MERCUTIO.
Good king of cats, nothing but one of your nine lives; that I
mean to make bold withal, and, as you shall use me hereafter,
dry-beat the rest of the eight. Will you pluck your sword out of
his pitcher by the ears? make haste, lest mine be about your ears
ere it be out.
TYBALT.
I am for you. [Drawing.]
ROMEO.
Gentle Mercutio, put thy rapier up.
MERCUTIO.
Come, sir, your passado.
[They fight.]
ROMEO.
Draw, Benvolio; beat down their weapons. —
Gentlemen, for shame! forbear this outrage! —
Tybalt, — Mercutio, — the prince expressly hath
Forbid this bandying in Verona streets. —
Hold, Tybalt! — good Mercutio! —
[Exeunt Tybalt with his Partizans.]
MERCUTIO.
I am hurt; —
A plague o' both your houses! — I am sped. —
Is he gone, and hath nothing?
BENVOLIO.
What, art thou hurt?
MERCUTIO.
Ay, ay, a scratch, a scratch; marry, 'tis enough. —
Where is my page? — go, villain, fetch a surgeon.
[Exit Page.]
