And slay thy lady too that lives in thee,
By doing damned hate upon thyself?
* * * * *
What, rouse thee, man! thy Juliet is alive,
For whose dear sake thou wast but lately dead;
There art thou happy. Tybalt would kill thee,
But thou slew'st Tybalt; there art thou happy too.
The law that threaten'd death becomes thy friend
And turns it to exile; there art thou happy.
A pack of blessings lights upon thy back,