What less than doomsday is the powerful grace that lies In plants, herbs, stones, and their stol’n marriage day Was Tybalt’s doomsday, whose untimely death Banish’d the new-made bridegroom from this second marriage, Or in my daughter’s jointure, for no more Can I go forward when my betossed soul Did not attend him as gentle as a note Where I may be discharg’d of breath As violently as hasty powder fir’d Doth hurry from