And bakes the [elf-locks] in foul sluttish hairs,
[Which] once untangled much misfortune bodes.
This is she—
Romeo.Peace, peace, Mercutio, peace!
Thou talk'st of nothing.
Mercutio.True, I talk of dreams,
Which are the children of an idle brain,
Begot of nothing but vain fantasy,
Which is as thin of substance as the air,
And more inconstant than the wind, [who] wooes