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Tybalt, here slain, whom Romeo's hand did slay; Of this dead butcher, and his fiend-like queen,-- Either, heaven, with lightning strike the murderer dead; Hath slain ten thousand Tybalts. Tybalt's death For ruin's wasteful entrance: there, the murderers, From all the slaughters, wretch, that thou hast done! Of accidental judgments, casual slaughters; The father rashly slaughter'd his own son, The father rashly slaughter'd his own son, To bear a poison, I would temper it, But look'd not on the poison of their hearts: Play something like the murder of my father