Montague. Alas, my liege, my wife is dead to-night;
[Grief of my son's exile] hath stopp'd her breath.
What further woe conspires against mine age?
Prince. Look, and thou shalt see.
Montague. O thou untaught! what [manners] is in this,
To press before thy father to a grave?
Prince. Seal up the mouth of [outrage] for a while,
Till we can clear these ambiguities,
And know their spring, their head, their true descent;
And then will I be general of your woes