[Illustration: Loggia of Capulet's House]
_Enter_ MERCUTIO, BENVOLIO, Page, _and_ Servants
_Benvolio._ I 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.
_Mercutio._ Thou art like one of those fellows that when he enters the confines of a tavern claps me his sword upon the table, and says 'God send me no need of thee!' and by the operation of the second cup draws him on the drawer, when indeed there is no need. 10
_Mercutio._ Come, come, thou art as hot a Jack in thy mood as any in Italy, and as soon moved to be moody, and as soon moody to be moved.
_Mercutio._ Nay, an there were two such, we should have none shortly, for one would kill the other. Thou! why, thou wilt quarrel with a man that hath a hair more, or a hair less, in his beard than thou hast. Thou wilt quarrel with a man for cracking 20 nuts, having no other reason but because thou hast hazel eyes; what eye but such an eye would spy out such a quarrel? Thy head is as full of quarrels as an egg is full of meat, and yet thy head hath been beaten as addle as an egg for quarrelling. Thou hast quarrelled with a man for coughing in the street, because he hath wakened thy dog that hath lain asleep in the sun. Didst thou not fall out with a tailor for wearing his new doublet before Easter? with another for tying his new shoes with old riband? 30 and yet thou wilt tutor me from quarrelling!
_Benvolio._ An I were so apt to quarrel as thou art, any man should buy the fee-simple of my life for an hour and a quarter.
_Benvolio._ By my head, here come the Capulets.
_Tybalt._ Follow me close, for I will speak to them.-- Gentlemen, good den; a word with one of you.
_Mercutio._ And but one word with one of us? 40 couple it with something; make it a word and a blow.
_Tybalt._ You shall find me apt enough to that, sir, an you will give me occasion.
_Mercutio._ Could you not take some occasion without giving?
_Tybalt._ Mercutio, thou consort'st with Romeo,--
_Mercutio._ Consort! what, dost thou make us minstrels? an thou make minstrels of us, look to hear nothing but discords; here's my fiddlestick, 50 here's that shall make you dance. Zounds, consort!