Laurence._ Too familiar Is my dear son with such sour company; I bring thee tidings of the prince's doom.  
_Romeo._ What less than doomsday is the prince's doom?  
_Friar Laurence._ A gentler judgment vanish'd from his lips, Not body's death, but body's banishment.  
_Romeo._ Ha, banishment! be merciful, say death, For exile hath more terror in his look, Much more than death; do not say banishment.  
_Friar Laurence._ Hence from Verona art thou banished; Be patient, for the world is broad and wide.  
_Romeo._ There is no world without Verona walls, But purgatory, torture, hell itself. Hence banished is banish'd from the world, And world's exile is death. Then banished Is death misterm'd; calling death banishment Thou cutt'st my head off with a golden axe, And smil'st upon the stroke that murthers me.  
_Friar Laurence._ O deadly sin! O rude unthankfulness! Thy fault our law calls death; but the kind prince, Taking thy part, hath rush'd aside the law, And turn'd that black word death to banishment. This is dear mercy, and thou seest it not.  
_Romeo._ 'Tis torture, and not mercy; heaven is here, Where Juliet lives, and every cat and dog And little mouse, every unworthy thing, Live here in heaven and may look on her, But Romeo may not. More validity, More honourable state, more courtship lives In carrion-flies than Romeo. They may seize On the white wonder of dear Juliet's hand And steal immortal blessing from her lips, Who, even in pure and vestal modesty, Still blush, as thinking their own kisses sin; But Romeo may not, he is banished. This may flies do, when I from this must fly; They are free men, but I am banished. And say'st thou yet that exile is not death? Hadst thou no poison mix'd, no sharp-ground knife, No sudden mean of death, though ne'er so mean, But 'banished' to kill me?--Banished! O friar, the damned use that word in hell, Howling attends it; how hast thou the heart, Being a divine, a ghostly confessor, A sin-absolver, and my friend profess'd, To mangle me with that word 'banished'?  _Friar Laurence._ Thou fond mad man, hear me but speak a word.  
_Romeo._ O, thou wilt speak again of banishment.  
_Friar Laurence._ I'll give thee armour to keep off that word;  
Adversity's sweet milk, philosophy,  
To comfort thee, though thou art banished.  
_Romeo._ Yet 'banished'? Hang up philosophy!  
Unless philosophy can make a Juliet,  
Displant a town, reverse a prince's doom,  
It helps not, it prevails not; talk no more.  

_Friar Laurence._ O, then I see that madmen have no ears.  

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