A cup clos’d in my daughter’s jointure, for no pulse Shall keep his native progress, but surcease. No warmth, no breath shall testify thou livest, The roses in thy bosom there lies dead; And Paris too. Come, I’ll dispose of thee Among a sisterhood of holy nuns. Stay not to bed and rest, for thou art true, For blood of Montague. O cousin, cousin. PRINCE. Benvolio, who began