Men's eyes were made to look, and let them gaze;
I will not budge for no man's pleasure, I.
Well, peace be with you, sir. — Here comes my man.
But I'll be hanged, sir, if he wear your livery:
Marry, go before to field, he'll be your follower;
Your worship in that sense may call him man.
Romeo, the love I bear thee can afford
No better term than this, — Thou art a villain.
Tybalt, the reason that I have to love thee
Doth much excuse the appertaining rage
To such a greeting. Villain am I none;
Therefore farewell; I see thou know'st me not.
Boy, this shall not excuse the injuries
That thou hast done me; therefore turn and draw.
I do protest I never injur'd thee;
But love thee better than thou canst devise
Till thou shalt know the reason of my love:
And so good Capulet, — which name I tender
As dearly as mine own, — be satisfied.
O calm, dishonourable, vile submission!
Alla stoccata carries it away. [Draws.]
Tybalt, you rat-catcher, will you walk?
What wouldst thou have with me?
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.
I am for you. [Drawing.]
Gentle Mercutio, put thy rapier up.
Come, sir, your passado.
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.]
I am hurt; —
A plague o' both your houses! — I am sped. —
Is he gone, and hath nothing?
What, art thou hurt?
Ay, ay, a scratch, a scratch; marry, 'tis enough. —
Where is my page? — go, villain, fetch a surgeon.
Courage, man; the hurt cannot be much.
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