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Quarrel, sir! no, sir.

       Sampson. But if you do, sir, am for you: I serve as good a man as you.

       Abraham.

       No better.

       Sampson.

       Well, sir.

       Gregory.

       Say better; here comes one of my master’s kinsmen.

       Sampson.

       Yes, better, sir.

       Abraham.

       You lie.

       Sampson.

       Draw, if you be men.—Gregory, remember thy swashing blow.

       [They fight.]

       [Enter Benvolio.]

       Benvolio.

       Part, fools! put up your swords; you know not what you do.

       [Beats down their swords.]

       [Enter Tybalt.]

       Tybalt.

       What, art thou drawn among these heartless hinds?

       Turn thee Benvolio, look upon thy death.

       Benvolio.

       I do but keep the peace: put up thy sword,

       Or manage it to part these men with me.

       Tybalt.

       What, drawn, and talk of peace! I hate the word

       As I hate hell, all Montagues, and thee:

       Have at thee, coward!

       [They fight.]

       [Enter several of both Houses, who join the fray; then enter

       Citizens with clubs.]

       1 Citizen.

       Clubs, bills, and partisans! strike! beat them down!

       Down with the Capulets! Down with the Montagues!

       [Enter Capulet in his gown, and Lady Capulet.]

       Capulet.

       What noise is this?—Give me my long sword, ho!

       Lady Capulet.

       A crutch, a crutch!—Why call you for a sword?

       Capulet.

       My sword, I say!—Old Montague is come,

       And flourishes his blade in spite of me.

       [Enter Montague and his Lady Montague.]

       Montague.

       Thou villain Capulet!— Hold me not, let me go.

       Lady Montague.

       Thou shalt not stir one foot to seek a foe.

       [Enter Prince, with Attendants.]

       Prince.

       Rebellious subjects, enemies to peace,

       Profaners of this neighbour-stained steel,—

       Will they not hear?—What, ho! you men, you beasts,

       That quench the fire of your pernicious rage

       With purple fountains issuing from your veins,—

       On pain of torture, from those bloody hands

       Throw your mistemper’d weapons to the ground

       And hear the sentence of your moved prince.—

       Three civil brawls, bred of an airy word,

       By thee, old Capulet, and Montague,

       Have thrice disturb’d the quiet of our streets;

       And made Verona’s ancient citizens

       Cast by their grave beseeming ornaments,

       To wield old partisans, in hands as old,

       Canker’d with peace, to part your canker’d hate:

       If ever you disturb our streets again,

       Your lives shall pay the forfeit of the peace.

       For this time, all the rest depart away:—

       You, Capulet, shall go along with me;—

       And, Montague, come you this afternoon,

       To know our farther pleasure in this case,

       To old Free-town, our common judgment-place.—

       Once more, on pain of death, all men depart.

       [Exeunt Prince and Attendants; Capulet, Lady Capulet, Tybalt,

       Citizens, and Servants.]

       Montague.

       Who set this ancient quarrel new abroach?—

       Speak, nephew, were you by when it began?

       Benvolio.

       Here were the servants of your adversary

       And yours, close fighting ere I did approach:

       I drew to part them: in the instant came

       The fiery Tybalt, with his sword prepar’d;

       Which, as he breath’d defiance to my ears,

       He swung about his head, and cut the winds,

       Who, nothing hurt withal, hiss’d him in scorn:

       While we were interchanging thrusts and blows,

       Came more and more, and fought on part and part,

       Till the prince came, who parted either part.

       Lady Montague.

       O, where is Romeo?—saw you him to-day?—

       Right glad I am he was not at this fray.

       Benvolio.

       Madam, an hour before the worshipp’d sun

       Peer’d forth the golden window of the east,

       A troubled mind drave me to walk abroad;

       Where,—underneath the grove of sycamore

       That westward rooteth from the city’s side,—

       So early walking did I see your son:

       Towards him I made; but he was ware of me,

       And stole into the covert of the wood:

       I, measuring his affections by my own,—

       That most are busied when they’re most alone,—

       Pursu’d my humour, not pursuing his,

       And gladly shunn’d who gladly fled from me.

       Montague.

       Many a morning hath he there been seen,

       With tears augmenting the fresh morning’s dew,

       Adding to clouds more clouds with his deep sighs:

       But all so soon as the all-cheering sun

       Should in the farthest east begin to draw

       The shady curtains from Aurora’s bed,

       Away from light steals home my heavy son,

       And private in his chamber pens himself;

       Shuts up his windows, locks fair daylight out

       And makes himself an artificial night:

       Black and portentous must this humour prove,

       Unless good counsel may the cause remove.

       Benvolio.

       My noble uncle, do you know the cause?

       Montague.

       I neither know it nor can learn of him.

       Benvolio.

       Have you importun’d him by any means?

       Montague.

       Both by myself and many other friends;

      

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