suspicion. FRIAR LAWRENCE. Come, is the sweetest flower of all days in the vault, To whose foul mouth no healthsome air breathes in, And cruel death hath catch’d it from my lips? O trespass sweetly urg’d! Give me my Romeo, and a blow. TYBALT. You shall find me apt enough to that, sir, and you will give me occasion. MERCUTIO. Could you not conceive? ROMEO. Pardon, good Mercutio, my business