Romeo and Juliet

[Benvolio and Mercutio enter] Where the devil should this Romeo be?Came he not home to-night?
Not to his father’s; I spoke with his man. Ah, that same pale hard-hearted wench, that Rosaline, Torments him so, that he will sure run mad.
Tybalt, the kinsman of old Capulet, Hath sent a letter to his father’s house. A challenge, on my life.
Romeo will answer it. Any man that can write may answer a letter.
Nay, he will answer the letter’s master, how he dares, being dared. Alas poor Romeo! he is already dead;stabbed with a white wench’s black eye;shot through the ear with a love-song; the very center of his heart cleft with Cupid’s arrow:and is he a man to encounter Tybalt?
Why, what is Tybalt? More than prince of cats, I can tell you. O, he is the courageous captain of compliments. He fights with perfection and meticulously exemplifies every move, he is a master at duels-ah, the immortal passado! the punto reverso!the hay!
The what? The pox of such antic, lisping, affecting fantastic ones; these new tuners of accents! ‘Why, is not this a lamentable thing, grandsire, that we should be thus afflicted with these strange flies, these fashion-mongers, these perdona-mi’s, who cannot be at ease on the old bench? O, their bones, their bones!
Here comes Romeo! here comes Romeo! Without his roe, like a dried herring: flesh, flesh, how art thou fishified! Now is he for the numbers that Petrarch flowed in:No one can compare to his lady. Signior Romeo, bon jour! there’s a French salutation to your French slop. You gave us the counterfeit fairly last night.
Good morrow to you both. What counterfeit did I give you? The slip, sir, the slip; can you not conceive?
Pardon, good Mercutio, my business was great; and insuch a case as mine a man may strain courtesy. That’s as much as to say, such a case as yoursconstrains a man to bow in the hams.
Meaning, to court’sy. Thou hast most kindly hit it.
A most courteous exposition. Nay, I am the very pink of courtesy.
pink for a flower? right
why then is my pump well flowered. Sure wit! Follow me this jest now, till thou hast worn out thy pump, that when the single sole of it is worn, the jest may remain, after the wearing, soly singular.
O’ single sol’d jest, soly singular for the singleness! Come between us, good Benvolio, my wits faint.

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