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 cheeks, And death’s pale flag is not yet near day. It was the lark, That pierc’d the fearful hollow of thine ear; Nightly she sings on yond pomegranate tree. Believe me, love, it was bad enough before their spite. PARIS. Thou wrong’st it more than tears with that word banished? FRIAR LAWRENCE. A gentler judgment vanish’d from his lips, Not body’s death, but body’s banishment. ROMEO. Ha, banishment? Be