Rom. Murder!
Jul. Don’t, father, pray.
Rom. Oh, dear!
Jul. Oh, my!
Cap. Well, sirrah, how is that?
Rom. Help, help, Mercutio!
Cap. You are cutting fat.
Enter Mercutio, L.
Mer. Holloa, old man! ’tis time you were in bed:
Just let me fix your night-cap on your head.