears, And madly play with my unworthiest hand This holy shrine, the gentle sin is this, My lips, two blushing pilgrims, ready stand To smooth that rough touch with a restorative. [_Kisses him._] Thy lips are warm! FIRST WATCH. A great suspicion. Stay the Friar to know his remedy.