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Benvolio

Come, he hath hid himself among these trees,               
To be consorted with the humorous night.
Blind is his love, and best befits the dark.

Mercutio

If love be blind, love cannot hit the mark.
Now will he sit under a medlar tree,
And wish his mistress were that kind of fruit
As maids call medlars when they laugh alone.
Romeo, that she were, O, that she were
An open-arse, or thou a popp’rin pear!

Romeo

Dost thou not laugh?

Benvolio

                                     No, coz, I rather weep.

Romeo

Good heart, at what?

Benvolio

                                     At thy good heart's oppression.

Romeo

Why, such is love's transgression.

Romeo

                                              O me! What fray was here?
Yet tell me not, for I have heard it all.                           
Here's much to do with hate, but more with love.
Why, then, O brawling love, O loving hate,
O anything of nothing first created,
O heavy lightness, serious vanity,
Misshapen chaos of well-seeming forms,
Feather of lead, bright smoke, cold fire, sick health,
Still-waking sleep that is not what it is.
This love feel I, that feel no love in this.
Dost thou not laugh?

Romeo

                                              O me! What fray was here?
Yet tell me not, for I have heard it all.                           
Here's much to do with hate, but more with love.
Why, then, O brawling love, O loving hate,
O anything of nothing first created,
O heavy lightness, serious vanity,
Misshapen chaos of well-seeming forms,
Feather of lead, bright smoke, cold fire, sick health,
Still-waking sleep that is not what it is.
This love feel I, that feel no love in this.
Dost thou not laugh?

Benvolio

                                     No, coz, I rather weep.

Montague

Who set this ancient quarrel new abroach?                  
Speak, nephew, were you by when it began?

Benvolio

Here were the servants of your adversary,
And yours, close fighting ere I did approach;
I drew to part them. In the instant came
The fiery Tybalt, with his sword prepared,
Which, as he breathed defiance to my ears,
He swung about his head and cut the winds,
Who, nothing hurt withal, hissed him in scorn.
While we were interchanging thrusts and blows,
Came more and more, and fought on part and part,   
Till the prince came, who parted either part.

Prince

You, Capulet, shall go along with me;
And Montague, come you this afternoon,
To know our farther pleasure in this case,
To old Free-town, our common judgment-place.
Once more, on pain of death, all men depart.

Prince

Rebellious subjects, enemies to peace,
Profaners of this neighbor-stainèd 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 mistempered weapons to the ground.
And hear the sentence of your movèd prince.

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