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Tybalt: Uncle, this is a Montague, our foe, A villain that is hither come in spite, To scorn at our solemnity this night. Capulet: let him alone; He bears him like a portly gentleman.
Romeo: My lips, two blushing pilgrims, ready stand To smooth that rough touch with a tender kiss. Juliet: Good pilgrim, you do wrong your hand too much, Which mannerly devotion shows in this;
Romeo: What is her mother? Nurse: Marry, bachelor, Her mother is the lady of the house, Romeo: Is she a Capulet? O dear account! my life is my foe's debt.
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