Benvolio.
Ye dirty dogs! your bludgeons lay aside,
Or your four carcases I'll soundly hide. Enter Tibalt.

Tibalt.
What! art for fighting? knuckle down and pray;
For I will make a corpse of thee this day.

Benvolio.
I do but keep the peace; put by thy stick:
Else with one blow I'll send thee to old Nick.

Tibalt.
Why 'tis a downright bull of peace to prate,
Armed as thou art, so here's have at thy pate;
And, by the living jingo, it shall go hard
If I don't prove thee a most arrant coward. (They fight with their sticks.)

(Voices within.)
—Down with the Capulets! down Montagues!
We'll fight it out for any thing you choose. (A scuffle within.) Enter Capulet in his night-cap, and Lady Capulet in her bed-gown.

Capulet.
What's all this bother? give me my great horse-pistol.

Lady Capulet.
Pshaw! the last marks you fired at, you missed all.

Capulet.
Run for't you jade; Montague's at my back,
And at his noddle I will have a crack. Enter Montague.

Montague.
Thou villain Capulet! thou'st greatly swaggered,
For which I'll knock thee down—

Lady.
What you! you blackguard! Enter Prince, City-Serjeants, and Constables.

Prince.
Ye frantic scoundrels and rebellious dogs!
More fierce than wolves, less mannerly than hogs,
That ne'er a stone perceive, but straight you shy it
At one another's heads, I say be quiet.
No longer vent your fiery rage like rockets,
But put your hands into your breeches pockets,
Or you shall grace the stocks: three times already
Your wrath to box in public streets has led ye;
But know, sirs, if you ever do't again,
You shall be tarr'd and feather'd for your pain:
Off, off, rude citizens; and as for you
Old sinners, Capulet and Montague,
The former instantly with me shall trudge,
And I between the two will act as judge;
The streets with noise and bustle you have fill'd all,
So Montague, attend me at the Guildhall
At noon. (To the Citizens.)
—Why zounds! d'ye take me for a blind post?
Begone! and may the Devil take the hindmost. [Exit Prince. Manent Montague and Benvolio.

Montague.
Now tell your loving uncle, I intreat,
How all this row was kick'd up in the street.

Benvolio.
Two servants of old Capulet, and two,
Who by their livery should belong to you,
Were fighting near this spot, as I past by;
I tried to part them, as no watch was nigh;
But scarcely had I pull'd the rogues asunder,
When round a corner popped that son of thunder,
The fiery Tibalt, who, I don't know why, chose
To favour me with sundry kicks and dry blows;
Thinking all this deserved some gratitude,
I put myself in fighting attitude,
And made my mind up Tibalt not to let off,
Till on his body I had paid my debt off;
So straight I tipped him a most wilful hit,
Which laid him sprawling.

Montague.
Well then, both were quit.

Benvolio.
That's true; nor was I anxious for more fighting,
As 'tis a pastime I have no delight in,
But then the mob came, on each side dividing,
And all at once began each other hiding.
At length the Prince in person stopp'd the riot,
And in a set speech told us to be quiet.

Montague.
Where's Romeo? Have you seen the lad to day?
If there, he would have shown some famous play
In boxing, still I'm glad he 'scaped the fray.

Benvolio.
This morn, before the sun began to shine,
It chanced, a herd of grunting noisy swine,
Beneath my window wandering, broke my rest,
So out of bed I jump'd, and quickly dressed:

Then scamper'd off, whistling an ancient ditty,
To yonder rookery, westward of the city.—
Well! there I saw your son, who seem'd besotted;
For when he spied me coming, off he trotted.—
No doubt, being drunk, he didn't like to shew it,
And sneak'd away for fear that I should know it.—

Montague.
These many mornings I have mark'd him there,
Gnashing his teeth, and pulling off his hair;
This wimpering humour something ill bespeaks,
But I'd advise him to give o'er those freaks;
Drunk early in the morning! that's too bad.

Benvolio.
I've no doubt he was either drunk or mad.
If he were sober, uncle, know you why
He played so strange a part?

Montague.
Egad, not I.

Benvolio.
Mercutio and myself are friends of his,
And I don't think he'd take it much amiss,
Were we to ask him why he thus behaves,
And struts about alone, and rants and raves,
Looking for all the world—(hesitating.)

Montague.
Come man, don't falter—

Benvolio.
Just like a thief about to grace a halter.

At all events we'll try to scent him out,
And coax him to confess what he's about.

Montague.
Thou prov'st a friend in this provoking matter.

Benvolio.
Pooh! Uncle, spare my blushes, and don't flatter. [Exeunt.

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