Datasets:
DioLiu
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Test3

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GREGORY:
No.
SAMPSON:
No, sir, I do not bite my thumb at you, sir, but I
bite my thumb, sir.
GREGORY:
Do you quarrel, sir?
ABRAHAM:
Quarrel sir! no, sir.
SAMPSON:
If you do, sir, I am for you: I serve as good a man as you.
ABRAHAM:
No better.
SAMPSON:
Well, sir.
GREGORY:
Say 'better:' here comes one of my master's kinsmen.
SAMPSON:
Yes, better, sir.
ABRAHAM:
You lie.
SAMPSON:
Draw, if you be men. Gregory, remember thy swashing blow.
BENVOLIO:
Part, fools!
Put up your swords; you know not what you do.
TYBALT:
What, art thou drawn among these heartless hinds?
Turn thee, Benvolio, look upon thy death.
BENVOLIO:
I do but keep the peace: put up thy sword,
Or manage it to part these men with me.
TYBALT:
What, drawn, and talk of peace! I hate the word,
As I hate hell, all Montagues, and thee:
Have at thee, coward!
First Citizen:
Clubs, bills, and partisans! strike! beat them down!
Down with the Capulets! down with the Montagues!
CAPULET:
What noise is this? Give me my long sword, ho!
LADY CAPULET:
A crutch, a crutch! why call you for a sword?
CAPULET:
My sword, I say! Old Montague is come,
And flourishes his blade in spite of me.
MONTAGUE:
Thou villain Capulet,--Hold me not, let me go.
LADY MONTAGUE:
Thou shalt not stir a foot to seek a foe.
PRINCE:
Rebellious subjects, enemies to peace,
Profaners of this neighbour-stained steel,--
Will they not hear? What, ho! you men, you beasts,
That quench the fire of your pernicious rage
With purple fountains issuing from your veins,
On pain of torture, from those bloody hands
Throw your mistemper'd weapons to the ground,
And hear the sentence of your moved prince.
Three civil brawls, bred of an airy word,
By thee, old Capulet, and Montague,
Have thrice disturb'd the quiet of our streets,
And made Verona's ancient citizens
Cast by their grave beseeming ornaments,
To wield old partisans, in hands as old,
Canker'd with peace, to part your canker'd hate:
If ever you disturb our streets again,
Your lives shall pay the forfeit of the peace.
For this time, all the rest depart away:
You Capulet; shall go along with me:
And, Montague, come you this afternoon,
To know our further pleasure in this case,
To old Free-town, our common judgment-place.
Once more, on pain of death, all men depart.
MONTAGUE:
Who set this ancient quarrel new abroach?
Speak, nephew, were you by when it began?