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SC. III. I'll bury thee in a triumphant grave; A grave? O, no, a lantern, slaughter'd youth; For here lies Juliet, and her beauty makes This vault a feasting presence full of light. Death, lie thou there, by a dead man interr'd.—How oft when men are at the point of death Have they been merry! which their keepers call A lightning before death: O, how may I Call this a lightning?—O my love! my wife! Death, that hath suck'd the honey of thy breath, Hath had no power yet upon thy beauty: Thou art not conquer'd; beauty's ensign yet Is crimson in thy lips and in thy cheeks, And death's pale flag is not advanced there.— Tybalt, liest thou there in thy bloody sheet?