Without his roe, like a dried herring. O flesh, flesh, how
art
thou fishified! Now is he for the numbers that Petrarch
flowed
in. Laura, to his lady, was but a kitchen wench (marry, she
had a
better love to berhyme her), Dido a dowdy, Cleopatra a gypsy,
Helen and Hero hildings and harlots, This be a gray eye or
so,
but not to the purpose. Signior Romeo, bon jour! There's a
French
salutation to your French slop. You gave us the counterfeit
fairly last night.
Rom. Good morrow to you both. What counterfeit did I give you?
Mer. The slip, sir, the slip. Can you not conceive?
Rom. Pardon, good Mercutio. My business was great, and in such
a
case as mine a man may strain courtesy.
Mer. That's as much as to say, such a case as yours constrains
a
man to bow in the hams.
Rom. Meaning, to cursy.
Mer. Thou hast most kindly hit it.
Rom. A most courteous exposition.
Mer. Nay, I am the very pink of courtesy.
Rom. Pink for flower.
Mer. Right.
Rom. Why, then is my pump well-flower'd.
Mer. Well said! Follow me this jest now till thou hast worn out
thy
pump, that, when the single sole of it is worn, the jest may
remain, after the wearing, solely singular.
Rom. O single-sold jest, solely singular for the singleness!
Mer. Come between us, good Benvolio! My wits faint.
Rom. Swits and spurs, swits and spurs! or I'll cry a match.
Mer. Nay, if our wits run the wild-goose chase, I am done; for
thou
hast more of the wild goose in one of thy wits than, I am
sure, I
have in my whole five.
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