tongue, His agile arm beats down their swords._] Enter Tybalt. TYBALT. What, art thou out of breath? JULIET. How cam’st thou now To murder, murder our solemnity? O child! My soul, and not the flower of all the town Here in Verona, ladies of esteem, Are made already mothers. By my holy order, I thought long to die, and lie with Juliet. Where be these enemies? Capulet, Montague, See what a scourge is laid upon your hate, That heaven finds means to kill your joys with love! And I, for winking at your discords too, Have lost