Women's weapons, water-drops.

Will all great Neptune's ocean wash this blood clean from my hand? No, this my hand will rather the multitudinous seas incarnadine, making the green one red.

Women's weapons, water-drops.

Why should we rise because 'tis light? Did we lie down because t'was night?

in black ink my love may still shine bright.

A glooming peace this morning with it brings; The sun, for sorrow, will not show his head: Go hence, to have more talk of these sad things; Some shall be pardon'd, and some punished: For never was a story of more woe Than this of Juliet and her Romeo.

Let every man be master of his time.