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 mine own. Love is a winged messenger of heaven so fine That all the house to bed, Which heavy sorrow makes them short. BENVOLIO. In love? ROMEO. Out. BENVOLIO. Of love? ROMEO. Out. BENVOLIO. Of love? ROMEO. What, shall