_Mer_: Consort. Zwounes consort? the slaue wil make fidlers 30 of vs. If you doe sirra, look for nothing but discord: For heeres my fiddle-sticke. _Enter Romeo._ _Tyb_: Well peace be with you, heere comes my man. _Mer_: But Ile be hanged if he weare your lyuery: Mary go before into the field, and he may be your follower, so in 35 that sence your worship may call him man. _Tyb: Romeo_ the hate I beare to thee can affoord no better words then these, thou art a villaine. _Rom: Tybalt_ the loue I beare to thee, doth excuse the appertaining rage to such a word: villaine am I none, therfore 40 I well perceiue thou knowst me not. _Tyb_: Bace boy this cannot serue thy turne, and therefore drawe. _Ro_: I doe protest I neuer iniured thee, but loue thee better than thou canst deuise, till thou shall know the reason of 45 my loue. _Mer_: O dishonorable vile submission. _Allastockado_ caries it away. You Ratcatcher, come backe, come backe. _Tyb_: What wouldest with me? _Mer_: Nothing King of Cates, but borrow one of your 50 nine liues, therefore come drawe your rapier out of your scabard, least mine be about your eares ere you be aware. _Rom_: Stay _Tibalt_, hould _Mercutio: Benuolio_ beate downe their weapons. _Tibalt vnder Romeos arme thrusts Mercutio,_ _in and flyes._ _Mer_: Is he gone, hath hee nothing? A poxe on your 55 houses. _Rom_: What art thou hurt man, the wound is not deepe. _Mer_: Noe not so deepe as a Well, nor so wide as a barne doore, but it will serue I warrant. What meant you to come betweene vs? I was hurt vnder your arme. 60 _Rom_: I did all for the best. _Mer_: Apoxe of your houses, I am fairely drest. Sirra goe fetch me a Surgeon. _Boy_: I goe my Lord. _Mer_: I am pepperd for this world, I am sped yfaith, he 65 hath made wormes meate of me, & ye aske for me to morrow you shall finde me a graue-man. A poxe of your houses, I shall be fairely mounted vpon foure mens shoulders: For your house of the _Mountegues_ and the _Capolets_: and then some peasantly rogue, some Sexton, some base slaue shall 70 write my Epitapth, that _Tybalt_ came and broke the Princes Lawes, and _Mercutio_ was slaine for the first and second cause. Wher's the Surgeon? _Boy_: Hee's come sir. _Mer_: Now heele keepe a mumbling in my guts on the 75 other side, come _Benuolio_, lend me thy hand: a poxe of your houses. _Exeunt._