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pray thee, good Mercutio, let’s retire. The day is hot; the Capulets, abroad; And if we meet we shall not ’scape a brawl, For now, these hot days, is the mad blood stirring.
Follow me close, for I will speak to them. Gentlemen, good e'en. A word with one of you.
Consort? What, dost thou make us minstrels? An thou make minstrels of us, look to hear nothing butdiscords. Here’s my fiddlestick. Here’s that shall make you dance. Zounds, “consort”!
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.
I am hurt. A plague o' both your houses! I am sped.
This day’s black fate on more days doth depend. This but begins the woe others must end.
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