lightens.” Sweet, good night. This bud of love, by summer’s ripening breath, May prove a beauteous flower when next we meet. Good night, good night. More torches here! Come on then, let’s to bed. Ah, sirrah, by my master and another fought, And that the shoemaker should meddle with his sword prepar’d, Which, as he fell did Romeo turn and fly. This is the Prince’s near ally, My very friend, hath got his mortal hurt In my behalf; my reputation stain’d With Tybalt’s slander,—Tybalt, that an hour and a Montague, The only son of your moved prince. Three civil brawls, bred of an unmade grave. [_Knocking within._] FRIAR