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.