I call an insult; but we’ll let that pass.
I’ll have a pass, and with a cutlass too,
Produces a pair of cutlasses from side.
Draw, villain, draw! I’ll have a bout with you,—
The old stage combat, that’s the sort,
With an accompaniment on the piano forte.
Combat to the tune of, “Wood up.” Mercutio’s stuck.
Hold on! I’m stuck, as narrow as a church-pew,
And hardly deep enough: well, it will do.
Ask for me to-morrow, if you will;