What lady is that, which doth enrich the hand Of yonder knight?
I know not, sir.
O, she doth teach the torches to burn bright! Beauty too rich for use, for earth too dear. Did my heart love till now? Forswear it, sight, For I ne'er saw true beauty till this night.
This, by his voice, should be a Montague. Fetch me my rapier, boy. What dares the slave Come hither, cover'd with an antic face, To fleer and scorn at our solemnity? Now, by the stock and honour of my kin, To strike him dead, I hold it not a sin.
Why, how now, kinsman, wherefore storm you so?
Uncle, this is a Montague, our foe, A villain that is hither come in spite, To scorn at our solemnity this night.
Young Romeo is it?
'Tis he, that villain Romeo.
Content thee, gentle coz, let him alone; He bears him like a portly gentleman; And, to say truth, Verona brags of him To be a virtuous and well-govern'd youth.
It fits, when such a villain is a guest. I'll not endure him.