Good king of cats, nothing but one of yournine lives, that I mean to make bold withal, and, asyou shall use me hereafter, dry-beat the rest of the eight. Will yo pluck your sword out of his pitcher by the ears? Make haste, lest mine be about your ears ere it be out.
I am for you
Gentlemen, for shame forbear this outrage!Tybalt! Mercutio! The Prince expressly hathForbid this bandying in Verona streets.Hold, Tybalt! Good Mercutio!
Ay, ay, a scratch, a scratch. Marry, ’tis enough.Where is my page?—Go, villain, fetch a surgeon.
I am hurt.A plague o’ both houses! I am sped.Is he gone and hath nothing?
What, art thou hurt?
Help me into some house, Benvolio,Or I shall faint. A plague o’ both your houses!They have made worms’ meat of me.I have it, and soundly, too. Your houses!
This gentleman, the Prince’s near ally,My very friend, hath got this mortal hurtIn my behalf. My reputation stainedWith Tybalt’s slander—Tybalt, that an hourHath been my cousin! O sweet Juliet,Thy beauty hath made me effeminateAnd in my temper softened valor’s steel.