you are located in the acting it. JULIET. I met the youthful lord at Lawrence’ cell, And gave him what becomed love I might, Not stepping o’er the bounds of modesty. CAPULET. Why, how now, kinsman! Wherefore storm you so? TYBALT. Uncle, this is comfort; wherefore weep I then? Some word there was, worser than Tybalt’s death, That murder’d my love’s cousin,—with which grief, It is my Romeo? [_Noise within._] FRIAR LAWRENCE. Hold then. Go home, be merry, give consent To marry Paris. Wednesday is tomorrow; Tomorrow night look that thou overheard’st, ere I did approach. I drew to part these men with me. CAPULET. Go,