Benvolio

Sampson
Gregory, on my word we’ll not carry coals.
Gregory
No, for then we should be colliers.
Sampson
I mean, an we be in choler, we’ll draw.
Gregory
Ay, while you live, draw your neck out of collar.

No, sir, I do not bite my thumb at you,
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Lady Montague
O, where is Romeo? Saw you him today?
Right glad I am he was not at this fray.
Benvolio
Madam, an hour before the worshiped sun
Peered forth the golden window of the east,
A troubled mind drove me to walk abroad,
Where underneath the grove of sycamore
That westward rooteth from this city side,
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Benvolio
Good morrow, cousin.
Romeo
Is the day so young?
Benvolio
But new struck nine.
Romeo
Ay me, sad hours seem long.
Was that my father that went hence so fast?
Benvolio
It was. What sadness lengthens Romeo’s hours?
Romeo
Not having that which,
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Benvolio
Tut, man, one fire burns out another’s burning,
One pain is less’ned by another’s anguish;
Turn giddy, and be holp by backward turning;
One desperate grief cures with another’s languish:
Take thou some new infection to thy eye,
And the rank poison of the old will die.Analogies

Take thou some new infection to thy eye,
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Servingman
My master is the great rich Capulet, and, if you be not
of the house of Montagues, I pray come and crush a
cup of wine. Rest you merry.  He exits.
Benvolio
At this same ancient feast of Capulet’s
Sups the fair Rosaline whom thou so loves,
With all the admirèd beauties of Verona.
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Benvolio
Romeo, my cousin Romeo, Romeo!
Mercutio
He is wise
And, on my life, hath stol’n him home to bed.
Benvolio
He ran this way and leapt this orchard wall.
Call, good Mercutio.

Romeo! Humors! Madman! Passion! Lover!
Appear thou in the likeness of a sigh.
Speak but one rhyme and I am satisfied.
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Mercutio
I am hurt.
A plague o’ both houses! I am sped.
Is he gone and hath nothing?
Benvolio
What, art thou hurt?
Mercutio
Ay, ay, a scratch, a scratch. Marry, ’tis enough.
Where is my page?—Go, villain, fetch a surgeon.
   Page exits.

No, ’tis not so deep as a well,
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Prince
Benvolio, who began this bloody fray?
Benvolio
Tybalt, here slain, whom Romeo’s hand did slay—
Romeo, that spoke him fair, bid him bethink
How nice the quarrel was, and urged withal
Your high displeasure.

Let Romeo hence in haste,
Else, when he is found, that hour is his last.

All this utterèd
With gentle breath,
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