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DioLiu
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Test3

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O, she knew well
Thy love did read by rote and could not spell.
But come, young waverer, come, go with me,
In one respect I'll thy assistant be;
For this alliance may so happy prove,
To turn your households' rancour to pure love.
ROMEO:
O, let us hence; I stand on sudden haste.
FRIAR LAURENCE:
Wisely and slow; they stumble that run fast.
MERCUTIO:
Where the devil should this Romeo be?
Came he not home to-night?
BENVOLIO:
Not to his father's; I spoke with his man.
MERCUTIO:
Ah, that same pale hard-hearted wench, that Rosaline.
Torments him so, that he will sure run mad.
BENVOLIO:
Tybalt, the kinsman of old Capulet,
Hath sent a letter to his father's house.
MERCUTIO:
A challenge, on my life.
BENVOLIO:
Romeo will answer it.
MERCUTIO:
Any man that can write may answer a letter.
BENVOLIO:
Nay, he will answer the letter's master, how he
dares, being dared.
MERCUTIO:
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 pin of his heart cleft with the
blind bow-boy's butt-shaft: and is he a man to
encounter Tybalt?
BENVOLIO:
Why, what is Tybalt?
MERCUTIO:
More than prince of cats, I can tell you. O, he is
the courageous captain of compliments. He fights as
you sing prick-song, keeps time, distance, and
proportion; rests me his minim rest, one, two, and
the third in your bosom: the very butcher of a silk
button, a duellist, a duellist; a gentleman of the
very first house, of the first and second cause:
ah, the immortal passado! the punto reverso! the
hai!
BENVOLIO:
The what?
MERCUTIO:
The pox of such antic, lisping, affecting
fantasticoes; these new tuners of accents! 'By Jesu,
a very good blade! a very tall man! a very good
whore!' 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 stand so much on the new form,
that they cannot at ease on the old bench? O, their
bones, their bones!
BENVOLIO:
Here comes Romeo, here comes Romeo.
MERCUTIO:
Without his roe, like a dried herring: flesh, flesh,
how art thou fishified! Now is he for the numbers
that Petrarch flowed in: Laura to his lady was but a
kitchen-wench; marry, she had a better love to
be-rhyme her; Dido a dowdy; Cleopatra a gipsy;
Helen and Hero hildings and harlots; Thisbe a grey
eye or so, but not to the purpose. Signior
Romeo, bon jour! there's a French salutation
to your French slop. You gave us the counterfeit
fairly last night.
ROMEO:
Good morrow to you both. What counterfeit did I give you?
MERCUTIO:
The ship, sir, the slip; can you not conceive?
ROMEO:
Pardon, good Mercutio, my business was great; and in
such a case as mine a man may strain courtesy.