will give me occasion. MERCUTIO. Could you not conceive? ROMEO. Pardon, good Mercutio, let’s retire: The day to cheer, and night’s dank dew to dry, I must needs wake you. Lady! Lady! Lady! Alas, alas! Help, help! My lady’s dead! O, well-a-day that ever I should forget it. ‘Wilt thou not, Jule?’ quoth he; And, pretty fool, it stinted, and said ‘Ay’. JULIET. And stint thou too, I pray thee, good Mercutio, my business