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106 But, wherefore, villain, didst thou kill my cousin? That villain cousin would have kill'd my husband: Back, foolish tears, back to your native spring; Your tributary drops belong to woe, Which you, mistaking, offer up to joy. My husband lives, that Tybalt would have slain; And Tybalt's dead, that would have slain my husband: All this is comfort; wherefore weep I then? Some word there was, worser than Tybalt's death, That murder'd me: I would forget it fain; But, O, it presses to my memory, Like damned guilty deeds to sinners' minds: "Tybalt is dead, and Romeo banished!" That "banished," that one word "banished," Hath slain ten thousand Tybalts. Tybalt's death Was woe enough, if it had ended there: Or, if sour woe delights in fellowship And needly will be rank'd with other griefs, Why follow'd not, when she said "Tybalt's dead," Thy father, or thy mother, nay, or both, Which modern lamentation might have moved? But with a rearward following Tybalt's death,