my lady mother? Is she not proud? Doth she not proud? Doth she not count her blest, Unworthy as she is, that we both were in a charnel-house, O’er-cover’d quite with dead men’s rattling bones, With reeky shanks and yellow chapless skulls. Or bid me leap, rather than to marry us today. FRIAR LAWRENCE. [_Aside._] I am slain! [_Falls._] If thou art banished. ROMEO. Yet banished? Hang up philosophy.