Scene I. A public Place.
[Enter Mercutio, Benvolio, Page, and Servants.]
I pray thee, good Mercutio, let's retire:
The day is hot, the Capulets abroad,
And, if we meet, we shall not scape a brawl;
For now, these hot days, is the mad blood stirring.
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.
Am I like such a fellow?
Come, come, thou art as hot a Jack in thy mood as any in
Italy; and as soon moved to be moody, and as soon moody to be
And what to?
Nay, an there were two such, we should have none shortly, for
one would kill the other. Thou! why, thou wilt quarrel with a
man that hath a hair more or a hair less in his beard than thou
hast. Thou wilt quarrel with a man for cracking nuts, having no
other reason but because thou hast hazel eyes; — what eye but such
an eye would spy out such a quarrel? Thy head is as full of
quarrels as an egg is full of meat; and yet thy head hath been
beaten as addle as an egg for quarrelling. Thou hast quarrelled
with a man for coughing in the street, because he hath wakened
thy dog that hath lain asleep in the sun. Didst thou not fall
out with a tailor for wearing his new doublet before Easter? with
another for tying his new shoes with an old riband? and yet thou
wilt tutor me from quarrelling!
An I were so apt to quarrel as thou art, any man should buy
the fee simple of my life for an hour and a quarter.
The fee simple! O simple!
By my head, here come the Capulets.
By my heel, I care not.
[Enter Tybalt and others.]
Follow me close, for I will speak to them. — Gentlemen, good-den:
a word with one of you.
And but one word with one of us? Couple it with something; make
it a word and a blow.
You shall find me apt enough to that, sir, an you will give
Could you not take some occasion without giving?
Mercutio, thou consortest with Romeo, —
Consort! what, dost thou make us minstrels? An thou make
minstrels of us, look to hear nothing but discords: here's my
fiddlestick; here's that shall make you dance. Zounds, consort!
We talk here in the public haunt of men:
Either withdraw unto some private place,
And reason coldly of your grievances,
Or else depart; here all eyes gaze on us.
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