Even now the frozen bosom of the North,
And, being anger'd, puffs away from thence,
Turning his face to the dew-dropping South.
Benvolio. This wind you talk of blows us from ourselves;
Supper is done, and we shall come too late.
Romeo. I fear, too early; for [my mind misgives]
Some consequence, yet hanging in the stars,
Shall bitterly begin his fearful [date]
With this night's revels, and [expire] the term
Of a despised life [clos'd] in my breast