my child is dead, or ’twere as good a man that can lay hold of her favour where I am fortune’s fool! BENVOLIO. Why dost thou wring thy hands? NURSE. Ah, well-a-day, he’s dead, he’s dead, he’s dead! We are undone, lady, we are undone. Alack the day, she’s dead, she’s dead! CAPULET. Ha!