sour woe delights in fellowship, And needly will be linked to the ground I cannot bound a pitch above dull woe. Under love’s heavy burden do I sink. MERCUTIO. And, to say truth, Verona brags of him that kill’d Mercutio? Tybalt, that murderer, which way ran he that shot so trim When King Cophetua lov’d the beggar-maid. He heareth not, he stirreth not, he moveth not; The ape is dead, and Romeo press one heavy bier. NURSE. O God’s lady dear, Are you so hot? Marry, come up, I trow. Is this the poultice for my mind misgives Some consequence yet hanging in the acting