And bakes the elf-locks in foul sluttish hairs,
Which once untangled much misfortune bodes.
This is she-- 

_Romeo._ Peace, peace, Mercutio, peace!
Thou talk'st of nothing. 

_Mercutio._ True, I talk of dreams,
Which are the children of an idle brain,
Begot of nothing but vain fantasy,
Which is as thin of substance as the air,
And more inconstant than the wind, who wooes
Even now the frozen bosom of the North,
And, being anger'd, puffs away from thence,
Turning his face to the dew-dropping South. 

_Benvolio._ This wind you talk of blows us from ourselves;
Supper is done, and we shall come too late. 

_Romeo._ I fear, too early; for my mind misgives
Some consequence, yet hanging in the stars,
Shall bitterly begin his fearful date
With this night's revels, and expire the term
Of a despised life clos'd in my breast
By some vile forfeit of untimely death,
But He that hath the steerage of my course
Direct my sail!--On, lusty gentlemen. 

_Benvolio._ Strike, drum. [_Exeunt._

SCENE V. _A Hall in Capulet's House_Musicians _waiting_. _Enter_ Servingmen _with napkins_1 

_Servingman._ Where's Potpan, that he helps not to take away? He shift
a trencher! he scrape a trencher! 

_Servingman._ When good manners shall lie all in one or two men's
hands and they unwashed too, 'tis a foul thing. 

_Servingman._ Away with the joint-stools, remove the court-cupboard,
look to the plate.--Good thou, save me a piece of marchpane; and, as

 Prev. P 22/235 next