Call this a lightning?—O my love! my wife!
Death, that hath [suck'd the honey] of thy breath,
Hath had no power yet upon thy beauty.
Thou art not conquer'd; beauty's ensign yet
Is crimson in thy lips and in thy cheeks,
And [death's pale flag] is not advanced there.—
[Tybalt], liest thou there in thy bloody sheet?
O, what more favour can I do to thee
Than with that hand that cut thy youth in twain
To sunder his that was thine enemy?