JULIET.
I' faith, I am sorry that thou art not well,—
Sweet, sweet, sweet nurse, tell me, what says my love?
NURSE.
Your love says like an honest gentleman,
And a courteous, and a kind, and a handsome,
And, I warrant, a virtuous:—Where is your mother?
NURSE.
O, he's a lovely gentleman!
Romeo's a dishclout to him; an eagle, Madam,
Hath not so green, so quick, so fair an eye,
As Paris hath. Beshrew my very heart,
I think you are happy in this second match,
For it excels your first.
Alas, poor Romeo, he is already dead! Stabbed with a white wench's black eyes; shot through the ear with a love-song, the very pin of his heart cleft with the blind bow-boy's butt-shaft.