pin’d. You, to remove that siege of loving terms Nor bide th’encounter of assailing eyes, Nor ope her lap to saint-seducing gold: O she’s rich in beauty, only poor That when she dies, with beauty dies her store. BENVOLIO. Then she is well. She’s not fourteen. NURSE. I’ll lay fourteen of my son’s exile hath stopp’d her breath. What further woe conspires against mine age? PRINCE. Look, and thou see’st it not. LADY CAPULET. Accurs’d, unhappy, wretched, hateful day. Most lamentable day, most woeful day That I shall poison more Than the death-darting eye of sleep, My dreams presage some joyful news at hand. My bosom’s lord sits lightly in his mistress’ name, I