strike drum!
we'll on without apology.
nay, gentle romeo, we must have you dance.
too great oppression for a tender thing.
if love be rough with you, be rough with love.
prick love for pricking, and you beat love down.
come, we burn daylight, ho!
why, may one ask?
and so did i.
that dreamers often lie.
o, then i see queen mab hath been with you. she is the fairies' midwife, and she comes in shape no bigger than an agate
her chariot is an empty hazelnut, her wagoner a small gray-coated gnat.
and in this state she gallops night by night through lovers' brains, and then they dream of love;
o'er lawyers' fingers who straight dream on fees; o'er ladies' lips, who straight on kisses dream, which oft the angry mab with blisters plagues. because their breaths with sweetmeats tainted are.
sometime she driveth o'er a soldier's neck; and then dreams he of cutting foreign throats. and being thus frighted, swears a prayer or two and sleeps again.
this is that very mab that plaits the manes of horses in the night and bakes the elf-locks in foul sluttish hairs
this is the hag, when maids lie on their backs, that presses them and learns them first to bear, making them women of good carriage. this is she, this is she.
true, i talk of dreams; which are the children of an idle brain, begot of nothing but vain fantasy. which is as thin of substance as the air and more inconstant than the wind, who woos even now the frozen bosom of the
everyman betake him to his legs!
away, begone, the sport is at its best.
nay, i'll conjure too.
romeo! humours! madman! passion! lover! i conjure thee by rosaline's bright eyes, by her high forehead and her scarlet lip, by her fine foot, straight leg, and quivering thigh. and the demesnes that there adjacent lie, that in thy likeness thou appear to us!
o romeo, that she were, o that she
come, shall we go?
where the devil should this romeo be? came he not home tonight?
why, that same pale hard-hearted wench, that rosaline, torments him so that he will sure run mad.
a challenge, on my life.
any man that can write may answer a letter.
alas, poor romeo, he is already dead! stabbed with a white wench's black eye,
run through the ear with a love song. and is he a man to encounter tybalt?
more than prince of cats, i can tell you. o, he's the courageous captain of compliments. the very butcher of a silk button.
a duellist, a duellist.
signor romeo, bonjour. there's a french salutation to your french slop. you gave us the counterfeit fairly last night.
the slip, sir, the slip. can you not conceive?
come between us, good benvolio! my wits faint.
why, is not this better now than groaning for love?
now art thou sociable.
now art thou romeo. now art thou.
a bawd, a bawd, a bawd! so ho!
romeo, will you come to your father's? we'll to dinner thither.
farewell, ancient lady. farewell.
thou art like one of these fellows that, when he enters the confines of a tavern, claps me his sword upon the table and says 'god send me no need of thee!' and by the operation of the second cup draws him on the drawer, when indeed there is no need.
by my heel, i care not.
and but one word with one of us? couple it with something. make it a word and a.
blow.
(a breathy, coquettish
consort? what, dost thou make us minstrels? and thou make minstrels of us look to hear nothing but discords. here's my fiddlestick.
here's that shall make you dance. zounds, consort!
men's eyes were made to look, and let them gaze. i will not budge for no man's pleasure, i.
o calm, dishonourable, vile submission!
tybalt, you ratcatcher,
will you walk?
ay, ay, a scratch.
a scratch!
'twill serve. ask for me tomorrow and you shall find me a grave man.
a plague o' both your houses!
why the devil came you between us? i was hurt under your arm. romeo starts to register the panic in mercutio's eyes.
a plague o' both your houses! they have made worms' meat of me.
your houses!