_Benvolio._ We talk here in the public haunt of men. Either withdraw unto some private place, Or reason coldly of your grievances, Or else depart; here all eyes gaze on us.
_Mercutio._ Men's eyes were made to look, and let them gaze; I will not budge for no man's pleasure, I.
_Tybalt._ Well, peace be with you, sir; here comes my man.
_Mercutio._ But I'll be hang'd, sir, if he wear your livery. Marry, go before to field, he 'll be your follower; 60 Your worship in that sense may call him man.
_Tybalt._ Romeo, the hate I bear thee can afford No better term than this,--thou art a villain.
_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.
_Tybalt._ Boy, this shall not excuse the injuries That thou hast done me; therefore turn and draw.
_Romeo._ I do protest, I never injur'd thee, 70 But love thee better than thou canst devise Till thou shalt know the reason of my love; And so, good Capulet,--which name I tender As dearly as my own,--be satisfied.
_Mercutio._ O calm, dishonourable, vile submission! A la stoccata carries it away.-- [_Draws._ Tybalt, you rat-catcher, will you walk?
_Tybalt._ What wouldst thou have with me?
_Mercutio._ Good king of cats, nothing but one of your nine lives; that I mean to make bold withal, 80 and, as you shall use me hereafter, dry-beat the rest of the eight. Will you pluck your sword out of his pilcher by the ears? make haste, lest mine be about your ears ere it be out.
_Romeo._ Gentle Mercutio, put thy rapier up.
_Mercutio._ Come, sir, your passado. [_They fight._
_Romeo._ Draw, Benvolio; beat down their weapons.-- Gentlemen, for shame, forbear this outrage! Tybalt, Mercutio, the prince expressly hath 90 Forbid this bandying in Verona streets. Hold, Tybalt! good Mercutio! [_Exeunt Tybalt and his partisans._
_Mercutio._ I am hurt. A plague o' both your houses! I am sped. Is he gone, and hath nothing?
Mercutio. Ay, ay, a scratch, a scratch; marry, 'tis enough.-- Where is my page?--Go, villain, fetch a surgeon. [_Exit Page._
_Romeo._ Courage, man; the hurt cannot be much.
_Mercutio._ No, 'tis not so deep as a well, nor so wide as a church-door, but 'tis enough, 'twill serve; ask for me to-morrow, and you shall find me a grave 100 man. I am peppered, I warrant, for this world.--A plague o' both your houses!--Zounds, a dog, a rat, a mouse, a cat, to scratch a man to death! a braggart, a rogue, a villain, that fights by the book of arithmetic!--Why the devil came you between us? I was hurt under your arm.