Mercutio: Consort? What, dost thou make us minstrels? Anthou make minstrels of us, look to hear nothing but discords. Here’s my fiddlestick.
Benvolio: We talk here in the public haunt of men.Either withdraw unto some private place, And reason coldly of your grievances,Or else depart. Here all eyes gaze on us.
Tybalt: Boy, this shall not excuse the injuries that thou has't done me. Therefore, turn and draw.
Romeo: 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
Romeo: I do protest I never injured 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 tenderAs dearly as my own—be satisfied.
Mercutio: O calm dishonourable, vile submission! Alla stoccata carries it away. Tybalt, you ratcatcher, will you walk?
Mercutio: I am hurt. A plague o' both your houses! I am sped. Is he gone and hath nothing?
Shalt with him hence. Thou, wretched boy, that didst consort him here
Romeo, away, be gone! The citizens are up, and Tybalt slain.Stand not amazed. The Prince will doom thee death If thou art taken. Hence, be gone, away!