MERCUTIO.
Thy wit is a very bitter sweeting, it is a most sharp sauce.
ROMEO.
And is it not then well served in to a sweet goose?
MERCUTIO.
O here’s a wit of cheveril, that stretches from an inch narrow to an ell broad.
ROMEO.
I stretch it out for that word broad, which added to the goose, proves thee far and wide a broad goose.
MERCUTIO.
Why, is not this better now than groaning for love? Now art thou sociable, now art thou Romeo; now art thou what thou art, by art as well as by nature. For this drivelling love is like a great natural, that runs lolling up and down to hide his bauble in a hole.
BENVOLIO.
Stop there, stop there.
MERCUTIO.
Thou desirest me to stop in my tale against the hair.
BENVOLIO.
Thou wouldst else have made thy tale large.