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 suit. On, lusty gentlemen!
BENVOLIO.
Strike, drum.
[Exeunt.]
SCENE V. A Hall in Capulet’s House.
Musicians waiting. Enter Servants.
FIRST SERVANT. Where’s Potpan, that he helps not to take away?