To think it was so?—O, give me thy hand,
One writ with me in [sour] misfortune's book!
I'll bury thee in a triumphant grave,—
A grave? O, no! a [lantern], slaughter'd youth;
For here lies Juliet, and her beauty makes
This vault a feasting [presence] full of light.
[Death], lie thou there, by a dead man interr'd.— [Laying Paris in the tomb.
[How oft when men] are at the point of death
Have they been merry! which their keepers call
[A lightning before death]; O, how may I