Take thou some new infection to thy eye, And the rank poison of the old will die.
ROMEO.
Your plantain leaf is excellent for that.
BENVOLIO.
For what, I pray thee?
ROMEO.
For your broken shin.
BENVOLIO.
Why, Romeo, art thou mad?
ROMEO.
Not mad, but bound more than a madman is:
Shut up in prison, kept without my food,
Whipp’d and tormented and—God-den, good fellow.
SERVANT.
God gi’ go-den. I pray, sir, can you read?
ROMEO.
Ay, mine own fortune in my misery.
SERVANT. Perhaps you have learned it without book.