Mer. Where the deule should this Romeo be? came he
not home to night?
Ben. Not to his Fathers, I spoke with his man
Mer. Why that same pale hard-harted wench, that Rosaline
torments him so, that he will sure run mad
Ben. Tibalt, the kinsman to old Capulet, hath sent a Letter
to his Fathers house
Mer. A challenge on my life
Ben. Romeo will answere it
Mer. Any man that can write, may answere a Letter
Ben. Nay, he will answere the Letters Maister how he dares, being dared
Mer. Alas poore Romeo, he is already dead stab'd with a white wenches blacke eye, runne through the eare with a Loue song, the very pinne of his heart, cleft with the blind Bowe-boyes but-shaft, and is he a man to encounter Tybalt? Ben. Why what is Tibalt? Mer. More then Prince of Cats. Oh hee's the Couragious Captaine of Complements: he fights as you sing pricksong, keeps time, distance, and proportion, he rests his minum, one, two, and the third in your bosom: the very butcher of a silk button, a Dualist, a Dualist: a Gentleman of the very first house of the first and second cause: ah the immortall Passado, the Punto reuerso, the Hay
Ben. The what? Mer. The Pox of such antique lisping affecting phantacies, these new tuners of accent: Iesu a very good blade, a very tall man, a very good whore. Why is not this a lamentable thing Grandsire, that we should be thus afflicted with these strange flies: these fashion Mongers, these pardon-mee's, who stand so much on the new form, that they cannot sit at ease on the old bench. O their bones, their bones. Enter Romeo.
Ben. Here comes Romeo, here comes Romeo