Mercutio had listened in amazement to Romeo’s gentle responses to Tybalt’s insults, but at this he could contain himself no further.
“O calm, dishonourable, vile submission!” he cried in wrath, and drew his sword. “Tybalt, you rat-catcher, will you walk?”
“What would you have with me?”
“Good king of cats, nothing but one of your nine lives. Will you pluck out your sword? Make haste, lest mine be about your ears before it be out.”
“I am for you,” said Tybalt, drawing.
“Gentle Mercutio, put your rapier up,” entreated Romeo.
“Come, sir, begin,” was Mercutio’s only answer.
“Draw, Benvolio, beat down their weapons,” cried Romeo imploringly. “Gentlemen, for shame, forbear this outrage! Tybalt, Mercutio, the Prince has expressly forbidden fighting in the streets of Verona. Hold, Tybalt! Good Mercutio!”
In his eagerness to stay the combatants, Romeo tried to strike up their weapons, and Tybalt, seizing his advantage, stabbed Mercutio under Romeo’s arm. Then, seeing him reel back into Benvolio’s arms, Tybalt fled with his followers.
“I am hurt,” said Mercutio. “A plague on both your houses! I am done for.... Is he gone, and hath nothing?”