Tybalt.
Mercutio, thou consortest with Romeo,--

Mercutio.
Consort! what, dost thou make us minstrels? An thou make
minstrels of us, look to hear nothing but discords: here's my
fiddlestick; here's that shall make you dance. Zounds, consort!

Benvolio.
We talk here in the public haunt of men:
Either withdraw unto some private place,
And reason coldly of your grievances,
Or else depart; here all eyes gaze on us.

Mercutio.
Men's eyes were made to look, and let them gaze;
I will not budge for no man's pleasure, I.

Tybalt.
Well, peace be with you, sir.--Here comes my man.

[Enter Romeo.]

Mercutio.
But I'll be hanged, sir, if he wear your livery:
Marry, go before to field, he'll be your follower;
Your worship in that sense may call him man.

Tybalt.