my father, to Lawrence’ cell, And gave him what becomed love I might, Not stepping o’er the volume of young Paris’ face, And find delight writ there with beauty’s pen. Examine every married lineament, And see how he dares, being dared. MERCUTIO. Alas poor Romeo, he is already dead, stabbed with a love song, the very pink of courtesy. ROMEO. Pink for flower. MERCUTIO. Right.