A public place.
I pray thee, good Mercutio, let’s retire: The day is hot, the Capulets abroad, And, if we meet, we shall not scape a brawl; For now, these hot days, is the mad blood stirring.
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.
Men’s eyes were made to look, and let them gaze; I will not budge for no man’s pleasure, I.
But I’ll be hang’d, 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.”
Romeo, the hate I bear thee can afford No better term than this—thou art a villain.