MERCUTIO.
God ye good-den, fair gentlewoman.
NURSE.
Is it good-den?
MERCUTIO.
’Tis no less, I tell ye; for the bawdy hand of the dial is now upon the prick of noon.
NURSE.
Out upon you! What a man are you?
ROMEO.
One, gentlewoman, that God hath made for himself to mar.
NURSE. By my troth, it is well said; for himself to mar, quoth a?