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: I would not for the wealth of all the town Here in my house do him disparagement: Therefore be patient, take no note of him: It is my will, the which if thou respect, Show a fair presence and put off these frowns, And ill-beseeming semblance for a feast.
Meanwhile at the masquerade party...
It fits, when such a villain is a guest: I'll not endure him.
This wind, you talk of, blows us from ourselves; Supper is done, and we shall come too late.
He speaks of dreams 0_0
True, I talk of dreams, Which are the children of an idle brain, Begot of nothing but vain fantasy, Which is as thin of substance as the air And more inconstant than the wind, who wooes Even now the frozen bosom of the north, And, being anger'd, puffs away from thence, Turning his face to the dew-dropping south.
Peace, peace, Mercutio, peace! Thou talk'st of nothing.
Rivalry takes to the streets!
What, drawn, and talk of peace! I hate the word, As I hate hell, all Montagues, and thee: Have at thee, coward!
I do but keep the peace: put up thy sword, Or manage it to part these men with me.
Peace at last :\
Yea, noise? then I'll be brief. O happy dagger! -- This is thy sheath;
Greater good? :(
I am hurt. A plague o' both your houses! I am sped. Is he gone, and hath nothing?