For here lies Juliet, and her beauty makes. (85)
This vault a feasting presence full of light.
Death, lie thou there, by a dead man interred.
How oft, when men are at the point of death,
Have they been merry, which their keepers call
A light’ning before death. O, how may I. (90)
Call this a light’ning? O my love, my wife,
Death, that hath sucked the honey of thy breath,
Hath no power yet upon thy beauty.
Thou art not conquered; beauty’s ensing yet
Is crimson in thy lips and in thy cheeks, (95)
And death’s pale flag is not advanced there.
Tybals, liest thou there in thy bloody sheet?
O, what more favour can I do to thee
Than, with that hand that cut thy youth in twain,
To sunder has this was thine enemy? (100)
Forgive me, cousin. Ah, dear Juliet,
Why art thou yet so fair? Shall I believe
That unsubstantial death is amorous,