Alas, poor Romeo, he is already dead

Mercutio
Alas, poor Romeo, he is already dead,
stabbed with a white wench’s black eye, run
through the ear with a love-song, the very pin of his
heart cleft with the blind bow-boy’s butt shaft. And
is he a man to encounter Tybalt?

O, he’s the courageous captain of compliments.
He fights as you sing prick-song, keeps time,
distance, and proportion.

Benvolio
Why, what is Tybalt?
Mercutio
More than prince of cats. O, he’s the courageous
captain of compliments. He fights as you sing
prick-song, keeps time, distance, and proportion.
He rests his minim rests, one, two, and the third in
your bosom—the very butcher of a silk button, a
duelist, a duelist, a gentleman of the very first house
of the first and second cause. Ah, the immortal
passado, the punto reverso, the hay!Tapinosis
Benvolio
The what?
Mercutio
The pox of such antic, lisping, affecting
phantasimes, these new tuners of accent: “By
Jesu, 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-me” ’s,
who stand so much on the new form
that they cannot sit at ease on the old bench? O their
bones, their bones!Tapinosis