MERCUTIO.
Thy wit is a very bitter sweeting; it is a most sharp
sauce.
ROMEO.
And is it not, then, well served in to a sweet goose?
MERCUTIO.
O, here's a wit of cheveril, that stretches from an inch
narrow to an ell broad!
ROMEO.
I stretch it out for that word broad: which added to the
goose, proves thee far and wide a broad goose.
MERCUTIO.
Why, is not this better now than groaning for love? now art
thou sociable, now art thou Romeo; not art thou what thou art, by
art as well as by nature: for this drivelling love is like a
great natural, that runs lolling up and down to hide his bauble
in a hole.
BENVOLIO.
Stop there, stop there.
MERCUTIO.
Thou desirest me to stop in my tale against the hair.
BENVOLIO.
Thou wouldst else have made thy tale large.
MERCUTIO.
O, thou art deceived; I would have made it short: for I was
come to the whole depth of my tale; and meant indeed to occupy
the argument no longer.
ROMEO.
Here's goodly gear!
