This letter doth make good friar's words. Their course of love, the tidings of her death; And here he writes that he did buy a poison of a poor pothecary and therewithal came to this vault to die and lie with Juliet. Where be these enemies? Capulet, Montague. See what a scourge is laid upon your hate, that heaven finds means to kill your joys with love. And I, for winking at your discords too, have lost a brace of kinsmen. All are punished. A glooming peace this morning with it brings. The sun for sorrow will not show his head. Go hence, to have more talk to these sad things; some shall be pardoned, and some punished; for never was there a story of more woe than this of Juliet and her Romeo.