I’ll give thee armour to keep off that word; Adversity’s sweet milk, philosophy, To comfort thee, though thou art banished.

Yet “banished”? Hang up philosophy! Unless philosophy can make a Juliet, Displant a town, reverse a prince’s doom, It helps not, it prevails not: talk no more.

Thou canst not speak of that thou dost not feel: Wert thou as young as I, Juliet thy love, An hour but married, Tybalt murdered, Doting like me and like me banished, Then mightst thou speak, then mightst thou tear thy hair, And fall upon the ground, as I do now, Taking the measure of an unmade grave. Knocking within.

Not I; unless the breath of heart-sick groans, Mist-like, infold me from the search of eyes. Knocking.