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will answer it.

      10

      Mercutio. Any man that can write may answer

      a letter.

      Benvolio. Nay, he will answer the letter's master,

      how he dares, being dared.

      Mercutio. Alas, poor Romeo! he is already dead;

      stabbed with a white wench's black eye; shot thorough

      the ear with a love-song; the very pin of his

      heart cleft with the blind bow-boy's butt-shaft; and

      is he a man to encounter Tybalt?

      Benvolio. Why, what is Tybalt?

      20

      Mercutio. More than prince of cats, I can tell you.

      O, he is the courageous captain of compliments! He

      fights as you sing prick-song, keeps time, distance,

      and proportion; rests me his minim rest, one, two,

      and the third in your bosom; the very butcher of a

      silk button, a duellist, a duellist; a gentleman of the

      very first house, of the first and second cause. Ah,

      the immortal passado! the punto reverso! the hay!

      Benvolio. The what?

      Mercutio. The pox of such antic, lisping, affecting

      30

      fantasticoes, these new tuners of accents! 'By Jesu,

      a very good blade! a very tall man!'—Why, is not

      this a lamentable thing, grandsire, that we should be

      thus afflicted with these strange flies, these fashion-mongers,

      these pardonnez-mois, who stand so much

      on the new form that they cannot sit at ease on the

      old bench? O, their bons, their bons!

      Enter Romeo

      Benvolio. Here comes Romeo, here comes Romeo.

      Mercutio. Without his roe, like a dried herring. O

      flesh, flesh, how art thou fishified! Now is he for the

      40

      numbers that Petrarch flowed in; Laura to his lady

      was but a kitchen-wench; marry, she had a better

      love to be-rhyme her; Dido a dowdy; Cleopatra

      a gypsy; Helen and Hero hildings and harlots;

      Thisbe a grey eye or so, but not to the purpose.—Signior

      Romeo, bon jour! there's a French salutation

      to your French slop. You gave us the counterfeit

      fairly last night.

      Romeo. Good morrow to you both. What counterfeit

      did I give you?

      50

      Mercutio. The slip, sir, the slip; can you not

      conceive?

      Romeo. Pardon, good Mercutio, my business was

      great; and in such a case as mine a man may strain

      courtesy.

      Mercutio. That's as much as to say, such a case

      as yours constrains a man to bow in the hams.

      Romeo. Meaning, to curtsy.

      Mercutio. Thou hast most kindly hit it.

      Romeo. A most courteous exposition.

      60

      Mercutio. Nay, I am the very pink of courtesy.

      Romeo. Pink for flower.

      Mercutio. Right.

      Romeo. Why, then is my pump well flowered.

      Mercutio. Well said; follow me this jest now till

      thou hast worn out thy pump, that when the single

      sole of it is worn the jest may remain after the wearing

      sole singular.

      Romeo. O single-souled jest, solely singular for

      the singleness!

      70

      Mercutio. Come between us, good Benvolio; my

      wits fail.

      Romeo. Switch and spurs, switch and spurs; or

      I'll cry a match.

      Mercutio. Nay, if thy wits run the wild-goose chase,

      I have done, for thou hast more of the wild-goose in

      one of thy wits than, I am sure, I have in my whole

      five. Was I with you there for the goose?

      Romeo. Thou wast never with me for any thing

      when thou was not there for the goose.

      80

      Mercutio. I will bite thee by the ear for that jest.

      Romeo. Nay, good goose, bite not.

      Mercutio. Thy wit is a very bitter sweeting; it is

      a most sharp sauce.

      Romeo. And is it not 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

      90

      a broad goose.

      Mercutio. Why, is not this better now than groaning

      for love? Now art thou sociable, now art thou

      Romeo; now art thou what thou art, by art as well

      as by nature; for this drivelling love is like a great

      natural—

      Benvolio. Stop there, stop there.

      Romeo. Here's goodly gear!

      Enter Nurse and Peter

      Mercutio. A sail, a sail!

      Benvolio. Two, two; a shirt and a smock.

      100Nurse. Peter!

      Peter. Anon!

      Nurse. My fan, Peter.

      Mercutio. Good Peter, to hide her face; for her fan's the fairer of the two.

      Nurse. God ye good morrow, gentlemen.

      Mercutio. God ye good den, fair gentlewoman.

      Nurse. Is it good den?

      Mercutio. 'Tis no less, I tell you, for the hand of the dial is now upon the prick of noon.

      110Nurse. Out upon you! what a man are

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