1 Enough of this; I pray thee hold thy peace.
2 Would I were sleep and peace, so sweet to rest.
3 Well, peace be with you, sir, here comes my man.
4 Sleep dwell upon thine eyes, peace in thy breast.
5 Peace, peace, Mercutio, peace, Thou talk'st of nothing.
6 I do but keep the peace, put up thy sword, Or manage it to part these men with me.
7 If ever you disturb our streets again, Your lives shall pay the forfeit of the peace.
8 A glooming peace this morning with it brings; The sun for sorrow will not show his head.
9 But Montague is bound as well as I, In penalty alike; and 'tis not hard, I think, For men so old as we to keep the peace.'
10 Three civil brawls, bred of an airy word, By thee, old Capulet, and Montague, Have thrice disturb'd the quiet of our streets, And made Verona's ancient citizens Cast by their grave beseeming ornaments, To wield old partisans, in hands as old, Canker'd with peace, to part your canker'd hate.
11 All this uttered With gentle breath, calm look, knees humbly bow'd Could not take truce with the unruly spleen Of Tybalt, deaf to peace, but that he tilts With piercing steel at bold Mercutio's breast, Who, all as hot, turns deadly point to point, And, with a martial scorn, with one hand beats Cold death aside, and with the other sends It back to Tybalt, whose dexterity Retorts it.